Michael K. Crawford, MD

My wife, Sandy, fills our home with her appreciation for the beauty this world provides. Her talent expressed in her paintings displayed throughout the house and her English garden so carefully tended. Then she contracted vasculitis – a thief stealing flesh and energy, replacing laughter with whispers. In May 2023 flew to Washington state to open our summer home there. As is our usual program, Sandy, our daughter Cassie, and our cat, Raja were to fly out in a couple of weeks. Sandy called to inform me she couldn’t make it on time because she had the flu. Then she’d start feeling a little better and plan to make the trip in a few days. Then she’d get sick again. This went on for almost a month. Then Sandy called in tears. Cassie had gotten sick, and Sandy said she didn’t know if Cassie could handle what she had been going through. This was the first time I knew how bad Sandy felt – she’s a stubbornly stoic woman sometimes. I immediately flew home. When I arrived, I was shocked. Sandy weighed about a hundred pounds, a shell of her usual self. She had lost almost 20% of her body weight. She would experience excruciating pain shooting through her head – reflexively grabbing her head as if she had been stabbed. She couldn’t sleep, but she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. Panic gnawed at me, mirrored in the worry lines etching my wife's face. I truly thought she may die. Enter Dr. Crawford with his diagnosis of vasculitis, an inflammation of the vascular system. Unlike the impersonal efficiency of specialists, he possessed a quiet attentiveness, expressing genuine concern, but with a calm demeaner. He didn't dismiss the vasculitis diagnosis like a mere formality; he delved deeper, his calls becoming a lifeline connecting us to hope. Morning and evening, even weekends, he checked in, not just a doctor, but a guardian angel with a phone. His warmth wasn't without the bite of steel. Seeing Sandra's resistance to fluids, he issued an ultimatum: "Hospital and IV, or you start drinking electrolytes and water" his voice firm but laced with concern. We saw the battle within him, the doctor fighting for his patient, the man worried for a fellow human. We followed Dr. Crawford’s advice, and as the days passed relief set in. I was sure Sandy was on the road to recovery. It was slow at first and then she grew stronger, like a stubborn flower which refused to die in her English garden she was unable to tend while sick. Dr. Crawford’s genuine joy at her progress fueled our own, proving that healing isn't just medicine, but also compassion shared. Dr. Crawford wasn't just a doctor; he was a witness to our fear, a champion in our fight. He didn't just cure a disease; he held our hands as we fought it ourselves. This isn't just a story; it's a testament to the extraordinary impact one person can have. But I would be remiss if I didn’t also say Carolyn Crawford, Dr. Crawford’s wife, right hand woman, and an integral part of his practice, was as equally involved as he was. It's a reminder that in the darkest hours, a doctor's compassion, and his wife’s, is priceless.