Although I have not been a regular contributor, this blog has
been an amazing insightful experience to be part of. Like many others, I was not really sure what would be created
when Sarah first told me about it, but it has been a really meaningful part of
my day. It has helped me heal, let my
anger at Sarah, Lucas & Emily's loss fade and instead replaced it with
appreciation of the lessons that Mike has left behind. My contribution is late
but since everyone has shared so much I really wanted to add something.
I knew Mike in many ways over the years, first as one of my husband's friends and physiology lab partners, then as a medical student and eventually as a co-anesthesia then cardiology resident and as a new dad. As this blog attests, it was always tricky combining so much work with a life outside of medicine but Mike knew that this was what needed to happen more than most. I remember vividly his happiness at marrying Sarah and then his joy at becoming a Dad. My last memory of Mike was when we visited on his new front porch, we joked about his puffy face and puffy spring face and he accepted the nickname 'Puff Daddy'. On that day he had no problems finding his words, he was looking forward to the summer and seeing his beloved Sarah and the kids playing in the yard, even though he was frustrated that he couldn't be more involved. None of us really know what the future holds for us and Mike has provided us with an example of how to really live by your priorities and savour each day. Personally it reminds me to strive to cherish my time.
I think of Mike often, in fact at work, I still somehow expect to see him at times, when called urgently to the cath lab it was always nice to see a familiar friendly face. Being in Kingston, I have glanced up to see someone who resembled him and started to wave happily before realizing that it couldn't be him after all. At first, I was afraid to talk about Mike with Sarah, afraid that I would 'upset' her if I brought up memories. The 'open door' analogy was so helpful to me!
I think about Mike sometimes when things are tough at work, when I am tired, grumpy, haven't been home in ages and have to work all weekend. I think about how much he wanted to be a doctor, how much he gave of himself to get there, how proud he was to care for patients, and that even when he knew that time was so precious he carried on so bravely. I remember that part of my initial anger was that it was so unfair, he had put in so many years of hard medical training and yet never was able to reap the rewards. Remembering Mike in this way makes me quite humble, and reminds me that it is a privilege to be able to help others.
I also see Mike in some of my patients, particularly in a young mom with a similar diagnosis. I took very good care of her but tears streamed down my face after she was safely asleep and I wondered what she looked like before the steroids had made her so moon-faced. The surgical team and medical student were clinically distant, likely the learned coping mechanisms that we all regularily employ but I reminded them that this was a person losing her fight to live and to see her children grow up. I have always been empathetic to my patients but rarely have felt so moved or responsible to turn this into advocacy on their behalf.
I kiss my kids every night before I go to sleep and I think of little Callum, his life has made me a more patient and a more loving mom. Knowing Mike has also changed me, it has made me a more appreciative person, a better doctor and a better friend.
Jess
I knew Mike in many ways over the years, first as one of my husband's friends and physiology lab partners, then as a medical student and eventually as a co-anesthesia then cardiology resident and as a new dad. As this blog attests, it was always tricky combining so much work with a life outside of medicine but Mike knew that this was what needed to happen more than most. I remember vividly his happiness at marrying Sarah and then his joy at becoming a Dad. My last memory of Mike was when we visited on his new front porch, we joked about his puffy face and puffy spring face and he accepted the nickname 'Puff Daddy'. On that day he had no problems finding his words, he was looking forward to the summer and seeing his beloved Sarah and the kids playing in the yard, even though he was frustrated that he couldn't be more involved. None of us really know what the future holds for us and Mike has provided us with an example of how to really live by your priorities and savour each day. Personally it reminds me to strive to cherish my time.
I think of Mike often, in fact at work, I still somehow expect to see him at times, when called urgently to the cath lab it was always nice to see a familiar friendly face. Being in Kingston, I have glanced up to see someone who resembled him and started to wave happily before realizing that it couldn't be him after all. At first, I was afraid to talk about Mike with Sarah, afraid that I would 'upset' her if I brought up memories. The 'open door' analogy was so helpful to me!
I think about Mike sometimes when things are tough at work, when I am tired, grumpy, haven't been home in ages and have to work all weekend. I think about how much he wanted to be a doctor, how much he gave of himself to get there, how proud he was to care for patients, and that even when he knew that time was so precious he carried on so bravely. I remember that part of my initial anger was that it was so unfair, he had put in so many years of hard medical training and yet never was able to reap the rewards. Remembering Mike in this way makes me quite humble, and reminds me that it is a privilege to be able to help others.
I also see Mike in some of my patients, particularly in a young mom with a similar diagnosis. I took very good care of her but tears streamed down my face after she was safely asleep and I wondered what she looked like before the steroids had made her so moon-faced. The surgical team and medical student were clinically distant, likely the learned coping mechanisms that we all regularily employ but I reminded them that this was a person losing her fight to live and to see her children grow up. I have always been empathetic to my patients but rarely have felt so moved or responsible to turn this into advocacy on their behalf.
I kiss my kids every night before I go to sleep and I think of little Callum, his life has made me a more patient and a more loving mom. Knowing Mike has also changed me, it has made me a more appreciative person, a better doctor and a better friend.
Jess
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