A few were angry. Unbeknownst to me, my hospital, ever efficient, had sent out a letter informing patients of my departure and offering the option to choose any one of eight other doctors who could assume their care — even before I had a chance to tell some of them in person. How were they expected to choose, and why hadn’t I told them I was leaving, they demanded indignantly.
I felt the same way as my patients, and quickly sent out my own follow-up letter offering to select a specialist for their specific types of cancer, and telling my patients I would miss them.
I then spent weeks apologizing, in person, for the first letter.
And though I always tell my patients the best gift I could ever hope for is their good health, many brought presents or cards.
One man in his 60s had just received another round of chemotherapy for a leukemia that kept coming back. I think we both knew that the next time the leukemia returned, it would be here to stay. When I entered his examination room, he greeted me where my other patient had left off.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”
Before I could even take a seat, he handed me a plain brown bag with some white tissue paper poking out of the top and urged me to remove its contents.
Inside was a drawing of the steel truss arches of Cleveland’s I-90 Innerbelt bridge, with the city skyline rising above it.
“It’s beautiful,” I told him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You can hang this on your office wall in Miami,” he suggested, starting to cry. “So you’ll always remember Cleveland.” And then, Covid-19 precautions be damned, he walked over and gave me a huge bear hug. After a few seconds we separated.
“No,” I said, tearing up. “I’ll hang up the picture and always remember you.”
Mikkael Sekeres (@mikkaelsekeres), formerly the director of the leukemia program at the Cleveland Clinic, is the chief of the Division of Hematology, Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center at the University of Miami Miller School of Medicine and author of “When Blood Breaks Down: Life Lessons From Leukemia.”
