Yesterday morning, I learned that one of my teachers had passed away. He was only 63, a devoted, tireless oncologist who spent his life teaching and training many oncologists across Pakistan. Many of his students went on to work abroad as senior oncologists and professors, carrying his legacy far beyond borders.

He was not my direct teacher, but rather the teacher of my supervisor, a teacher of a teacher. Yet distance never existed. Throughout the year, he remained deeply involved in teaching, organizing sessions on site-specific oncology. I attended them regularly.

What bound us was not proximity, but kindness.

There was reverence, of course, made heavier by hierarchy and seniority, but there was also warmth. A gentleness that softened formality. A shared kindness that quietly dissolved fear.

I remember the first time I met him in Lahore. He was organizing a session and had asked for the names of oncology residents from across Pakistan, intending to select one. I submitted my name without hesitation. None of my colleagues did. When I learned I had been selected, I was overwhelmed with joy.

I prepared a bouquet of my favorite flowers, choosing every stem myself. When I gave it to him, he smiled, a smile that felt like permission to be human, not just a student.

He was extraordinarily kind. His face carried a softness, his presence a calm. Perhaps that is why our bond existed. Every time we met, he would say, “Daman is a star.” Each time, my heart lifted.

I kept attending his sessions, traveling often to Lahore just to see him. Every visit brought different flowers: new colors, new paper, new ribbons. And every time I returned, he would send me a photograph of himself holding them, as if preserving our small ritual.

Breaking the hierarchy

One day, I heard he had suffered a cardiac arrest. He came to Islamabad for treatment, to one of the best cardiologists in our hospital, his friend. Very few people knew he was there.

My supervisor, though respectful, kept his distance, perhaps intimidated by his seniority. But I was never afraid of him. Maybe because I do not see people through ranks and titles. Maybe because I believe love should never wait. Today may be the last day, for them or for me. Tomorrow is never guaranteed.

I went to see him early that morning. As a doctor, I was allowed into the pre-procedure area without question. He lay on the bed, eyes closed, arms folded on his chest. There was fear on his face, a quiet, human fear. He looked pale. A man of similar age sat nearby. Later, I learned he was his brother-in-law.

I held his hand and said, “Hey.”

His eyes opened instantly. For a moment, he must have wondered who dared to hold his hand so freely. Then he saw me, and he smiled.

I told him not to worry. That he would be fine. I stayed there, holding his hand, talking softly, until the nurses wheeled him away. I wished him luck.

That evening, I went to see him again. He was in the CCU, a pacemaker in place, stable, and allowed to eat. He looked better.

Outside food was forbidden in our hospital, but rules softened for love. I brought fruits, a small pocket knife hidden carefully, and a get-well-soon card. No one checked my bag; they trusted the on-call doctor. His children were not there. I wanted him to feel less alone. He was overjoyed.

From that day on, he never stopped thanking me for being there, for caring when he was vulnerable.

A legacy of joy

For nearly six years, I continued attending his sessions. It wasn’t only me who adored him. He had a rare gift, the ability to make everyone feel seen, whether junior or senior, from any hospital. He was never biased. His teaching carried the weight of experience and the lightness of joy.

Once, he gave me a gift, something he had never done for any student, and gently asked me to stop bringing flowers. I respected his wish.

Just last Sunday, I attended a breast cancer session he was delivering. A student asked him to draw the left ascending artery (a vessel in the heart) on a CT scan. He laughed and said, “Oh, LCA? jo meri band thi.” (Oh, that LCA? the one that got blocked in my heart.) We laughed with him, unaware.

He was meticulous. Always prepared. Always planning months, even a year ahead: topics, cities, schedules. He had already prepared an entire winter course.

This Sunday, he was meant to lecture on rectal and esophageal cancers. On Saturday morning, he was gone. On Friday, he had sent messages reminding everyone to prepare. It must have been sudden, an acute cardiac event.

I did not cry. There is only a deep, quiet sadness. But there is also peace.

I am someone who always needs closure. Without it, my mind invents unfinished stories. This time, there is none. What matters is not whether he is here today. What matters is that he felt loved. That he knew he was special.

The joy we shared is my closure. I never withheld affection, and it was always received, fully and openly. That knowledge settles gently in my heart.

He was loved until the very end.

Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.