Healing Where Others Wouldn’t Go

Jerry didn’t just set up shop in Kenora and call it a day. He went where few others would. Way up north — the Northwest Territories, Hudson Bay, deep into Inuit communities that often had little or no access to dental care. He didn’t do it for the money. Most of the time, there wasn’t any. He did it because it was the right thing to do. Because people needed him. And because, well, that’s who Jerry Litman was.

In return, these communities gifted him something priceless — their art, their gratitude, their trust. Over time, Jerry built one of the most remarkable Inuit soapstone carving collections in all of Canada. Each piece, a thank-you. Each piece, a story.

Later in life, my visits to Kenora became ritualistic in the best way. Before heading back, I’d always swing by Jerry’s home on Waterloo Street in Winnipeg. A final stop, but really, it was the main event. His daughter Shelley and son-in-law Dennis would arrive with food — pizza or Chinese, depending on Jerry’s cravings. But the truth? It didn’t matter what was on the table. We weren’t there for the food. We were there for the warmth, the conversation, the laughs. Jerry would sit there — sharp as ever, warm as always — making everyone feel like they were the most important person in the room. Because to him, they were.

A few months before his death, Jerry called me. There was an infection in a heart valve, he said. Surgery was an option — but he’d decided against it. “It’s time,” he told me, with that mix of calm and acceptance that was so uniquely him. We found humor where we could. That call, oddly enough, was filled with laughter. Before we hung up, I promised I’d come visit. That visit won’t happen now. But that call — that last conversation — was a gift.

If you ever asked Jerry how he was doing, he’d always respond the same way: “I’m fine, thank you. But more importantly — how are you?” That wasn’t a line. That was who he was. Always redirecting the spotlight. Always putting others first. So it makes perfect sense that those exact words are now engraved on his tombstone: “I’m fine, thank you.” Three words. A whole life philosophy.

Jerry Litman was never just a dentist. He was a mentor, a philosopher, a humanist, and — let’s just say it — a legend. He cared about people in a way that felt almost radical today. He healed with his hands, yes. But more often, he healed with his presence. And he gave so much of himself — not for praise, not for plaques, but because it was in his nature. That kind of giving, that kind of decency, sticks with you.

So yes, losing Jerry hurts. You don’t replace people like him. But you carry them. In your stories. In your values. In the quiet choices you make every day because of what they once said to you — or wrote inside the cover of a book.

Dr. Jerry Litman was my friend. My guide. A beautiful human being. And I miss him. But I can still hear his voice — gentle, curious, always focused on others.

“I’m fine, thank you. But how are you?”