This year was whacky.

Just plain silly, I tell ya.

I was on America's Got Talent.

I got booed.

I didn't die though.

Not dead.

America hated it.

Other than a select few.

You know who you are.

Anyway, I still didn't die.

Not dead.

My kids hated it.

Almost died.

But didn't.

Not dead.

Get this.

My patients loved it.

Definitely not dead.

Exhilaration, in fact.

I try not to worry what people think of me.

But I still do.

It's hard to completely not care.

But it won't mean a thing in a hundred years.

Probably in a lot less than that.

I'm still here.

I still have the most wonderful patients on the planet.

My patients lifted me.

Helped me rise.

Helped me get stronger.

To take a stand.

To stand.

Like Rocky from the canvas after being knocked down for the fifth time.

I was wobbly.

So very wobbly.

Then I wasn't

It had an impact.

A positive impact.

They say how much joy it brought them.

A patient told me in Spanish today about the joy.

She loved it.

It certainly had an impact.

On those I impact daily.

I was being a doctor.

Then something happened.

AGT called.

Okay.

I likely wouldn't die.

Fine.

I met an 'Andy Kaufman-esque' mentor.

I got my mom involved.

I wrote an original song.

It bombed.

I bombed.

At least everyone was watching.

I went home a changed man.

Scarred.

From battle.

Scarred.

Like my face after my bike accident.

Sewn back together.

Scarred.

Wounds healed.

Scarred.

Silly, wacky scars.

But not dead.