“Hi, this is Maria returning a page,” I said.

“Hi. One of your former professors is here,” she said.

“Really?” I said, perplexed. Former professor?

“Hang on,” she said before I could ask for the identity of this former professor. I’ve had a lot of former professors. And most former professors don’t wander into the business office to page me. “I’m going to hand the phone to him.”

I waited, listening to the shuffling noises as the phone passed from hand to hand.

“Maria. Edward Mentor here,” the male voice said formally.

“Dr. Mentor!” I blurted enthusiastically. I smiled brightly, though he could not see it. “How are you?”

Dr. Mentor is the fellow who was arguably the greatest influence in my decision to pursue a career in psychiatry. He was my attending physician during my psychiatry clerkship as a third-year medical student. At that time, I was certain that my future was in internal medicine. I had yet to go through my internal medicine rotation, though I was already anticipating a career as an oncologist or an infectious disease physician. I had the good fortune of working with Dr. Mentor on the consult-liaison psychiatry service. Though admittedly a bit odd (bow ties, suspenders, formal greetings, the absence of contractions in his speech, the regular use of words like “grand” and “erudite”, and brevity that suggested aloofness), Dr. Mentor was a fantastic teacher, effective with patients, clearly intelligent, and inspiring. He noted my curiosity and tolerated the many questions I had for him about psychiatry. He ultimately became my mentor and, though he put forth great effort to persuade me to enter psychiatry, he helped me to assess what I liked in medicine and identify my strengths.

“I am well; how are you?” Dr. Mentor replied. He still sounded as serious as ever.

“I’m great! It’s so nice to hear from you. What brings you to Seattle?” I asked. Dr. Mentor and I met in California.

He provided a terse explanation for his visit, then suggested that we meet up to chat following his business.

“Of course,” I replied. I hadn’t seen him in four years. It was only a few months ago that I had written several personal statements for my consult-liaison fellowship applications about his role in my decision to enter psychiatry. Those who interviewed me asked about him and I effusively spoke of my experiences working with him. And, unexpectedly, now he was in Seattle.

He looked older and he wasn’t dressed as I remember him (i.e. in a crisp, pastel dress shirt, conservatively-patterned necktie, suspenders, pleated slacks, with glasses perched on his aquiline nose—and, really, “aquiline” is accurate). An umbrella was slung across his shoulder.

“Hello!” I said, smiling brightly. We both approached each other and that awkward moment of “do we hug each other?” presented itself. Neither one of us embraced the opportunity. We instead looked at each other, grinning.

He suggested a stroll outside. Our footfalls naturally fell into a synchronized cadence. He asked me about my future plans (”New York? What a grand opportunity!”), my ideas for the future (”I don’t know what I’ll do after fellowship; it makes me anxious to think about it, so I avoid it.”), and my opinions about my training (”I’ve enjoyed it.”). I asked him about his work (”I am engaged in more academic duties now.”), his reflections about his current position (”Yes, I do believe that I am doing what I had anticipated, though I do not perform as many clinical duties.”), and my colleagues who are still in California (”Yes, I see her occasionally. She seems to be doing well.”).

He naturally fell into his role as a mentor again. “I anticipate that you will enjoy your time in New York immensely,” he opined. “You will do well. You may find that people on the East Coast are more brusque in their interactions with each other, though do not interpret that behavior as rudeness. It is merely more competitive there and people tend to communicate in a more direct fashion.”

I smiled. He had spent much of his life in New England and spoke from experience.

“You will grow accustomed to that quickly, though you may find such behaviors noteworthy during your first month there.”

We did not complete a loop around the medical center. Our conversation never delved deeper than academic topics. He did not rebuff the gratitude that I expressed to him, though that interaction was like the embrace that never happened: The sentiment was present, though he did not not explicitly acknowledge it.

“Do stay in touch,” he said before we parted ways. “Send me a note after you are settled in New York. I look forward to hearing about your experiences there.”

“I will. Thank you,” I said. He leaned stiffly forward and waved good-bye.

“Good-bye, Dr. Mentor,” I said, waving. He smiled. Even his smiles are serious.

It was windy in Seattle today, a brisk wind that agitated the hem of my coat, sending it flying around my legs. I pushed my hands further into my pockets.

I remembered that I am connected, that I would not be who I am today without the influence of Dr. Mentor, that I continue to pass along the lessons I have learned from him and others onto colleagues and medical students. Though the links of knowledge and wisdom are invisible, they make tangible the interdependence and relationships that we so often overlook.