Sir Mike

… The promise of closure fleeing what remains
Of this extravagant, fatal, blinking life.
— Maya C. Popa, Fireflies


We all felt the same thing when we heard the news: first the blow, unexpected and jolting, then the sorrow. Sir Mike’s passing was announced in our gadgets as a brief note interrupting the otherwise uneventful chats about birthdays and the upcoming annual convention this October. The message was clear and somber: Sir Mike, our dear mentor and big brother in medical oncology, has died. He was in his forties.


I confirmed the news with batch mates and friends, and they confirmed the news with me: is this true? His passing remains difficult to believe—and harder still to understand. He was perfectly fit, was in great spirits, had a good support community. Nobody that night had real answers, merely clues that would be confirmed by a poster asking for prayers and an announcement of a funeral mass. The background was white. The JPEG showed a photo of Sir Mike smiling. He had a mischievous grin. I remember that he had a funny sense of humor, laughing at and with us, more like a big brother than a stern consultant. But he could be dead serious when he dissected cases, and always earnest and kind when he shared his experience as an early-career medical oncologist. Beside his photo were the dates of his birth and death— bookends to a life well-lived.


Writing about Sir Mike in the past tense is painful because it feels . . . wrong. Gone too soon, leaving this mortal coil prematurely. Why do the good people leave us behind? We are all in shock and in grief.


The best we can do for our departed loves ones is to keep them alive in our memories by speaking and writing about them. It’s my great honor to have been taught and mentored by a great man whose legacy—his compassionate care for his patients, his kindness, humility, and faith—will last many lifetimes.