![Caleb Matthews, MD](/sites/default/files/styles/medium/public/2023-04/matthews-caleb.jpg?itok=nK585hhc)
I had grand plans when I first started to write this piece. I have a draft of this article which discusses what makes a great surgeon, another which goes over ways to incorporate health and fitness into our busy lives as trainees, and still another that calls upon all of us to take a greater role in creating a more sustainable health care system. All of this was until I learned that we had lost one of our own, a fellow trainee.
Caleb Matthews was, for just a brief time, a co-resident of mine in the I6 program at Indiana University. It was a brief time because he joined the program as an intern just when I was stepping away from my clinical training for my research years.
I only got to see him once before leaving Indianapolis, at a going away party for our graduating fellows. My immediate reaction was that he was confident, good looking, and energetic. In the few days that he had spent in town, he had built a squat rack in his garage so he could lift weights, he set up to join me on a run of my favorite loop around the city, and he was asking everyone about how they were studying for the in-service training exam that was 7 months away.
After that first encounter, Caleb and I were in touch sporadically via text. He would ask about a marathon training plan or what resource I was using to study for the in-service. I heard from more senior residents in the program that he was excelling. It was shocking then, when I learned that Caleb had to step away from clinical training after being diagnosed with what was initially called small cell lung cancer and then atypical carcinoid. He came to New York for surgery.
I saw him a few weeks after his procedure. It had not been a smooth postoperative course, but I wouldn’t have guessed it based on the ever-present smile on his face. I took him for a walk through the city and around Central Park. In hindsight, I can’t help but think that I overtaxed him, but he never once complained or displayed any discomfort.
He talked about his plans for getting back to running and to residency. There wasn’t a hint of illness around him, he was all positive thoughts. We parted ways and I kept up with Caleb mostly peripherally after that, through social media posts and the like. He was visiting family and friends. He was finding new ways to exercise and diet to fight his cancer. He was dealing with metastases to his brain and shoulder. He had written of his experience as a surgical trainee turned surgical patient [1,2].
He passed away on November 11, 2022. At the time of his diagnosis, he had been told he had a year to live. He had lived for an extra three and half.
I learned of Caleb’s passing at almost the same time that I learned of the passing of Dr. Sean Grondin. They were similar in that they were both sudden and tragic. They were different because I learned of Dr. Grondin’s death through a series of societal announcements which glowingly and deservedly described his legacy, whereas I learned of Caleb’s passing from a comment left on an Instagram story.
I barely knew Caleb, so it is certainly not my place to eulogize him. Yet I do know that he deserves to be remembered, mourned, and celebrated. Caleb, just like all of us, was drawn to this mountain with no true summit, and through no fault of his own his ascent ended prematurely. He, just like all of us, dedicated himself to his training, but he was not defined by his degrees or PGY level.
Sadly too, Caleb’s story is not entirely unique. Certainly many of those reading this know someone who succumbed to illness before they could reach their own promised land and to them I send my deepest condolences. Although I do not know their stories, I do know that they too deserve to be remembered, mourned, and celebrated. While these friends were lost too soon, they still impart some of the most long-standing lessons.
Through Caleb’s words and example, I have been reminded of the immense privilege and luck that I have known on my path toward a surgical career. There is no question that the path is grueling, it demands sacrifice of the body, mind and spirit. Caleb’s journey reminds me that while I may stand at the operating room table keenly aware of my own sacrifice, it is the patient who faces the more difficult journey, and it is the surgeon’s immense privilege and responsibility to help them on their way. Caleb lived on both sides of this relationship and so no one can make this point more apparent than he. I will leave the reader with Caleb’s parting words, rather than my own, as a reminder of that privilege and of the power of hope:
“Despite the looming uncertainty of tomorrow, my hope is to have the honor and privilege to return to training to pay forward to what you, the cardiothoracic surgery community, has bestowed on me in regard to care as a patient and fulfillment as a training physician. I can say with complete confidence that my heart is truly full. Although managing stress as a surgical resident itself may be an act in futility, I aim to at least maintain that state of realistic hopefulness and peaceful awareness for myself and in my approach to [my patients]1”
References
- Matthews CR, Hess PJ. Thirty-three, zero, nine. J Thorac Cardiovasc Surg. 2020 Sep;160(3):871-875. doi: 10.1016/j.jtcvs.2020.01.092. Epub 2020 Mar 30. PMID: 32241610.
- Matthews CR. Case Study: Me. Self-published. October 10, 2020.