In April 1993, I was asked to participate in a postgraduate course at the lovely Camelback resort in Scottsdale, Arizona. On the first evening, the recreation staff offered a nature walk into the desert areas near the resort as a before-dinner exercise. A small group of walkers assembled. All of them seemed like the usual type of guest at an elegant resort, except for one woman. She was not wearing designer clothes; she had a kerchief on her head, a white T-shirt and blue exercise tights. My wife Nancy recalls those details; all I remember is that she had very large sunglasses. She was walking by herself, and I had the feeling that the other guests were avoiding her.
I felt some empathy for her, so I decided to walk along with her and try to make her feel comfortable. She proved to be a charming conversationalist. I pointed out all the celebrity homes I knew of in the area, and she appeared interested.
She asked about my home in Charleston. She said she had visited our city recently and enjoyed it very much. We talked about my work as a physician in the South. When I told her some of my stories, she suggested that I write a book about my experiences. I had not really considered writing a book, but I thought, If this lady finds my stories interesting, maybe I should do it. I thought it was fortunate that I had chosen to keep her company. I filed “write a book” in my mental list of things to do.
My wife walked with another group. When we returned to the resort, I bid farewell to my companion and rejoined Nancy and our friends. I apologized for having spent the entire walk with this lady. I explained that she was by herself, and I’d felt sorry for her.
“Do you know whom you were walking with?” Nancy asked me.
“No,” I replied.
She gave me a look of disbelief. “That was Oprah Winfrey!”
After dinner that night, Ms. Winfrey appeared for her lecture elegantly dressed, poised, charming and perfectly recognizable.
So I can honestly lay the responsibility for this book’s existence on Oprah’s suggestion that I write down my stories. Blame her.