My son recently came under your care. He was the "14 y/o male, dx muscular dystrophy". He was the child in the wheelchair, trached and vented, with the contracted limbs and the drool cloth under his chin because he can no longer swallow. He was the child staring off into space, lost in a sea of pain.
Next time, walk into the room and talk to me. I understand doctor speak and, yes, I'm going to ask pointed and tough questions. I don't expect you to have all the answers or fix all that is broken with my son. But, when it's time for me to make difficult decisions regarding my son's course of treatment, I need to know I'm talking to the physician with the most experience. I need to know I've asked all the questions, received expert answers and have left no stone unturned. I need to know I am making an informed decision. After fourteen years of living in the medical trenches, I've earned the right to your presence. I've earned the right to ask you questions and question your answers. Respect that right.
Next time, walk into the room and touch my son. Put a stethoscope to his chest. Examine him. After fourteen years of living with a disease that has stolen everything from him but his spirit, he has earned the right to your presence. He's earned the right to your touch, your eyes, your ears, your experience and, I dare say, your heart. Respect that right.