Brian's Story

As I travel the country talking to Fire Starters in health care, I always carry a baseball cap from the University of Illinois, Chicago (UIC), with me in my briefcase. On the cap is a picture of a flame. Sometimes people see the cap on the table and ask if it is a Fire Starter cap. It is, but not in the way they think.

The cap belonged to my nephew, Brian Fitzpatrick, who played for the UIC Flames on a baseball scholarship. Brian was pretty excited about his baseball prospects because he was going to be a starter on the team.

That December he took a trip with the team to Australia. On his return, his dad, Mike Fitzpatrick Sr., and his older brother, Mike Jr., picked him up from the airport. Brian was enthusiastic about sharing all the stories from his trip with his mom Kathy, so they went back to the Fitzpatrick home. Then he hopped in the car to go visit his high school buddies. Afterwards, he stopped by Mike Jr.’s house to talk some more and fell asleep on Mike Jr.’s couch.

At 5:00 the next morning, on Christmas Eve 1995, Brian woke up, got in the car, and started to drive home. But he never made it. Brian was killed in a car accident that Christmas Eve morning.

We were devastated when we got the terrible news in an early morning phone call. You just don’t expect to hear that your 19-year-old nephew, with his whole life ahead of him, has suddenly died.

We quickly dressed and headed for the Fitzpatrick house, where many relatives, neighbors, and friends were already gathered. All one can really do in these situations is just be there and say, “I’m so sorry.” The entire day saw people coming and going, sharing their pain and grief with Brian’s family.

Since you can’t have a wake on Christmas Day, we went back to the Fitzpatrick house and did it all over again, as more family and friends arrived from out of town.

December 26 was Brian’s wake. As it began, the entire UIC baseball team walked in in their uniforms and lined up along the casket, just as a team lines up along the infield foul line on Opening Day. They stayed that way for five hours until the wake ended. Brian’s Mount Carmel High School baseball cap and baseball from his first win as a Division 1 college pitcher shared the space in that casket with him.

Early the next morning, I got a phone call from Brian’s dad. Mike said, “Kathy and I have been up all night talking about the funeral. We’ve decided we would really like you to do the eulogy.”

When I am stunned, I have a bad habit of blurting something out without thinking so I just said, “Why me, Mike?” And he said, “Brian really liked you.”

Now, let me tell you what I did for Brian. All I ever did was role model what Mrs. James, Mr. King, and Mr. Fry did for me. I noticed the positive and helped him feel purpose. I rewarded and recognized his successes in small ways. It’s the little things that make a big difference in a relationship. It’s all about role modeling.

Well, I had never given a eulogy before. And I was to go last, after Brian’s high school religious education teacher and his college baseball coach. When I stepped up on the altar, I noticed Brian’s college baseball cap and the emblem of the flame on the front of it. Just 13 months earlier, I had been called a Fire Starter.

So I talked about being a Fire Starter. I said that Brian carried a flame, and I shared examples of the difference he had made. I said that Brian’s flame had been extinguished on this earth much earlier than any one of us would have imagined. And I asked each person at the service to leave with a little of Brian’s flame and to take it with them wherever they went. I suggested that it is up to each of us to determine how bright our flame burns.

Since then, I travel with Brian’s cap to remind me of my own commitment to be a Fire Starter and carry Brian’s flame with me wherever I go. It also reminds me of how quickly a flame can go out. All we have is each day, each moment to write that note or make that difference.

And that’s how the story ended—until I was asked to speak at Christ Hospital in Oak Lawn (suburban Chicago) in January 1999. I thought that was the hospital Brian was taken to, but I wasn’t sure, because there are a lot of hospitals in Chicago. So when I got to the hotel that night, I called up the Fitzpatrick home to tell them where I was speaking.

Mike Sr. said, “That’s where Brian was taken.” Then he held out the phone to his wife in the kitchen and said, “Kathy, Quint is speaking at Christ Hospital tomorrow.” I heard her say in the background, “Will you please tell Quint to say thank you to them? They were so kind to us.”

Now let me put this into perspective. The Fitzpatricks were called Christmas Eve morning and told to hurry to the hospital where they were informed that their 19-year-old son was gone. They heard the worst news a parent can hear. But what Brian’s mother chose to remember was the kindness of the hospital.

So when I spoke the next morning at Christ Hospital, I told them I wanted to thank them on behalf of the Fitzpatrick family for that kindness and shared some of the story. I spoke for 90 minutes and flew back home to Pensacola, Florida.

A few weeks later, I received a card from a nurse. It wasn’t what I expected. It read:

Dear Quint,

I am an ER nurse at Christ Hospital. I heard you speak a couple of weeks ago and I want you to know that I was working that morning when Brian came in and was with Brian’s parents that morning when they were told. I want you to know that there’s not a Christmas that goes by that I don’t think about that family.

Nurse
Christ Hospital, Oak Lawn

If I hadn’t been asked to speak at Christ Hospital—or if I hadn’t called the Fitzpatricks first before I spoke—I wouldn’thave been able to say thank you and let the staff know the impact they had.

If you are like many who attend Studer Group Institutes, perhaps you’ve cried a little more than you were planning on as you read this book, and also laughed a little more too.

One of the special things about people who work in health care is that we’ve been given the unique ability to handle tremendous swings of emotions. Moments after delivering the worst news in the world to someone, we may experience a medical miracle that fills us with a burst of joy.

That’s why God chose you and me to go into health care. We can handle that range of emotions. Not many people can. What a gift we’ve been given to have that strength to make a difference in the lives of others. In return for our willingness to serve, we receive a great gift: purpose, worthwhile work, and making a difference.

Brian's Story is an excerpt from from the book Hardwiring Excellence by Quint Studer