As I glance at the calendar for the month of January, I can’t help but notice there will be a Friday the 13th. Typically, I’m not a superstitious person, but whenever that unlucky day rolls around, I’m always a bit uneasy because of what happened 11 years ago.

I had come home from work that particular Friday and my wife, Deb, greeted me with a look of concern, saying she had some news for me. It involved our seven-year-old son, Jesse, who was having a play date with one of his good friends. The friend’s dad had just called Deb to let her know there had been an accident. Evidently, the boys had been swinging golf clubs and Jesse got smacked near his eye, cutting him. The father didn’t think it was too serious, but he was driving him to our home.

Immediately, I stood vigil at the living room window overlooking the street. When the car pulled up, I scooted out the front door. Jesse stoically climbed out of the back seat holding a towel over his eye. After I took one look at the deep gash on his eyelid, I knew this was serious. Taking his hand, trying to stay calm, I walked him up the porch steps where he then jumped into his mom’s arms.

“I can’t see!” he cried.

Moments later we were on the way to the emergency room of Children’s Hospital. I think most parents would agree that there is no worse feeling than having a young son or daughter in distress. Deb and I tried our best to reassure Jesse that he would be fine, even as we dealt with our own devastating feelings of helplessness.

When the doctor examined Jesse, he could barely open his eye. It took all my strength to keep from passing out. But I knew I had to be strong for my son. After waiting for an hour or so, Jesse could finally open his eye well enough to be examined. He had a scratched cornea and a small amount of blood in the eye, which is a condition called hyphema. The doctor told us that if there were no complications the blood would disappear, and his vision should return to normal. After the doctor put seven stitches in Jesse’s eyelid, we headed home—anxious but hopeful. During the next week, Jesse stayed in bed, doctor’s orders, except for visits to the ophthalmologist every other day. By the 20th, one week after the accident, the blood and swelling were gone, and Jesse’s vision had returned to normal. Tragedy averted. Parents indescribably relieved. Today, 11 years later, the only reminder of that fateful Friday the 13th is a razor thin scar on the top of his eyelid that, essentially, is visible only to his mom and dad.

No doubt Jonathan Rothberg, the subject of this issue’s cover story, “Just Did It,” could relate to what that week 11 years ago was like for Deb and me. He, too, had to sit in a hospital waiting room and deal with that helpless feeling, which, in his case, involved his newborn son fighting for his life. Rothberg, somehow, channeled that helplessness into action. And it’s that action that may one day change health care forever.    

Robert Mendelson
    Executive Editor