Stranded on I-74

An early lesson in humanism that shaped how I care for patients

It was 4:30 AM on an unpleasantly cold and rainy November morning. I was on my way to the Indianapolis airport to catch a morning flight to Montego Bay, Jamaica for a medical mission trip. This was during medical school, and our group had planned the trip months earlier.

I was traveling separately that morning. I had stayed back from the rest of the group to attend a close friend’s wedding in Cincinnati, so I was driving alone to meet the others in Jamaica one day later. My future wife, Sarah, was already there traveling with the larger team.

The mission trip was organized through a Christian-based outreach organization helping communities in and around Port Maria. Our team was made up of medical students, pharmacists, and dentists, all working together to run temporary clinics in areas where access to medical care was extremely limited.

In my trunk were two large suitcases filled with medical supplies that we were bringing to support the clinic we had helped establish months earlier.

And then, somewhere along I-74, the rear tire of my car blew out.

I managed to remain pretty calm during the situation and was able to get my car pulled off to the side of the highway. There was not a soul on the road at that time, and I knew I would need to rely on myself to get the tire changed in enough time to make my flight.

For the next 30 minutes I struggled furiously to dislodge the rusty aluminum wheel from the car. It had apparently fused to the axle and despite my best efforts the tire was not coming off. The rain had turned into a drizzling sleet and my hands ached from being exposed to the cold.

I leaned against the car, despondent and frustrated, feeling sick with disappointment.

At some point I just stopped and prayed. I asked God for a little help and then told myself I would try one more time to get the wheel to loosen from the rusted bolts.

I went back at it again, but it still wouldn’t move.

A number of thoughts went through my head, most of them centered around the fact that I likely wouldn’t be making my flight. But more than that, I kept thinking about the suitcases in my trunk that would never reach their destination. I thought about not being able to help run the makeshift Jamaican clinic my colleagues and I had helped create months earlier.

I felt completely stranded standing on the side of that interstate.

In my frustration I had barely noticed that a small red pickup truck had passed me and pulled off the highway. A thin, bearded man and his teenage son got out and walked over to assess the situation. They told me they had passed earlier, saw me struggling, and decided to turn around to help.

With all our might, the three of us still failed to get the tire off the axle.

He asked where I was going and I replied that I was trying to make a flight in Indianapolis. The man then offered to drive me to the airport since he too was heading through the city.

As we loaded my heavy bags into the back of his truck, he mentioned that they were delivering a newly crafted church door to a congregation in Indianapolis that morning.

As I abandoned my car on the side of the road that morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about this complete stranger and how he had reached out just when I needed it most.

I also remember thinking about the timing of it all. Stranded on the side of the road with medical supplies for a mission clinic… getting picked up by two strangers on their way to deliver a church door.

I did make my flight to Jamaica that morning. Medical supplies and all.

I have reflected on that experience many times over the years, as well as other moments in life where people make tremendous sacrifices to help others.

When people lose their health, they often become helpless and discouraged, much like I had nearly felt standing on the side of that road.

Throughout medical school, and later in my career, I have tried to reach out to patients when they need it most. One of the things I valued even then was having the time to sit with patients, answer their questions, and offer reassurance when they felt overwhelmed.

No patients showed more gratitude than the rural villagers of Jamaica. During that mission trip we helped provide care to hundreds of patients in villages where local physicians rarely traveled. Relying largely on physical exam and limited diagnostic tools, we treated what we could and counseled where we couldn’t.

It didn’t take long to appreciate the burden of disease that comes with limited preventive care. But it also reinforced how much patients valued time, explanation, and human connection just as much as treatment.

Looking back, that roadside experience and that mission trip shaped more of my approach to medicine than I probably realized at the time.

Both reminded me that medicine, at its core, is an act of service.

And sometimes the most meaningful thing we can do is simply pull over and help.