A young father walked into the physical therapy office with his toddler son, and I wondered how he would keep the boy amused throughout a therapy session. Had be brought crayons, perhaps? Would he hand the boy a mobile phone for play?

Minutes later, as I started my own therapy, I heard the little guy giggling and burbling. I turned and saw him walking a treadmill, his dad behind, holding his hands.

A few more minutes, and they were walking back and forth through the open room, a therapist keeping pace and repeating, “heel, toe; heel, toe; heel, toe.”

This tiny, beautiful boy. Undergoing physical therapy. So sweet. So heartbreaking.

This was my final occupational therapy appointment as I continue recovering from a broken wrist. I’ve no idea how many appointments this little boy has had, or will have. I’m glad he’s able to get the therapy he needs. Yet I’m saddened that his beautiful body is somehow not perfect, that his parents must worry, that no one can know his future. Will he recover fully? Will he be laughed at by other children? Will he always be as jolly as he is today?

He’s not the first child I’ve seen at therapy, but the youngest. Some have seemed indomitable, some troubled. I worried about one, a teen-ager who seemed when first I saw him too depressed to work at getting better. He seemed better on later occasions, but there’s no way for me to know his outcome. It’s his story; it’s not my business.

But it affects me. It changes me. It makes me think beyond my own struggles. It doesn’t keep me awake at night, but it comes to mind periodically, a reminder of the worries that face us all. It helps me count my blessings.