A Handful of Popcorn: Generosity Measured by Love

by Diocese of Des Moines Catholic Schools | November 21, 2025

Dr. Brandy L. Ficek, M.D., M.B.A., is not only a nationally recognized leader in palliative medicine but also a proud product of our own diocese. She's been named "Top Doctor," "Most Influential Millennial," and "Ethics Champion." A 2000 graduate of St. Albert Catholic High School, Dr. Ficek credits her Catholic school upbringing as foundational to the successful and compassionate physician she is today.

Dr. Ficek was invited to be the guest speaker during the 2025 Bishop's Celebration of Catholic Schools at the Diocese of Des Moines Pastoral Center, where she delivered the following speech to a crowd of educators and supporters of Catholic schools.

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Not too long ago, my family and I were at the Iowa Heartlanders Hockey game as they helped to sponsor a fundraiser for our non-profit, Love from Levi. And at our table, we had samples of the interactive books we customize to help young children facing serious illness better understand and feel comfortable with their procedures.

While there, a young boy, probably only 5 or 6 years old came up with his father right before the start of the game. And I’ll never forget how big his eyes got as he was looking through the book and asked, “you give these to little kids who are sick?” We nodded and explained the different pages to him. He then noticed our donation jar and asked his father if he could give money to us. But, his father politely smiled and noted that he didn’t have any cash on him and understandably looked like he was ready to get back to their seats to avoid missing the face-off.

But that little boy was undeterred, so he looked around and then reached into the bag of popcorn they were taking back to their seats and placed a handful of kernels in front of us. “Will this help?” Just a small handful of popcorn. That was his gift. That was his sacrifice. That was his faith that what little he had could still make a difference.

I’ve carried that image with me ever since, because it reminded me that generosity is not measured by the size or even the impact of the gift, but by the love behind it. And it came at a time when I needed that reminder. Growing up in the Catholic faith, the words “To whom much is given, much will be required” have always resonated with me. That truth has shaped my journey as a Catholic school graduate, as a physician, and as someone who has known both joy and deep loss.

Growing up, I perhaps didn’t fully understand what that meant. I thought it was about grades, or sports, or making my parents proud. But life has a way of teaching us what Scripture truly means, often in ways we don’t expect, like what I learned—or more accurately relearned—through the gesture of this little boy.

Before I go any further, I want to pause and simply say thank you. To the teachers, administrators, volunteers, clergy, and staff here tonight—you are the heart of Catholic education. You are the ones we should be celebrating.

You don’t just cover chapters in math, history, or literature—you teach students how to recognize Christ in a classmate who feels left out, in the power of prayer before a test or a big game, in the courage it takes to do the right thing, and in the joy of serving others. Those same lessons were planted in me at St. Albert by people like you—lessons that extended far beyond the classroom. That’s why it is such an honor for me to share my story with you tonight and to pay tribute to those who helped form me into who I am today.

That formation and education began long before I started as a student in Mrs. Crowl’s first grade class, in a family that taught me early on that love and faith were not just things we said, but things we lived. I am the youngest of five kids with two amazing parents. I have often told people that the greatest gift I have ever received is being born into this family. My mom and dad are, to this day, the smartest people I have ever met. And more than that, they are kind and selfless. For years before I started school and for many years after, they both either worked or volunteered at St. Albert, and shared their gifts with so many students, not just our family.

And then there are my siblings. Any single one of them could be up here speaking tonight—sitting right there you'll find a collection of MDs, PhDs, MBAs, and professional engineers. Being the youngest, people often assume I must have felt a lot of pressure growing up, but it was actually the opposite. Seeing my siblings excel in academics, sports, arts, and every achievement imaginable never made me feel pressured; it made me believe that anything was possible. And all of them being here tonight even though they live out of state serves as proof that they have always been my biggest cheerleaders. With my family, I have only ever had to be myself, I was never pressured to achieve, I was only encouraged to explore my talents and give my best in everything I pursued.

With that foundation, stepping into the halls of St. Albert was less about expectations and more about curiosity and growth. The values my family instilled—faith, love, generosity, and the encouragement to explore—naturally shaped how I approached school. I brought with me a sense of confidence, not in comparison to others, but in knowing that I could discover and develop my own strengths. At St. Albert, I found opportunities to do just that, to challenge myself academically, socially, and spiritually.

Sometimes, those efforts translated into accomplishments: as a senior I was named Athlete of the Year, earning all-state honors in three sports. I graduated as valedictorian, was selected to the all-state academic teams in both Iowa and Nebraska, served as senior class president, and received awards in math, science, engineering, and writing.

But just as often, my best efforts didn’t result in accolades. I loved music and singing, yet from first grade through high school I was consistently—and appropriately—placed in the back row of every choir concert—the spot farthest from the microphone. My “official role” in our high school play was simply “background performer.” And yet, those experiences were just as formative as standing on a podium. They taught me humility, perseverance, and the value of joy in participating, even without applause.

At St. Albert, I also discovered the beauty of friendship—friends who challenged me, encouraged me, and stood by me through victories and setbacks alike. Two of those friends are here tonight. My best friend from high school, Emily, was my constant partner, whether in sports, social outings, or family vacations. She was our homecoming queen and truly deserved it as she taught me how to make everyone in the room feel welcome and how to embrace the fun in every moment.

And then there’s someone many of you know well—St. Albert’s own Chief Administrative Officer, Mr. Pat Ryan. To me, though, he will always be the kid I hung out with at vacation Bible school and my seventh-hour study hall tablemate—where we spent more time talking than studying. Years later, when he was teaching fifth grade, he was still the friend I could call on. His students helped provide me with original artwork to create booklets for families when I was starting my parenting through cancer program, and made cards to lift up families in need that I saw in my clinic. That’s the kind of friendship St. Albert gave me—lifelong, grounded in faith, and ready to serve others.

After graduation, I continued athletics, my studies, and volunteering during my time at the University of Kansas and medical school at the University of Iowa in pursuit of my childhood dream to become a physician.

It was during these years that I not only deepened my commitment to medicine but also met my husband—a partner who continuously challenges me to grow into the person I aspire to be. He and I are definitely different—in preparing for this talk his feedback was to “wing it”—which is not something I have ever done. But he helps me not take myself too seriously and is the first person to encourage me to hold firm in what I believe.

When I faced an attending physician who continuously criticized me for taking too much time and being “too nice to patients” or when I hesitated to apply for the Mayo palliative care fellowship—a position that only accepts one person each year from across the entire country—it was he who reminded me to fight for myself and my purpose.

And I’m so glad he did. I have been so blessed to be able to do what I get to do each day for my patients and families. And I have never been accused by them that taking time or being nice is a problem. Palliative care is my dream job, even though most people have never heard of it or misunderstand what it is. But for me it is simple, it truly is the purest form of medicine.

You have a patient and family in front of you—maybe with cancer, dementia, or any other condition that changes someone’s daily life—and you simply try to help them. It’s not about curing the disease. It’s about relieving pain, easing symptoms like shortness of breath or fatigue, and helping with the emotional stress that comes along with serious illness. But it’s also about the little things: listening to what matters most to you, helping make decisions about care, and supporting your family along the way.

In palliative care you have a team—doctors, nurses, counselors, social workers, rehabilitation specialists, chaplains—all focused on making each day more comfortable and meaningful. You don’t have to be at the very end of life to benefit from it, but rather it is meant to be started at the time of diagnosis. At its heart, palliative care is centered around each unique individual.

And because of that, my job looks different every day. Kylah is a little girl I met the day she was born. She had seizures after a complicated delivery, and those first days were terrifying for her family as we weren’t sure she would survive. My role wasn’t just medical; it was helping her family navigate fear and uncertainty.

Although she survived, she was left with cerebral palsy and complete hearing loss and I have followed her in my clinic ever since, prescribing medications to help her muscles, therapies, caregiver training, and finding financial support for the medical supplies she needs, but insurance does not cover. And with each step on her journey, we have celebrated—four weeks ago, we celebrated her 5th Birthday in clinic, and then 2 weeks later got to celebrate her taking her very first steps on her own. Moments like that remind me why palliative care is so meaningful—everyone’s journey is different.

And palliative care isn’t just for children. This is my patient, Jeff, who is also one of my physician colleagues. Jeff was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer last year. His disease is incurable, and his knowledge about medicine is more than most, so our focus looks different, but the goal is the same: how do we maximize his quality of life.

We help with pain and nausea through medication and acupuncture, use physical therapy to help him maintain the ability to walk for as long as possible, and even do travel planning to ensure all his medical needs are met even while away—as a devout Catholic he’s been able to go on pilgrimages to Medjugorje, Fatima, and don’t forget his own version of a pilgrimage—a guys’ weekend poker trip to Las Vegas. We also help him with practical matters, like making a plan for who will care for his four dogs after his passing.

Ultimately, palliative care is about helping people live fully despite illness. It might be checking off a bucket list item, finding ways to spend meaningful time with family, addressing changes like hair loss or scars, giving space or saying prayers. But whether it’s helping Kylah take her first steps, Jeff travel the world, or just holding a hand when it is most needed, palliative care walks alongside patients and families, supporting them in whatever unique needs they have.

Despite the beauty that I see in this, whenever I tell people what I do, the first reaction is often, “Oh, that’s so sad—how do you do that?” My answer is… yes, it can be sad, but most days it is so happy. It is incredibly rewarding to be able to use my gifts to make someone’s day just a little bit easier during some of the hardest moments of their lives. And if I truly think about “how” I do this, well it isn’t necessarily the medical training I received, but rather the foundation and values that I learned at St. Albert.

I could tell a hundred stories that demonstrate just how true this is…but I decided to limit it to just two.

I think back to when as a freshman at the state track meet, I was part of an undefeated 4x200 relay team. We came into state with the top ranking, but in the prelims, we dropped the baton and did not qualify for the finals. As a competitor, I was frustrated—not because of my teammates’ mistake, but because they didn’t seem to realize that the story wasn’t over yet—we still had another race to run.

My coach reminded me that even as a freshman running with seniors, I could still inspire others to finish strong. We placed third that day in the race that we were ranked 12th. And I learned something I carry with me in medicine and life: that even when you don’t or can’t win the race, there is always something on the road ahead worth running toward, and it’s now my job to help people see that.

Then there was Mrs. Jones, who in 5th grade greeted us with hugs every morning. At first, like most 10 year olds who think they are too cool for school, I thought it was a little weird. But, in my training I have reviewed countless studies that have shown the deep value of human connection and touch. So now, I’ve copied Mrs. Jones and every patient, family member or friend—even the cranky or the smelly ones—get a hug when they come to my clinic. It is amazing to see how often this is mentioned in our patient satisfaction surveys as one of the most meaningful parts of the care they receive.

These lessons and more shaped me, guided me, and using them in my work has led to recognition I never expected or aimed for.

Even with all the recognition, the experiences, and with everything I thought I had given to help others, life has a way of testing you.

This is my nephew and godson, Levi—and he is also the most important patient I have ever had. Levi was full of cuddles, energy, laughs, and love. Then at just three years old, he was diagnosed with brain cancer, and all of our lives changed.

Levi endured six brain surgeries, dozens of rounds of chemotherapy, a stem cell transplant, craniospinal radiation, months in the hospital… and yet, he still smiled. He still wanted to play downstairs, even though he could no longer walk the stairs himself. He had to relearn how to hold up his own head, to sit, and eventually to scoot. He read stories to us, and he reminded us to notice the blue sky and the flowers—things only a child who had spent three months inside a hospital could truly appreciate upon seeing the outdoors again.

And in the end, when there was no cure to be found and time was short, we were able to take Levi home, to surround him with love until his very last breath, the same way we had at his very first.

Just a week before his death, though, I found myself shaken to my core. All of my family was gathered at my sister’s house with Levi, when I received a phone call from my husband. Time seemed to stand still as I listened: his father—his absolute best friend—had died unexpectedly from a heart attack.

In that moment, looking around the room at my family and at my godson, I realized that every single person in my life was hurting, and that no amount of skill, effort, or training could fix it. And my husband—who for thirteen months never once complained that I spent the majority of my time away from him to be present with my family—was now hurting too.

In the days, weeks, and months after Levi’s death, people often said to me, “At least you were trained for this.” But they were wrong. Training does not prepare you to lose a child you love. Despite walking with countless families through their pain, I felt I had let down everyone in my own. And nothing prepares you for that kind of loss.

There was so much I didn’t understand. I was fighting battles with questions in my mind that seemed to never end. I felt like I was drowning silently with every single beat of my heart. The emptiness and loneliness weighed heavier than anyone can imagine.

I went back to work just two days after Levi’s funeral—because after all, according to workplace policy, your grief cannot be that deep when you are “just an aunt” or “just a daughter in law”. So I went back, I did the work, but only in a technical sense. Because inside, I was unraveling. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t find confidence. I couldn’t fight for the purpose I had always known. I was simply going through the motions, day after day.

And that continued, for much longer than I’d like to admit—until one night at a hockey game, when I looked down and saw a small, crumpled handful of popcorn on our fundraising table.

That little boy will never know what his gift meant. He didn’t have much. But he gave what he had. And in God’s hands, it was enough.

It was enough to remind me of the part of the lesson/scripture I had been missing. God had been present all along—present in every victory and every loss, in every prayer, in every friendship, in every classroom, at the bedside with all of my patients and far beyond.

I hadn’t lost my purpose and I still had something to give, even if it felt like less than before. I only needed to let God work through me—to hold what I could not, and to remind me that I was never walking alone. Catholic education gave me the eyes to see that, the courage to believe it, and the strength to start living it again.

As I stand here tonight, I know I have been given much—family, friends, education, my work, and the faith that was built through my time at St. Albert. And yes, I have been asked to give much in return. But that is not a burden. It is a blessing. Because the truth is, God doesn’t measure the size of our gift. He measures the size of our love.

As Catholic educators, you too walk with families through joys and heartbreak. You accompany students as they face uncertainty, discovery, and loss. Your vocation is not just to instruct in math and science, but to stand beside them—to help them carry what is heavy, to remind them they are never alone, and to anchor them in the truth that their lives have meaning no matter what challenges they face. My prayer for all of us is that we never grow weary of giving—our time, our talents, our love, and our faith—because the world is hungry for it. And even if sometimes all we have to offer is a handful of popcorn, sometimes, that is enough to change a life.