I didn’t open the envelope immediately because I noted that the medical school was the sender.

(Medical schools start soliciting alumni for money when alumni are still residents—and I am certainly not independently wealthy enough to start engaging in that level of philanthropy.)

When I finally sliced the envelope open, I was surprised to see that it was from a surgeon. He has a distinctive, memorable name that accurately reflects his warm character.

My surprise blossomed further when I saw that the letter was addressed specifically to me (versus “alumni” or “graduate”) and was signed with a fresh signature (versus a pre-printed signature).

It is uncommon for anyone to receive a personally signed letter these days, whether from surgeons or not.

I gasped audibly when I read the letter:

Many of you have undoubtedly already heard of the recent death of [Popular Surgery Attending]….

Actually, no, I hadn’t heard about his death.

Popular Surgery Attending was my attending for one week. It was my first month as a third-year medical student and surgery was my first rotation.

I was terrified.

Popular Surgery Attending didn’t smile much and he was reticent, but he was relatively young, handsome, and, my, he was clearly devoted to teaching. Here we were, completely naive medical students quivering in the month of July, and Popular Surgery Attending got straight to work. Though he could probably discuss the basics of hemodynamics in his sleep, he delivered his patter with serious enthusiasm. He instilled just enough fear to command respect, but consistently demonstrated affability so we felt comfortable enough to ask our novice questions. He didn’t yell at anyone in the operating room; he didn’t throw things; he didn’t condescend to any staff or students. His focus was entirely on the task at hand and, when appropriate, he would invite and welcome the curiosity of the students and residents.

The surgery residents loved him. They called him “sir” because they wanted to, not because he asked them to. Privately, they fondly addressed him by his nickname, which was the first syllable of his multi-syllabic last name, preceded by “The”.

I’m currently in that stage of life that is marked with generativity. Friends are getting married and starting families. Peers are embarking upon or settling into careers. I’m not sure that we’re exactly in our “prime” (we’re not supposed to recognize that until it has passed, right?), but we are all active. We have the good fortune of standing in the salad dressing aisle of the grocery and experience the overwhelm associated with staring at the eight kajillion types of salad dressing before us.

We have many options.

Those people who have helped us get to this stage in our lives shouldn’t be dying. They shouldn’t already be dead.

There will come a time when I shall be attending more funerals than weddings, when I shall be thinking more about the past than musing about the future. It’s so easy to be anywhere but right here, right now, though, in truth, right here, right now, is all we actually have.

And those moments can pass so quickly, sometimes without our acknowledgment.

Only when I am sufficiently tired am I able to clear my head enough to realize that my time here is finite. My thoughts are indulgent: What do I want to accomplish with the time I have? What’s the best way for me to fill this finite resource? Those are such luxurious questions; many (if not most) people don’t have the time to wonder about such things. They’re too busy trying to get everything done, all of those obligations that may not be theirs.

It is challenging for most of us, while alive, to rest in peace.