Writing

I walked through the hospital and recognized Hank Cosby. Mr. Cosby, a saxophonist, was one of Motown's “Funk Brothers.” We talked. He said he would be in the hospital for a few days, and that I could visit. He told me he wrote “Fingertips” and “The Tears of a Clown.” He worked with Smokey Robinson, Marvin Gaye, Martha and the Vandellas, the Supremes, and Prince, among others. With Ms. Sylvia Moy he co-wrote “My Cherie Amour” and “I Just Called to Say I Love You.”

“Stevie is coming to visit me,” he said.

“All the way from LA?”

“Yep.”

“When he shows up, have the nurses page me STAT.”

A few days later my pager sounded. “Stevie Wonder at the bedside. STAT.” I rushed to his room, and there he was — Mr. Stevie Wonder, live from LA.

My patient noticed my entrance. “Stevie, this is my doctor.”

“Hello, Doc.”

I extended my hand. “He can't see, Doc,” my patient said. “Stevie, put your hand out.” We shook hands.

Nurses, nurses' aides, and custodians crowded into the room. Mr. Wonder sat opposite Mr. Cosby. He was a very big man, his hair long and in dreadlocks. He talked and his voice was high, and he moved his head back and forth as he spoke, like I'd seen him on television. He brought out a portable keyboard.

“Would you like to hear a song?” “Yes.” He hit some notes and began to play and sing songs that were unfamiliar to us. We listened politely, somewhat disappointed. “Those are some new songs,” he said. “Experiments. Did you like them?” “Very much.” We were being polite.

“Would you like to hear some of the old songs?” A very enthusiastic, loud “Yes.”

He sang “I Was Made to Love Her” and “Living for the City.” We sang with him and danced as much as we could, elbow to elbow. Our faces were locked in smiles, our eyes wide with amazement. This can't be happening, I thought.

“I Just Called to Say I Love You,” then “My Cherie Amour.” “I love those two songs,” Mr. Cosby said. “They're special,” Stevie Wonder said. “They mean a lot to us.”

Mr. Wonder performed for our small group for about three hours. The last songs were “Ebony and Ivory,” and finally, “We Are the World.” The nurses and nurses' aides must sing in church choirs, because some sang alto and some soprano and all blended in, like angels. (Nurses are angels.)

“Mr. Wonder,” his attendant said. “We've got to leave Detroit, catch the red-eye back to LA.” We had to say good-bye. Mr. Wonder took his time and hugged everyone — me too. A man who was a superstar wonder was also a wonderful human being.

Something electric happened.

Olaf Kroneman, M.D. — Birmingham, Michigan