In July 1976, a few days after I moved to Los Angeles, I was rear-ended while I was stationary on Sunset at the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights.

My best friends on earth, Al and Sally Burton, recommended that I go to a lawyer named Fox and he sent me to a doctor named “Clay” Levine, MD. He was a fine doctor and we were together for about 10 years. Then he retired and I got a new doctor named William Skinner, MD.

He was a brilliant, kindly, patient man. We were together as patient and doctor and close, close, close friends until two weeks ago. I am deadly afraid of needles. Dr. Skinner had a brilliantly skilled colleague named Lance Hunter who could handle a needle like a symphonic pianist handling a Steinway.

I had lifelong spastic colitis. It brought me to Dr. Skinner’s office hundreds of times over our relationship of far more than 20 years. He prescribed me paregoric and Lomotil. They basically saved my life.

Dr. Skinner was not like today’s MD. He and I would visit and laugh and jest like schoolboys for hours at a time. I don’t remember how much he charged, but it was worth it.

My wife had many ailments. I had substantial surgery for knee problems. Dr. Skinner was always there to help and soothe. He sometimes made references for other doctors. Some worked out and some did not.

But Bill Skinner was always there to hold my hand. Bill and I laughed probably more than I ever have with any other man. I always left his office on a cloud. His colleague, Lance Hunter, was likewise always there when I needed him.

It never occurred to me that Dr. Skinner was mortal. But he was and two weeks ago, he died suddenly of a heart attack. I was and am devastated. With Al Burton gone, Dr. Skinner was my best friend. I miss him like the cut of a knife when you rub alcohol into it.

Dr. Skinner did not fight the phony war on drugs over my pained body. He kept me alive and happy.

I have a thought for you: if you have a great sawbones like Dr. Skinner, treasure him, worship him, love him. He’s a god in your life.