No words

I know that this news is out there now, so I don't think I am out of line for sharing a few brief thoughts about a dear friend, colleague, and mentor, Hector Wong, who died unexpectedly over the weekend.  To say that the news of Hector's death was unexpected and shocking is a vast understatement.  His loss has been felt by many.  To say that his impact on the care of critically ill children and the field of pediatric critical care medicine will be felt for decades is an even greater understatement.  He was one among those very rare quadruple threats - a superb clinician-scientist, a compassionate and gifted physician, an incredible teacher, and a great mentor.

I've had a few brief moments to pause from my work today to think about what Hector meant to me personally.  Simply put, I would not be where I am today without him.  I took a fairly non-traditional path and spent three years as a general pediatrician in the Navy following residency.  I always knew that I wanted to go on to either a neonatology or critical care medicine fellowship.  For a variety of reasons, I ended up selecting pediatric critical care medicine and was fortunate to be chosen to be a fellow at Cincinnati Children's.  Hector was the Director of the Division of Critical Care Medicine at the time, and I considered myself lucky to join his research laboratory.  I learned a lot from him those first several months of fellowship training, both in the laboratory and at the bedside.  

There were times when I questioned whether I was the right kind of person to be a pediatric intensivist (we didn't call it imposter syndrome back then, but I had it for sure).  Hector was always there to advocate, motivate, inspire, and support.  I ended up finishing fellowship training, and I left a better physician and human being because of Hector.  He eventually recruited me back to Cincinnati, where I joined the great Division of Critical Care Medicine that he built.  I spent the next 16 years in Cincinnati, growing as a physician and leader under his mentorship.  No matter what I was doing or where I was, there was always something that I could learn from talking with Hector.  I remember the day that I told him I was leaving Cincinnati Children's, and he couldn't have been more happy for me and more proud of what I had accomplished.

I've read many of the social media posts that responded to the announcement of his untimely passing.  I can't tell you how many times someone said, "I wouldn't be where I am today without Hector" or "I will remember how Hector bent over backwards to help me with my research" (even if that individual was from another division or even a different institution entirely).  His advice was free, but its value was priceless.  

One of my former colleagues from Cincinnati texted me earlier today.  When I asked him how he was doing, he told me that he was "holding the fort down and taking care of patients, which is exactly what Hector would have wanted us to be doing."  Indeed.  

There are no words to describe what an impact Hector has had on me and so many others.  There are no words to describe what an incredible loss our pediatric critical care community has experienced today.  I know that Hector would have wanted us to carry his work forward.  He would have been extremely uncomfortable with all of the accolades and memories shared about him today.  So, I will honor his memory in the best way I know how - the only way he would have wanted - "holding the fort down and working hard to take care of patients."