Photograph by Getty
On a warm evening in July 2013, my then 18-month-old son, Trace, began to cry. I was rinsing dinner dishes but dried my hands and walked over to him. He was sitting on the floor, tears streaming down his face, hands stretched up to me. After holding him for a minute and calming him down, I put him back on the floor, feet first, expecting him to stand. Instead, he immediately collapsed and started crying again. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. I lifted him up to stand. Down he went again.
My heartbeat quickened. I called my husband, who was at the gym. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but Trace doesn’t seem able to stand,” I told him. I could hear my husband’s breathing grow louder as he slowed the treadmill. “I’ll come home,” he said.
As soon as he arrived, I walked outside to greet him, holding Trace in my arms. I pointed toward the house, where our four-year-old daughter was playing in her room. “Keep an eye on her; I’m going to take Trace to CHOA,” I told him.
It would be five days before I would bring Trace home again. As I write this, my memories of those days at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta’s Scottish Rite Hospital campus flash across my mind like slide projections: Trace hooked up to monitors, confusion on his face. Trying to stand and falling. Again. And again. A doctor saying she wanted to rule out meningitis. Another bringing up the possibility of Guillain-Barré syndrome. Trace being wheeled off for a spinal tap, and my sobs into his hospital bed, still warm from where he’d been lying.
I also remember the doctors. Not their names anymore, but their faces. They were gentle with me, looking me in the eyes, aware I was in shock, and breaking complex scenarios into simple terms for me. Along with the nurses and staff, they made sure I had water to drink and a bed to lie on next to my son. But what mattered most to me, what they did with such ease, was talk to Trace and reassure him in age-appropriate terms. He was in good hands, they told him, and they would figure out what was going on.
I didn’t leave the hospital much those days. When I’d walk, zombie-like, into the CHOA cafeteria for a meal, I’d see other parents sitting around tables, and we’d nod at each other in a knowing sort of way. We were part of a tribe we’d never asked to join, the people who arrive at the hospital, desperate for our children to be okay, and wait for whatever’s next.
Several days into his stay at CHOA, Trace began to get better. He could stand if he held on to something. Then he could walk if he pushed something. Eventually, he could stand and walk again on his own. In nonmedical terms, it had all been an aggressive virus that landed in his lower body. A terrifying, but ultimately best-case, scenario.
The day we left the hospital, I remember saying goodbye to his team of doctors and nurses, thanking them for all they did for us. It wasn’t lost on me that on that fateful July evening, I was able to quickly drive to one of the world’s top children’s hospitals and know that Trace was truly receiving the best care possible. I had trusted these doctors with his life, and they had gone lengths to ensure that trust wasn’t misplaced.
As we compiled our annual Top Doctors issue, I reflected a lot on that time. So much depends upon the doctors we choose, and our magazine’s guide is an incredible resource for anyone in search of a physician with excellent credentials, no matter the specialty. I’m also so pleased that the doctor on our cover hails from CHOA—and he’s pictured alongside a brave young patient whose life he helped save. Join me as we salute these amazing physicians.
This article appears in our July 2026 issue.
