Last week, I tracked down one of my primary care physicians, Dr. Lucy Lester, who is now head of the Pediatric Pulmonary Medicine Division. She started practicing medicine in 1980. By that time, I was a eight-year veteran of the CF clinic (and a precocious nine-year old).

I searched the web and found her contact information, I wrote her a letter. I thanked her for care. Her strong spirit had helped me survive my childhood and achieve my current life. I’m alive today, in no small part, to her.

My letter also included memories of a mutual friend. Dr. Rothberg was my primary care physician and her mentor for many years–and he was an amazing doctor who never talked down to children and radiated compassion. If I know Dr. Lester, she’ll probably laugh when she reads the memories.

I never tested positive for Cystic Fibrosis, so they were only able to treat my syptoms rather than diagnose what I had. I’d never had the CF genetic test, because I knew that the local physician would give me just a “yes/no” answer. They wouldn’t look at the results with a researcher’s eyes.

Dr. Lester still actively researches Cystic Fibrosis, Asthma, and other respiratory illnesses. I asked her if she thought access to me or my DNA would help a researcher investigating ways to help children breathe easier.

By the end of the letter, I had revisited my childhood through my eyes as an adult, and I’d gained a new appreciation for what others had done for me. I finished the letter with tears.

That’s my first story for the Gratitude Project. Now, I challenge you to go out and do the same. Find someone who shaped you, thank them, and then tell the story.

My family lived in the western suburbs of Chicago, and it meant a 45 minute commute to the south side of Chicago whenever I got sick (which happened a lot).

The cystic fibrosis clinic shared a waiting room with the sickle-cell anemia clinic. You didn’t need to be a doctor to diagnose these kids. The white kids, generally, were the ones with cystic, and the black kids had sickle cell anemia. Both diseases are written within the childrens’ genes. You don’t “catch” cystic or sickle cell. You’re born with them.

There, in that bleak waiting room, some children coughed–with the loose, rattling, emphysematic cough of decades long smokers. Other children cried. Some sat silently, struggling to breathe. Their eyes revealed a deep pain.

In that waiting room, I received a vaccination against prejudice. I learned, as a five-year old, that sick children are just that–sick children–regardless of race or gender. This philosophy formed a cornerstone of my personality, and it still shapes me today. I’m grateful for each breath I take.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re a white kid struggling with cystic or a black kid struggling with sickle cell. We sat and played together in that waiting room, happy for each breath and hoping for another.

We shared toys. We waited. We breathed.

What childhood experiences give you a unique and positive perspective on life and social interactions?