Dr Louis M. Profeta is an emergency physician practicing in Indianapolis. He is one of LinkedIn's Top Voices and the author of the critically acclaimed book, The Patient in Room Nine Says He's God. Dr Louis holds a medical degree from the Indiana University Bloomington.
Prayer is a funny thing. I guess it’s like an N95 protective mask to guard you from Covid-19. You don’t realize how valuable and precious it is until you’re without it, and sadly we are all running low.
I never imagined in my wildest dreams that I, a relatively conservative Midwestern Emergency Physician, would see the day where I agreed with something Al Sharpton said in his recent correspondence to the Congressional Black Caucus.
Ron Galimore is one of my great friends—he also happens to be the son of the former Chicago Bears great running back Willie Galimore who tragically died in a car accident when Ron was a child. Ron went on to follow in his athletically gifted father’s cleats to become the first African American Olympic gymnast as a member of the 1980 Olympic team . . . games which we unfortunately boycotted. Trust me when I tell you he would have won the gold in vault. He and his wife, Loree, along with my wife and our now grown sons spent this Thanksgiving together. We binged on turkey and gravy and more than a few assorted seasonal pies, sat on the couch sipping bourbon, and watching the Bears versus Lions while Ron entertained us with stories of his past interactions with his dad’s old teammates and admirers—like the time he met Mike Ditka at his steakhouse and was embraced in a huge bear hug as Ditka spoke of his fond memories of Ron's father and mother, or the time they closed down Studebaker’s in Schaumburg with Walter Peyton, or the time his mom and dad went to a baseball game with “Cassius Clay,” as the autograph on the back of the Polaroid said.
I want to know whose child this is that lies dead in room 32 and will be buried in a pauper’s grave. No ID, no papers, no report of a missing girl, who clearly has spent years on the street—track marks course hard and thick on her forearms, and hair knotted under a mothy, wool cap. Her mom deserves to know.
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