suit of armor but by the constant practice of virtues such as courage, honor, and fidelity, until they become integrated into one's identity.

Those virtues were tested during the last two years of Rad's life. His whole body grew gradually more frail as intermittent bladder infections took their toll. Yet his inner equilibrium never wavered. One morning, not long before his death, we were sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast. I mentioned my astonishment that he did not seem to have a shred of negativity in his makeup, nor did he have any need for self-aggrandizement. "How can you never be in a bad mood?" I asked.

"Well," he smiled, "you never can tell when I might start."

Poverty of spirit is one of those virtues which, if you think you possess it, you can be certain you don't. As everyone who knew him would agree, humility was an intrinsic part of Rad's nature. On the evening that I met him at Nardi and Tom Campion's house, I remember asking him about ear reconstruction because I remembered, as a volunteer in the Mary Hitchcock Hospital pediatrics ward during the 1960s, being able to tell at a glance which young patients were his: their head bandages looked like soft white football helmets.

But I knew nothing about the complexity of the operation. Nor did I realize that he had been the first doctor anywhere to devise an effective method to construct an outer ear for a child who had been born without one. No one would have guessed from the modest account he gave us that night that his contributions to the field of reconstructive surgery had been seminal and that he was a figure of international renown.

The next day, Dr. Diane Palac came to Rad's room in her palliativecare capacity. She sat down next to his bed. "Rad," she said gently, "I do believe death is drawing near." He opened his eyes wide as if to confirm that what he had just been told was true. Their eyes met, and it was clear Rad understood that he was dying.

Dr. Rocco Addante, who joined the DMS surgery department shortly before Rad's retirement, once wrote him a letter recalling an exhibit at the old hospital that explained various surgical techniques: "I saw you coming down the hallway, but my attention was diverted and the next thing I knew one of the new plastics OR nurses noticed you looking at the posters and proceeded to 'explain' to you the different steps involved in ear reconstruction. You were dressed in street clothes, listening attentively, never making her look foolish or uninformed. As you went on to the next surgical service, I walked up to her and said, 'Do you know who that man is?' 'No,' she replied, 'but he was very pleasant.' She was shocked to learn that the humble man she was talking to was the one who pioneered the technique that she was describing. True story, and one of my most memorable. I can still recall your peaceful demeanor studying that poster. A tribute to you, Rad: humility and intelligence—a rare combination to find."

The morning that Rad went by ambulance to DHMC we were both calm. Other bouts of acute cystitis and kidney failure had brought us to the emergency room, and he had always returned home, a little less strong but still in possession of his usual good humor. This trip was in early June of 2003—three days after the eighth wedding anniversary party that friends had thrown for us in our own living room. Rad had sat

in his wing chair with a blanket over his legs, chatting and laughing.

In the hospital, his infection responded to antibiotics and his internist, Dr. Ed Merrens, said it was likely Rad could be discharged in a few days. Then, on the evening of June 8, Rad developed acute shortness of breath. X-rays and an ultrasound the next day revealed bilateral pulmonary embolisms as well as clots in both legs.

Suddenly his condition was grave, Dr. Merrens warned, adding that the embolisms could also cause severe pain. Uppermost in my mind was keeping Rad comfortable at all times. Dr. Merrens said he would order morphine on demand and asked whether I would like him to contact the palliativecare team. I was quick to say yes, because as a former hospice volunteer I had genuine admiration for the sensitivity of the hospice approach. Yet even so, I was unable to acknowledge the gravity of Rad's condition. I screened out all thoughts that palliative care was about anything except pain management, completely bypassing its role in the care of the dying.

The next day—while I was out of the room, unfortunately—Dr. Diane Palac came to Rad's room in her palliative-care capacity. By coincidence, she had been my primary-care doctor for several years and had met Rad. She was aware of the fact that he had been growing weaker over the previous year. She quickly determined (she later told me) that even though Rad was not moving at all as he lay there, he was calm, comfortable, and right with her in alertness. Yet it was also clear to her that he would not survive this illness. He was exceedingly weak and was on high-flow oxygen through a face mask. Simply opening his eyes required more energy than he could spare.