Yesterday a fellow medical student passed away unexpectedly.  Unexpectedly is a funny way to put it.  No one “expects” to die, yet we all know that death is inevitable.  Happy twenty-something year old medical students don’t die in weird accidents.  Only, sometimes, they do.

I remember the little time I shared with him: our days in the anatomy lab, during which he would sing cheesy old pop songs (which were bound to be stuck in my head for days), massaged my back while I dissected, and listened to the endlessly inane stories I had.  He was always there with his big smile and infinite patience: I don’t remember him ever complaining about the long hours we spent in the stuffy, smelly anatomy lab.  He was always on time.  He was always helpful.  He was always cheerful.  The one time he didn’t show up for lab, he sent me a long text explaining how he hadn’t left the toilet in the past 6 hours.  Even in his absence he could make me laugh.

It’s hard to talk about him in the past tense.  It seems wrong that I am, because in my head, he’s not gone.

A.M., you will be missed, but your warm smile and the happiness you spread during your life live on in those you touched during your short life.

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