Throughout the four and a half decades that Fred W. Crans has signed his name to various documents in the healthcare industry — documents ranging from Nursing Notes to Prescriptions to Physical and History Reports to Expense Requests, to various administrative requisitions and who knows what else — most of my work time has been spent on things, not people. In such an environment it is often all too easy to forget what our industry is all about. Oh, we hear about it enough when there are natural disasters such as Hurricane Katrina, or when Dr. Sanjay Gupta reports something remarkable on CNN, but we seldom experience it personally as I did on June 25.

My associate Mark Jensen and I had been working together, having just completed a supply chain study for a client in the small southwestern Nebraska city of McCook. I had intended to drive Mark back to Omaha and continue home to Iowa, but as fate would have it, two circumstances intervened. First, the College World Series was wrapping up and there were no rental cars to be found anywhere in the city. Second, Mark wanted to make a favorable impression on the folks at the Children’s Hospital and Medical Center so he asked me to stay over and accompany him the next day.

We arrived the next morning 40 minutes early for our 8:30 meeting, so we did what all responsible consultative sales folks do — we went to the coffee shop to case the joint.

At Children’s the coffee shop is a kiosk area that overlooks the lobby. From the second floor mezzanine you look past whimsical flying birds — one sporting a Nebraska Cornhuskers helmet and another wearing a mouse-operated jet power pack for a quick getaway — to an open, whimsical lobby designed to put both families and patients at ease. There was a meandering water effect — replete with a bubbling brook, several large stones and a ledge wide enough for healthy kids to walk on. The place was one where wishes and prayers — along with loose change — were offered for patients in the hospital. My estimate was that there was over $50 in loose change lying among the rocks and water. There were also caterpillar-like seating areas, a huge glass front that allowed all the light in the world to flood into the space, and a multi-colored carpet and four round tables and chairs.

We met with our first group of folks in that lobby, seating ourselves at one of the round tables. The meeting was a pleasant one with the Value Analysis Director and the Supply Chain leader, and it ended around 10 a.m., leaving us three hours until our next meeting.

I looked around and discovered that there was power available under the carpet near our table, so we decided to stay where we were and work until our next meeting. As the morning progressed, I noticed that the lobby was an active place, with both adults and children present. It seemed like children were running everywhere. Some were obviously patients, some were not. Among the patients were a beautiful little Asian girl wearing a green disposable face mask and a young boy (about 10) confined to an electric wheelchair. The little girl appeared to have had some kind of infection. She just "appeared," said a nice, "hello" and went on her way. The boy looked as though he had become accustomed to his wheelchair — he had a Gameboy and tooled around in his wheelchair with the matter-of-fact knowledge that this was the way it was probably going to be for his entire life.

Among the non-patients were a little tow-headed boy who had fun running up and down the spiral staircase to the coffee shop, an Indo-Asian girl who walked the full length of the water effect and a family of African-Americans who contributed their change and prayers to the water and stones.

I don’t know how long she had been there when I first saw her. Mark and I were on a conference call when I looked to my left and saw a group of four people — three adults and a little girl — a curly-haired moppet that looked ever so much like the child star of the 1930s, Shirley Temple.

For those of you too young to recall, allow me to clarify. Shirley Temple was THE child star of the 1930s. She sang and danced — sometimes with Bill Bojangles Robinson — her way into the hearts of her countrymen to the point where she became the top grossing box office star during the height of the Great Depression. She was pretty, smiling and upbeat, with wide eyes, a compassionate nature and sandy colored hair that always had exactly 56 ringlets in each curly lock.

My "Shirley Temple" appeared to be about four years old. She had the same tightly curled ringlets, the same wonder-filled eyes, the same beaming smile as her more famous look-alike. She lacked one thing, however. She couldn’t dance, at least not on her own. She was housed in a wheelchair contraption that could be rigged to allow her to stand upright. Otherwise, it was obvious she could not achieve verticality.

I am not certain, but almost so, that one of the three adults was her mother. The other two were physical therapists (PTs). For over an hour I watched something beautiful take place. The goal of the session was apparently to get "Shirley" to put one foot before the other and matriculate her way across the room in her wheeled-contraption. It was not an easy task. It did not appear that the little girl could hold her head erect for an extended period of time. Also, partly because she was so young and may have been born with her affliction, she did not seem to have an intellectual grasp of the concept of putting one foot in front of the other. Finally, the task was so physically taxing that she tired easily.

What was beautiful about the scene was the way everyone played their role. The "mother" remained in the background, except for occasional words of support and encouragement. The physical therapists engaged the little girl and kindly, but ever so professionally pushed her forward — never giving up when she was non-responsive and never displaying any frustration with the progress the little girl was or was not making. Instead, they made it fun, and although she tired frequently, little "Shirley" smiled openly at least twice as often.

After about 40 minutes, one of the PTs left. She came back in a couple of minutes with a large exercise ball. "Shirley’s" eyes became wide with wonder. She wanted that ball. And all of a sudden, she did it.

She took a step. Everyone cheered. "Shirley" beamed. I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

A few minutes later the session was over and the group made its way past our table. As they passed, "Shirley’s" eyes met mine. "Hi, there," I said.

"Say hello," her "mother" instructed.

Then I heard the softest, sweetest, "Hi," I have ever heard in my life.

In that instant I realized why I stayed in healthcare in 1972 after I graduated from the University of Miami. Every day, in thousands of locations across America there are people like the physical therapists of Children’s Hospital of Omaha who dedicate themselves to helping kids like "Shirley" take that one step. There are parents like "Shirley’s" mother who quietly anguish over their child’s future and who endure a life of sacrifice unknown to many of us.

And there are thousands of little children like "Shirley," the young Asian girl and the 10-year-old boy, who bear their burden with quiet dignity, honor and courage.

The "real" Shirley Temple survived her early celebrity and has gone on to live an important and meaningful life. She was one of the first public people to speak out about breast cancer, and she has served as a foreign diplomat.

Who knows — maybe the beaming little girl I saw last week in Omaha will do the same — rise above the physical challenges she has been given and make the world a better place.

She has already done that for me.

Fred W. Crans serves as area vice president, north & west, for ECRI Institute. He lists his writing influences as Edward Abbey and H.L. Mencken, who once said, "Don’t overestimate the decency of the human race." An avid baseball fan and University of Miami (Hurricanes) stalwart, Crans can be reached via e-mail at fcrans@ecri.org.