Pulling Up a Chair: The Lessons We Carry Forward
Remembering Dr. Francis J. Bednarek and the lessons I carry with me as a neonatologist
I just finished a week working in the neonatal intensive care unit.
I’m tired. Really tired.
But I’m also incredibly happy.
I love being a neonatologist.
I love the medicine. I love the physiology, the pathology, the challenge of putting all the pieces together and figuring out what a baby needs. I love that after all these years, there is still so much to learn. Every day brings something that makes me think a little harder, ask another question, or reconsider what I thought I knew.
I love watching a baby make progress, sometimes in the smallest ways. And I love sitting with families, helping them understand what is happening, celebrating their victories, and walking beside them through the moments that are unimaginably difficult.
But perhaps what I love most is my NICU family.
The nurses, advanced practice providers (APPs), respiratory therapists, nursing leaders, administrative staff, social workers, therapists, and everyone else who makes this extraordinary place work. I love knowing their stories, sharing their laughter, learning from them, and trusting them. I love that we can have a difficult day and still find moments of joy together.
This week, somewhere between the medicine, the families, and the conversations with my colleagues, I found myself thinking about Dr. Francis J. Bednarek. He was one of the neonatologists who trained me. And the more years I spend practicing medicine, the more I realize how much of the neonatologist I am today was shaped by watching him.
The Man Who Was Always There
Frank was the kind of person who made you feel as though someone was waiting to welcome you at the door. As a fellow, I never knew quite what I would be walking into each morning. That’s the nature of the NICU. But somehow, Frank was always there.
Maybe he was sitting in the workroom with his coffee. Maybe he was passing through on his way to one of the hundred things he seemed to be involved in. But there was always that familiar face, that greeting, that feeling that you belonged. He didn’t even have to be working that day. Somehow, he was still there.
He would pop into rounds with a story that had everyone laughing or a clinical observation that made us stop and rethink our plan. He could make you laugh one minute and challenge you intellectually the next.
And he loved to teach. Frank loved the history of neonatology. He knew so much about the physicians and scientists who came before us, and he loved sharing that knowledge. Even as the rest of us increasingly turned to the internet, Frank still reached for his textbooks.
Frank was also involved in everything. He could be managing the administrative challenges of running a NICU one minute and heading off to support someone at an event the next. Or attending a wake or funeral for someone he knew.
And Frank knew everyone.
He was almost like Superman. One minute he’d be in scrubs, and the next he’d somehow be dressed in khakis and a nice shirt, heading off to his next responsibility.
He could get fired up about something he believed in. But underneath that passion was an enormous teddy bear of a man who cared deeply about people. And no matter how busy he was, he always made time for them.
What Frank Taught Me
Frank believed in babies.
Especially the tiniest, most fragile babies. He was a fighter, and he had a remarkable ability to see possibilities where others saw limitations.
Years ago, when the limits of viability were very different, Frank was already challenging us to think about what might be possible for extremely premature infants. He was hopeful, curious, and unwilling to stop asking whether there might be another way to help. I loved that about him.
Even as a child, I had an instinct to help people. I believed there must be something we could do to make things better. I think that’s why I connected with Frank so much. We both believed in these babies and wanted to do everything we could to help them.
And he taught me something else. Being a great neonatologist isn’t just about knowing the medicine. It’s about knowing the people. Frank knew everyone. The nurses, APPs, respiratory therapists, administrative staff, nursing leaders, social workers, therapists, and so many others who made the NICU what it was. He knew their families, their stories, and what was happening in their lives. He understood their strengths, appreciated their contributions, and made everyone feel like an important part of the team.He knew his patients and their families, too.
I recently came across an old video of Frank being interviewed by Christina Andrianopoulos, alongside June Carroll and her son, Brendan. Brendan was born three months prematurely in July 1999, weighing just one and a half pounds. Frank had cared for him in the NICU. In this video, Brendan is 10 years old.
I love that we have this little piece of history. It’s a chance to see Frank and one of the children he cared for, years after those early days in the NICU.
Watch the video of Frank, Brendan, and June
I can still picture him looking down at a tiny baby with an expression that told you everything you needed to know about how much he cared.
And I remember how he would pull up a chair.
Sometimes it was beside a family who needed an explanation or reassurance. Other times it was next to a nurse, with a cup of coffee in his hand, sharing a story and making everyone laugh. He could fill a room with humor and warmth, then turn his full attention to a critically ill baby in an instant. He made people feel that they mattered. I don’t think I realized at the time just how much I was learning from him. But I certainly do now.
The Family That Raised Me
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I’ve always loved being part of a team. Maybe that comes from growing up playing sports. I love that everyone brings something different to the table, and that we all need each other. And that’s exactly what neonatology is.
Every baby has a team. Nurses, APPs, respiratory therapists, physicians, therapists, social workers, administrative staff, and so many others, each bringing their own expertise and heart.
I sometimes imagine the NICU as one enormous bubble, filled with smaller bubbles surrounding each baby and family. We nurture them, protect them, help them grow, and eventually, when they’re ready, we send them out into the world.
Of course, not every baby gets to go home. Sometimes, despite everything we do, a baby dies. And when that happens, our responsibility doesn’t end. We draw closer, surrounding that family with love, compassion, and whatever comfort we can offer.
Frank understood that caring for babies meant caring for everyone around them, too. He was the dad of the NICU. And in many ways, I’ve come to feel like the mother of the NICU.
I was fortunate to train with Frank and six other extraordinary physicians: Joel, Stu, Jim, Steve, Jen, and Alan. They taught me medicine, but they also taught me how to lead, advocate, and care for people. And the nurses, APPs, respiratory therapists, and staff taught me just as much. They became my family. And they helped raise me into the neonatologist I would become.
The Legacy We Carried
When I finished fellowship, there wasn’t a position for me in the group, so I left for Vermont to begin my career as an attending neonatologist.
In 2013, toward the end of that first year, I received one of the worst phone calls of my life. Frank had died unexpectedly while vacationing on Cape Cod. I immediately came home to be with my NICU family. Within weeks, they asked me to return and work with them.
And I did.
For the next three years, we carried on without Frank, determined to preserve the culture he had helped build. On September 30, 2016, our group’s time at the hospital came to an end.
I will never forget the pain of walking away from the nurses, APPs, respiratory therapists, and staff who had supported me, taught me, laughed with me, and loved me. I wasn’t simply leaving a hospital. I was walking away from the family that had helped raise me.
But I also knew that those extraordinary people would continue caring for babies and families. A new group of neonatologists would join them, and I had to trust that they would recognize and support the remarkable team they were inheriting.
Because what Frank had helped build was bigger than any one group of physicians.
As we prepared to leave, I gathered some of the things Frank had left behind in his office. Among them was an old handwritten ledger, dating back to 1978, filled with the details of the babies he had cared for. Their weights, head circumferences, feeding volumes, and so many other little details.
Page after page. Baby after baby. Year after year.
There were also his old overhead projector slides and medical textbooks, reminders of the countless hours he had devoted to learning and teaching. I couldn’t bear the thought of those pieces of his life’s work being forgotten.
And there’s one more part of this story that still makes me smile. I was born prematurely at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Worcester in 1977. Frank cared for babies there during that era. I’ll never know whether he might have rounded on me when I was a tiny premature baby myself. His ledger began in 1978, just one year too late.
Imagine that. The man who would eventually help train me to become a neonatologist might once have stood beside my own isolette. Life has a remarkable way of bringing us full circle.
Still Pulling Up Chairs
Today, I have the privilege of serving as the third Medical Director of Mothers’ Milk Bank Northeast. Frank was the first. There is something about that connection that feels incredibly meaningful to me.
Through the Dr. Francis J. Bednarek Internship & Education Fund, we have an opportunity to honor him by supporting education and the next generation of people who will care for vulnerable infants and their families.
And when I think about what I hope those future health care professionals will learn from Frank, I think about what he taught me.
Be curious. Keep learning. Challenge yourself.
Believe in your patients, even when the path forward is uncertain.
Listen to families. Respect your colleagues. Recognize that the person working beside you may see something you haven’t, regardless of their role.
And remember that the best medicine happens when people work together and genuinely care about one another.
Neonatology has changed so much, even in the years I’ve been practicing. And I know it will keep changing. But I hope we never lose sight of the importance of caring for our babies, their families, and each other.
This week, I pulled up a chair beside a family who needed a little extra time, some explanations, and perhaps more than anything, a little love. And I thought about Frank.
I wish I could sit down with him over a cup of coffee and tell him how much he meant to me. How much I learned from him. How much of what he built is still alive in the people who knew him. But perhaps, in some small way, I already did.
Frank, we’re still pulling up chairs.
If you knew Frank, or if his story resonates with you, I invite you to help carry his legacy forward through the Dr. Francis J. Bednarek Internship & Education Fund at Mothers’ Milk Bank Northeast.
My person fundraising website: https://www.givengain.com/project/gina-raising-funds-for-mothers-milk-bank-northeast-128129
Support the Dr. Francis J. Bednarek Internship & Education Fund
Your contribution will support education and mentorship in honor of a physician who devoted his life to caring for our most vulnerable babies.
