The Death of a Clinician-Educator

I sat quietly in the auditorium as my colleague clipped a microphone to the lapel of his white lab coat. He would be the speaker for grand rounds that day, and I looked forward to hearing his lecture. He did not look particularly nervous, although I noticed a fine tremor in his hands while he tested the laser pointer. As a junior faculty member, I know that tremor well. It only gets coarser as the audience grows, but then it regresses as each slide goes by.

He was clearly well prepared for this talk, and he left no stone unturned. As the session drew to a close, I made brief eye contact with him and smiled. He returned the gesture with a subtle narrowing of his right eye that didn't quite qualify as a wink. He answered the questions from interns, medical residents, students, and faculty. Next came the well-deserved applause, albeit brief, followed by the scattering of hurried white coats.

I grabbed my bag and prepared to walk out of the hall. When I reached the top of the steps, I glanced back at the podium. A small group had gathered around my colleague, some with queries, others just socializing. His fleeting glance upward gave me a chance to deliver accolades to my friend. One hand raised, I mouthed the words, “Great job.” Again the semiwink, this time accompanied by a nod.

I pulled my lab coat closed and headed outside toward the medical clinic. Cold air whipped around my face and neck as I briskly strode across …