Never Stop Believing You can be the difference.

The story goes like this: A patient in her 30s was diagnosed with malignant melanoma in the brain. Simply put, she had brain cancer and needed an urgent craniotomy and brain tumor resection. Understanding the severity of both her condition and the upcoming surgery, the patient, along with the hospital’s chaplain, made a bold request to George: an emergency wedding for her and her partner. Stat. Prior to the surgery.

To George, the question wasn’t if they could pull it off. Knowing how much a wedding could help with the patient’s positivity before surgery and overall recovery, it was just a matter of how they would make it a reality. He decided this situation called for something grand–quickly. No mere visit to the hospital chapel or bedside vows would do. So, along with the rest of his staff, he decided to give the bride and groom a wedding they would never forget.

George and his team set out to accomplish the near-impossible. They needed to decide on and put up decorations, make sure the bride’s hair and makeup would be taken care of, and arrange flowers and hire photographers. They even wanted to decorate her wheelchair with a “Just Married” sign. All in under 24 hours. Unbelievable? Not if you’re George. With little notice, the chapel ceremony and reception, which were held on the neurological floor, were packed with friends, family and hospital staff, many of whom brought gifts for the happy couple. George’s own wedding gift for the bride was something very personal, the veil worn by his wife at his wedding – and by his own mother-in-law decades ago – who had undergone the same procedure as the patient.

It was George’s way of expressing not just how close he felt with his patient — but a message of hope. It was as if he was telling her “I’ve seen this before. And you are going to be alright.”

Thanks to the collective efforts of George, his team and the doctors, his patient is now recovering with not just a husband but an entire hospital.

“While this wasn’t exactly a normal day at Pennsylvania Hospital, the compassion and love that we shared as a group is representative of what we strive to do individually each day in all of our interactions with our patients and their loved ones. I could not be more proud of our team.”

The way we see it, it’s George and those like him who are building the next frontier of medicine. By reminding the world of all the forms that medicine can take.

For 17 years, Pete has established himself as one of Pennsylvania Hospital’s finest hemostasis techs, relieving tension in both rooms and over 10,000 groins after coronary procedures. And he loves it.

For those unaware or simply too embarrassed to ask, when patients come out of a coronary procedure where a blocked coronary artery needs to be opened, blood flows back to the heart and a catheter needs to be pulled from the femoral artery. It’s Pete’s job to apply pressure to the groin to aid in clotting after the catheter is removed. It’s a job most people would find, let’s just say, difficult to handle. Not Pete. “Nobody bleeds on my watch,” he proudly declares. Which is why he makes it his business to get to know these groins and, more importantly, the patients they belong to.

“The first thing I do is explain to patients that we’re going to get to know each other very well.”

Sandy Kuritzky, the wife of one of those patients, can certainly attest to that.

“Pete’s attitude with his patients and their caregivers is so upbeat, friendly, caring and funny that it makes a stressful time less stressful and difficult,” says Kuritzky.

Pete has learned that getting to know his patients is an essential part of making them feel comfortable. Ironically, he’s found, it’s not hard for them to know him.

“When you’re holding someone’s groin for 20 minutes, they tend to remember you. I have people come up to me at bars – ‘Excuse me, are you Pete? You held my groin eight years ago’!”

Before coming to Pennsylvania Hospital where he joined his wife, Michelle, an RN, Pete was in the Navy. For that reason, he also has a particular penchant for helping veterans. As he puts it, “I feel like they’re my own.”

One can’t help but marvel at Pete’s dedication, joy and sheer openness. It takes a special quality to help people get over the one thing many medical professionals can’t help with: awkwardness.

"It’s been well over 10,000 groins without even a sweat.”

And with many more to come, it’s another great example of how it sometimes takes more than medicine to make patients feel better.

Stanley provides a somewhat different type of medical care to the patients at Lancaster General Health. In an official capacity, Stanley works for Penn Medicine as a maintenance housekeeper. Unofficially, he’s the resident “Soul Man.”

Every day, as he goes about his routine, he’s singing. Whether it’s belting out songs from his favorite musicians or requests from patients or staff, Stanley wins everyone over with his smooth vocals. They can’t get enough of it. And they aren’t the only ones.

He’s known all throughout the hospital and loved by his crew leader, coworkers and trainees alike — and it’s easy to see why. “When Stanley is coming down for break, he walks into the department, you know he’s coming because he’s singing. So, it’s just a wonderful, positive vibe,” says a coworker.

Meet him, and you’ll understand too. It’s not just that he has a truly remarkable voice (he also sings in his church choir), it’s the hope, care and sense of comfort he offers patients — far too many of whom are at their very lowest point and can find little solace elsewhere.

“A couple of months ago, I was just singing in the hallway and a patient called out to me from her room. She was in her 90s and I assumed she wanted to see the nurse or she wanted some water. She wanted me to sing with her. So, we sang the oldies. Together. Eventually, her daughter walked in the room and she said, ‘You keep on singing.’ So, we did. The next day she died.”

Stanley was there, singing. Not just for her but for many others just like her too. It’s a sobering, heartbreaking, yet hopeful story. One neither Stanley nor the woman’s family will soon forget. And it’s a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we can surround ourselves with love, comfort and, yes, the sounds of soul music.

“I’m going to make sure you hear me,” says Stanley.

Patients and staff alike hope they always do. Because Stanley’s medicine is, sometimes, the best medicine.

For people like Priscilla Dray of Bordeaux, France, that was life. Nine years ago, she developed sepsis and multisystem organ failure after elective surgery. The result? Amputation of both of her hands and legs. Not having a choice, Priscilla slowly adapted to a life where she couldn’t pick up her children or run her fingers through their hair. She couldn’t dress or bathe herself, or be who she used to be.

That’s when she received a call. It was Dr. Levin and his transplantation team at Penn Medicine.

As the chair of Penn Orthopaedics, former president of the American Society for Surgery of the Hand and the pioneer of orthoplastic surgery, Dr. L. Scott Levin is doing something that was considered impossible not too long ago — a bilateral hand and arm transplant.

It’s an unbelievably complicated, 10-hour-long procedure — involving not only transplanting hands onto a patient’s forearms–but reanimating muscles by utilizing the nerves of the transplant patient, ones that eventually grow into nerves of the donor hands. If the transplant is performed at the wrist where the patient’s muscles could activate tendons, the patient can regain feeling and movement sooner than if it was performed at the elbow. Amazingly, this was the case with Priscilla. After eight challenging years without the use of her hands, after surgery, she was able to move the fingers on her left hand. Priscilla could feel again. As for her right hand that was transplanted at the elbow, it took a few months longer, but it eventually reached the same level of success.

“This transplantation changed my life. I can drive to my kids’ school. I can hold them. I can pick them up.”

Priscilla is now in recovery in Miami, receiving treatment overseen by Dr. Levin’s team, and has a new outlook on life. Of course, her journey over the last year hasn’t just been a physical transformation but an emotional one too.

“He’s the only person who accepted to help me. He said, ‘I made you a promise and I won’t let you down.’ You can’t imagine what that meant to me. I’m only a patient. But he’s more than a doctor.”

Dr. Levin and his team have successfully performed four bilateral transplants, including the world’s first pediatric transplant. For Dr. Levin, all the complexity involved, the intense technical and surgical preparation, the years spent practicing at the Human Tissue Lab, which he also founded — it all comes down to a very simple and humane desire to help heal the body and the mind.

“We’re restoring our patients’ independence. Their ability to eat, bathe and clothe themselves. But we’re also restoring their dignity, their sense of self.”

Dr. Levin and his entire team are testament to the fact that the reward of being on the frontier of medicine comes from more than being able to perform cutting-edge procedures — it comes from their dedication to making a difference to help patients like Priscilla feel whole again.

Sheila is a physical therapist assistant and Good Shepherd Penn Partners team member. She spends her days working closely with patients who often find themselves at their lowest. Some are in a lot of physical pain. Others are in a state bordering depression. Sheila offers them respite — not just by helping to retrain muscles and offering physical support — but through the universal power of music therapy.

One of the first things Sheila asks patients is what music they like. Not only does it help build a rapport and a bond of trust, she finds it also helps them to get better, quicker. And, after all, that’s what therapy is all about. Some patients feel motivated, like athletes pumping up for a race. Others are reminded of happier times. For a particular patient in the intensive care unit and her husband, hearing their wedding song was perfect therapy when she needed it most.

“I think it brought back a lot of memories for both of them to a time when they were young,” says Sheila. “It helps people get over that hump of ‘things aren’t going well and I’m never getting out of here’ to a place of ‘okay, I can do this.”

When so many physical barriers stem from personal mentalities of can or cannot, Sheila gives patients hope, playing the soundtracks of their lives. “When we go into a room, people are in their worst state.” And she’s not wrong. Day in and out, Sheila sees orthopedic surgeries, joint replacements, brain surgeries and critical illnesses. Sometimes Sheila’s music therapy is the only thing patients respond to. “She has so much compassion and empathy for the patient,” says her manager, Elizabeth. “She always listens to their needs.”

And listening is key to Sheila’s therapy. Listening to their stories. Listening to their favorite songs with them. Listening to what they need, when they need it most.

“I try to keep in mind, this is probably one of the worst days of their life. I try to be as positive as I can and focus on what they need to engage in their own care.”

For 20 years she’s been making a difference at Penn Medicine, helping remind the world just how good getting better can sound.

Two months before Cannon was born, he lost his older brother, Brett, to a tragic accident.

Pinned underneath a truck after breaking free from his parents’ grip at a car wash, young Brett lost his life.

Something so heartbreaking would devastate any family, and Cannon admits the incident dramatically shaped his life. And in more ways than just how overly protective his parents were when he was a child. He first learned the details of his brother’s death when he was in middle school, but the process of putting it all in perspective took years.

“When I started thinking about what I wanted to do with my life, I first had a vague sense that I needed to reach outside my comfort zone. Then, as I grew older, I recognized why I needed to do more.”

Cannon decided to dedicate his life to living out not only his own dreams and aspirations but those of his brother, doing many of the things Brett didn’t have a chance to do in his all-too- brief life. Most importantly, by helping others.

First, he joined the Air Force Academy. After a collapsed lung kept him from becoming a pilot, he switched to pre-med and decided to specialize in a field where he could honor his big brother every day: trauma surgery. Now he improves the lives of severely injured people — including children — all over the world. He gives a second chance to kids like Brett.

“ I feel I’ve come full circle — living my dream of helping others and using my knowledge so my family’s experience doesn’t happen to others.”

Dr. Cannon – Jeremy - isn’t just a doctor. He’s a difference maker –to all the lives that he touches. His story makes that quite evident. But what may not be that apparent is that it’s his approach to life and caring for the lives of others that makes such a difference. In a way, one could say that he’s always felt his brother’s presence and that he’s accomplished what many others could only dream of–all in Brett’s name. Giving the brother he’d never met, and many more just like him, a second chance at life.

That’s why every five weeks, Karen Graham comes to the Image Recovery Center at the Ann B. Barshinger Cancer Institute at Penn Medicine Lancaster General Health. It’s down the hall from where patients like Karen receive radiation and chemotherapy treatments as well as breast augmentation services. But that’s not why Karen goes there.

You see, Karen is in remission. She’s been cancer-free for six years now. So why exactly does she visit the cancer center every five weeks?

The salon.

The Image Recovery Center is a salon and, like most other salons, offers haircuts, highlights, manicures, massages, free head shaves and wig fittings. But for the 3 million Americans who have battled breast cancer like Karen, it offers something else that other salons do not: an essential form of therapy that standard medicine, surgery or even your city’s top-rated salon cannot provide.

“Clients and patients come in and say, ‘I didn’t care about my hair before,’” says Lindy Loercher, a clinical cosmetologist at the center. “‘Now, all of a sudden, I can’t believe how much it matters to me.’”

The idea of one salon that offers all these services for survivors is a pragmatic yet surprisingly revolutionary concept. It simply didn’t exist until a few years ago. And unlike other salons, its services are tailored specifically for survivors, with particular care given to sanitation and awareness about infections. For survivors like Karen though, it’s a sense of normalcy and comfort with people who were there when she needed them most.

And she did need them. Truth is, to most of us, hair, skin and nails don’t seem like a top priority when you’re facing a deadly disease. But, as Rebecca McCarron, manager of Oncology Clinical Support Services at the Ann B. Barshinger Cancer Institute, points out, this is when this type of care is most vital.

“When you’re going through changes because of therapies you’re given for a disease that could kill you, that’s very dehumanizing. How you feel about yourself helps you feel like you again.”

In a way, the Image Recovery Center represents the good things that can come after all the struggles one’s body has to endure as it becomes a battlefield. This specialized salon gives patients a chance to get away from the doctors, tests and medical talk. It’s a chance for women to dictate their story again. And it serves as a reminder that being leaders in medicine is not just about helping people survive when their whole world is falling apart, but about helping them feel normal again. Often, that can make all the difference.

A relevant thought when you consider low-income sub-Saharan countries, where there’s a devastating lack of access to surgical care. In Tanzania alone, over 2 million people are living with musculoskeletal disabilities. The country has 50 million people but only three tertiary care hospitals, which are constantly filled to capacity. The mere 25 orthopedic surgeons are overwhelmed with acute trauma cases and emergency surgeries. This makes it nearly impossible for Tanzanians to get elective procedures, allowing thousands of infections and injuries to slowly worsen until they become critical. A hospital such as the Kilimanjaro Christian Medical Centre (KCMC) can see over 5,000 fractures annually but is still unable to perform over 40 percent of surgeries. To make matters worse, those who are able to somehow find timely medical care are burdened with costs from hospital stays and surgical care they simply can’t afford.

The statistics alone make it clear that a long-term, sustainable solution is the only answer to making things better. That’s why Dr. Neil Sheth founded Global Orthopaedics, a collaboration between Penn Medicine, 26 international orthopedic institutions and KCMC.

This initiative allows patients with musculoskeletal injuries and issues to be treated in remote areas, with 10 operating rooms, expanded beds, intensive care units, improved equipment and an electronic medical record system. Each of the 26 collaborating orthopedic institutions sends a team of board-certified surgeons, fellows and senior residents to the center for a two-week period, offering more patients state-of-the-art care — regardless of their ability to pay.

But the mission of the initiative isn’t just to provide more space and quality equipment for patients; it’s to improve the standard of medical care for good. That’s why these doctors will also be training young doctors who come to the center from all over Africa.

And while solving the problems associated with medical care in Africa seems like a lofty goal, an amazing thing happens when world-class orthopedic surgeons fly across the world to save lives and teach young professionals. They don’t just help and inspire patients — they inspire a whole new generation of doctors. Those who believe they can be the difference.

Here back home, Dr. Sheth and Penn Medicine’s mission isn’t simply to expand its knowledge to areas of the world where it’s needed most. The goal is to expand the approach to medicine itself. By finding new ways to reach people. And finding new ways to help them. Not just to be different than others, but to be able to make a difference to all.