I tried to talk him out of it. We had navigated through four years of dual studenting (medical school and a BSN), three years of internal medicine residency, and the fourth year as chief resident was finally winding down. Despite the dismal statistics of couples on this path, our happy marriage had survived. We had started a family. Normal life was ringing the doorbell and all we had to do was welcome it inside. Options were presenting themselves. It warmed our hearts to be courted and wooed by internal medicine practices.

And then one evening over dinner, he started a serious conversation: “I’ve been thinking about applying for a medical oncology fellowship. It would mean two or three more years of training somewhere. I almost feel like I am called to do this.” Being the supportive spouse that I am, my reaction was an incredulous, “who would ever chose cancer treatment as their profession?! What a most difficult and sad career that would be.” He defended his statement by saying oncology would captivate his interest because he saw there was so much cutting edge research and new treatment possibilities on the horizon. How exciting to be a part of that in the decades ahead. And he has always had such heartfelt compassion for the sick and hurting; who would need that quality more than cancer patients?!

He went alone to Birmingham to interview at UAB for a position in their oncology/hematology program. I assumed it would never materialize, that he was just working through the mental adjustment to real life after being a student for twelve years. Don’t get me wrong: coming from a strict mennonite subculture where education was not promoted or valued, my college degree meant the world to me. A love of education was one of the initial qualities that attracted us to each other. I loved his thirst for knowledge and his desire to be an eternal student. That is, until I’d had enough of nomadic student life and longed for stability and normalcy.

He was accepted into the program and we moved to Birmingham so he could become an oncologist. We did visit a marriage counselor before we decided; we were both willing to adjust our thoughts and plans for the sake of marital harmony. Our relationship was too important to allow seeds of resentment to be planted that would need harvesting years down the road. On a side note, despite being raised in a traditional, patriarchal setting, where men were in charge of the major family decisions and women submitted, he has always valued my opinion as much as his own. And to all his patients that I have met over the years, who lean in and whisper, “do you know how wonderful he is?!”, my answer is “yes, I do. I’ve lived with him for four decades.”

Thirty years later, he has taken off his white coat and hung up his stethoscope. It has been a most difficult decision for this oncologist to make. I wish you could read the heartfelt mountain of cards and letters from his patients and from family members of former patients. The outpouring of emotion has been too much to absorb. In the three months since his retirement was announced, it has been a challenge for staff members to schedule persistent patients who must see him one last time to tell him “good bye.”

Having never personally needed to have a professional relationship with an oncologist, I‘ve tried to imagine the unique bond that patients must feel. The dreaded “C” word strikes terror in the heart. Heart disease actually has a higher mortality, but does not have the same emotional baggage as cancer. Thanks to advances in therapies and early diagnoses, so many people survive and thrive and can actually say they are cured! Larry has patients who are still cancer free twenty-five years after diagnosis and treatment. Learning to live with the knowledge that abnormal cells have run amuck in your body must be a whole mental paradigm shift. As my doc often says, “we are all on the same path; some of us are just more aware of that than others.”

Several weeks ago I was talking to one of his patients. She is years out from diagnosis and thankfully is back to normal life. Her eyes welled with tears as she said, “you know he is the best. When you are there in his office, he sees you first as a person. The disease comes second.” I’ve always said that my doc husband is the kindest man I have ever met. He feels deeply and empathizes; he is not afraid to give a hug, shed a tear, or share a prayer with a patient. People feel cared for and hopeful, even when the odds might not be stacked in their favor. What a beautiful gift he has given to so many, by sharing his compassionate, kind heart. Sometimes the fragrance of God has lingered on his coat.

Despite all the positive outcomes, it is the relapses that gnawed at this oncologist. The emotional weight of telling one person that their cancer has returned would do me in for a month. On a bad day at the office, there might be four or five such conversations with different patients. How to be realistic, but still hopeful? When is it time to call in Hospice for end of life care? How to provide support for a patient and family during those last difficult days? And how to preserve enough of a professional boundary so that you, as the provider, are not emotionally ransacked?

A caring oncologist carries others’ sorrows on their own shoulders. From years of exposure, they often see the reality of situations, when “not knowing” would be far more comfortable. Ten years ago, I was standing beside him when the gastroenterologist called with the news of my father-in-law’s diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. In that moment, he was more grief stricken than in all the rest of the months until his father’s death. He told me later that in his mind, he saw the rest of his dad’s life played out, with an astonishing degree of accuracy. How heavy that knowledge must be! Patients often ask for a number; how long do they have to live? Larry tells them they can look that statistic up for themselves, but that will not be his focus. I’ve heard him say many times that one should never take hope away from someone. To have that mindset and yet be practically realistic is a tightrope that he has balanced in a beautiful way.

Thankfully I didn’t talk him out of his career choice all those years ago. To watch him use his God given skills to bring hope and comfort to so many, makes me a very proud wife. And now his white coat is on the hanger. I don’t think he’s really retired, as in, never-work-again. He’s too young and productive for that. There just weren’t good options for easing back as a full time oncologist. It was like drinking from a fire hydrant up until the very last day at the office. I know how much he will miss so many of you that he has met and cared for on this journey.!Your trust in him has been a sacred privilege.

For those of us gifted by God with growing old, life’s great certainty is change. My doc and I plan to embrace this new season as we have the others in our life together: by wringing all the joy we can find in this day and savoring life’s sweetness. As an oncologist is most assuredly mindful of, none of us is promised tomorrow. Our life here is but a shadow of that new world where all the velveteen rabbits will be real.