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In Memoriam |
Martin D. Abeloff, M.D., the chief oncologist and director of the Johns Hopkins Kimmel Cancer Center for the past 15 years, died Sept. 14 of leukemia. Abeloff (Figure 1), 65, was an international authority on the treatment of breast cancer.
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"Marty was that iconic Hopkins physician, scientist, educator, leader and good citizen rolled into one," said Edward D. Miller, M.D., Dean/CEO of Johns Hopkins Medicine. "He was there for his patients, his residents and fellows, his colleagues and at so many challenging times, the institution he graced for so long."
"All of the Johns Hopkins Medicine family will miss his presence and his wisdom," said Ronald R. Peterson, president of The Johns Hopkins Hospital and Health System. "He was the consummate quiet man who worked tirelessly to achieve greatness in his field."
In typical Abeloff fashion, he recently credited the Cancer Center's growth and advances against malignant disease to the faculty and staff, counting himself "lucky" to work among individuals whose intellect and values made coming to work "an absolute joy."
"He was the ultimate role model," said friend and Hopkins colleague Stephen Baylin, M.D., Virginia and D.K. Ludwig Professor of Oncology and Medicine, and deputy director of the Johns Hopkins Kimmel Cancer Center. "What he didn't know, he took the time to learn. And with a combination of qualities best summarized as wisdom, he helped transform both the treatment of cancer and the way that Johns Hopkins delivers that care. These are his legacies."
During his 15-year tenure as Cancer Center director, Abeloff doubled the size of the center's faculty, increased research funding sixfold since 1992, and saw it consistently ranked among the nation's top three cancer centers in U.S. News & World Report surveys. "Marty built an impressive and unparalleled team of cancer experts and a world-class reputation for the Kimmel Cancer Center," Miller added.
Under Abeloff's direction, the cancer complex at Johns Hopkins expanded to include nearly 1 million square feet of treatment and research space. Inside the Center's Harry and Jeanette Weinberg Building, Abeloff revealed his passion for the arts, where he established the Art of Healing program, which includes a performing arts series and a collection of more than 100 works of museum-quality art by Maryland and other nationally known artists for the enjoyment of patients, visitors and staff. He also was instrumental in bringing the largest single gift to Johns Hopkins, the $150 million donation from philanthropist and fashion entrepreneur Sidney Kimmel, for whom the cancer center is now named.
Abeloff received his medical degree from Johns Hopkins in 1966. After residency and fellowship training in Boston's Beth Israel Hospital and Tufts-New England Medical Center, he returned to Baltimore for an oncology fellowship at Johns Hopkins. He joined the Hopkins oncology faculty in 1972, focusing on lung and breast cancer research, then heading the medical oncology department before directing the entire cancer center.
Abeloff served as president of the American Society of Clinical Oncology (ASCO) and chairman of the FDA Oncology Drug Advisory Committee. He also had been the chairperson of the Board of Scientific Counselors to the Intramural Division of Clinical Science at the National Cancer Institute (NCI) and a member of the NCI Executive Committee.
The funeral service was held on September 16 at the Sol Levinson and Brothers funeral home, 8900 Reisterstown Road, Pikesville, Md. Interment is at Oheb Shalom Cemetery, 318 Berrymans Lane, Reisterstown, Md. A memorial service at Johns Hopkins is being planned.
Martin David Abeloff was born in Shenandoah, Pa. He is survived by his wife, Diane, a medical illustrator; daughters Elisa Abeloff and her husband, George Landau, and Jennifer Abeloff and her husband, Howard Wasserman; three grandchildren; and his sister and brother-in-law, Marilyn and Morrell Fox.
The Abeloff family has requested that in lieu of flowers or gifts, donations be sent to the Martin D. Abeloff, M.D., Scholars Program in Cancer Prevention and Control at the Johns Hopkins Kimmel Cancer Center, Suite 234,100 N. Charles St., Baltimore, Maryland 21201. Tributes and notes of sympathy may be submitted to kpr{at}jhmi.edu for posting on the Kimmel Cancer Center website at www.hopkinskimmelcancercenter.org.
When I saw Diane, the day before Marty died, I asked her that well meaning but, we know, often "helpless" question, in such situations—"is there anything I can do, is there anything you need?" She gave me a much more eloquent answer—"I need a new heart." Today, I think, we all need new hearts, or at the least, a renewal of our hearts. Would that I could give Diane and the whole Abeloff family those new hearts that they so richly deserve.
Marty, for over 30 years, was my colleague—and, more important, in that context, in the most uniquely seamless of manners, my friend. He has been, and will always continue to be, simply immensely consequential to my personal and professional being.
What is the substance behind my sentiments? This could take a very long time, so let me just give you some snapshots to put it in perspective.
Marty was, day in and day out, my teacher—as he was for so many others. What were some of his lessons?
First, and maybe most important, is that in all interactions, nothing of the best can be achieved without the injection of a palpable, and deeply individual, humanity, a truly human to human connection. And the teacher led by example, for his humanity rang through in everything Marty did, from the largest collective enterprises to the most intimate of interactions. What he was, who he was, his intellect, his integrity, his philosophies, his wonderful, informed, humor, his compassion, his queries, always showed through—he resonated, this is who I am—and invited the question, Who are you? And this incredible mode of communication gives us all an example of how to talk to each other—parent to child, spouse to spouse, friend to friend, doctor to patient, institution to institution. The love from his family, friends, patients, and colleagues was inevitable because of his genuine and incredible personal core. I like to wonder, what if, for our world, more leaders in every sphere, harbored even a percentage of this core?
Second, the value of true humility. Marty knew he was important—but he also seemed to say that's not what's important. His humor was full of the capacity to laugh at himself, laugh with others, and occasionally at others, especially if you earned it!! He had a wonderful suspicion of false trappings; I think he could be the same with kings, ambassadors, noble laureates, Charlie Rose on PBS, or the car parking attendant—and reduce everything back to that core of humanity that punctuated his every interaction.
During his therapy, Marty was on a drug that transiently rendered him with a burst of energy and sleeplessness, and he began reading voraciously. In a day or so he finished the new biography of Einstein—over 600 pages—and, a day or so later, during one of my "business" meetings with him in the outpatient treatment suite, he recommended the book; I think I am now only on page 50. But I came to a vignette and smiled over and over at it, thinking that Marty must have simply loved it.
Late in Einstein's life, an important ambassador was coming to visit him. Einstein was, as usual, dressed in his widely known, rather unruly, casual style. His household was agitated, urging him to get dressed and ready for the meeting. Einstein answered, "If he wants to see me, here I am; if he wants to see my clothes, there's the closet!"
Third, Marty taught us all something he, ironically, often in a constructive way, did not always possess himself—patience. And for me, one feature of this is growing with me every year—and that is to stop and listen, listen, and then when I next talk, maybe the content will reflect more education. And if he had not helped start me on that course, I would never have been able to help him in a leadership capacity, when his cruel illness presented the need to do so. Ironically, again, I don't think he would have trusted me to give him that help unless he full well knew what I was learning.
Fourth, Marty's quest for useful knowledge was unending—and that was never more apparent than when he exhorted his colleagues to examine their conclusions and the true meaning and impact of their data. One of the last smiles I was able to extract from Marty was when I teased him about his interactions with the superb team managing his clinical care. He must have driven them to distraction at times questioning the data, and their real robustness, underlying each major decision placed before him for his treatment plan. I said, "Look at you. Here you are on the wrong end of a disease you fought against your whole life and you are still examining us—still pushing to know what the data really mean for the practical care of the patient, even if the patient is you!" And, why not? This was what was always most important to him as a clinical scientist.
And, finally, Marty understood so very well the constitution of life—that there are few ultimate truths, that we are all a convergence of good and bad, that it is all gray, not black and white. And he used this understanding to be a consummate blender and synthesizer—a practicing humanitarian—not to let these life conundrums blunt leadership or paralyze him such that he approached decisions in a wimpy way or delayed, inordinately, their implementation, but rather to pursue an educated, informed, and humane course leading to a just pronouncement.
And, in understanding this life mixture, he had an uncanny ability to blend the personal and professional rather than to build the walls between the two that many leaders have to construct. If he saw that, perhaps, this mix of the two was out of kilter for you, without crossing any inappropriate bridges, he could hold up the problem for you to see—and suggest that you wrestle with it and try to restore the balance.
So, what can we now all do, to give us some resolution for a loss that seems so unjust, so utterly sudden and untimely, a loss leaving us, for a moment, so alone? For Marty's family, I can only say, who you are is as palpable and genuine as Marty was—and this will carry you and Marty with you, always. To his friends, in every sphere, and his colleagues—renew your hearts. We are all in every way richer because we had him—and, in turn, remember that he often said the same about us for him.
And again, to my colleagues—let Marty's spoken, and sometimes unspoken, challenge to all of us to do better, to reach harder for excellence, resonate even louder. Let's take out our frustration, positively, by pulling together, over and over, to bring the day closer that we do not have to say goodbyes, prematurely, to the ones we love and who love us. And I end by simply saying, for me, for everyone here, to Marty—to and for his family: Thank you, Marty—you are at the very top of the list of the good ones.
During my time on the faculty of the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, Marty Abeloff became a treasured colleague and an even closer friend. In those years, before Marty became director of the Kimmel Cancer Center, the path to my office and laboratory in the Oncology Center after evening rounds led past his door. On more nights than I can count, I stopped to talk. Marty was a great sounding board and a wise counselor—the finest listener I have ever known.
A keen ear was just one of the traits that made Marty an exemplary leader. His life was grounded in a deep personal humility that never demanded the spotlight. Yet Marty's simple dignity often masked a stirring complexity and great passion. He understood the workings—and the work—of laboratory science as thoroughly as any basic scientist. He was an adept fundraiser for his cancer center and an astute politician. He was tireless in his support of the public's research investments through the National Institutes of Health and the National Cancer Institute. When it came to serving the NCI, Marty didn't know the words "no" or "can't." But, above all, Marty was an exceptionally compassionate physician.
I treasured the times we shared, caring for breast cancer patients. It was always a highlight of my day when I would be asked to join him in the clinic, as he talked to a patient about her diagnosis and just how he would manage her treatment. I never worked with anyone who had more patience, who offered a more careful, thoughtful explanation for each patient. Marty never left the room until he was confident he had answered all questions.
Among my most cherished memories of Marty are the times we spent together with Jim Armitage and Allen Lichter, one August on Cape Cod and months later in Denver, surrounded by stacks of manuscripts, planning and editing the first edition of Clinical Oncology. This project was a labor of love—and, as they say, getting involved in a textbook project is like a marriage. Marty, as you would expect, was our anchor, both intellectually and logistically. Each of us had the opportunity to write a brief dedication. Marty rightly thanked his beloved family for their support. But he also ded-icated his work, "To all my colleagues and patients, who have taught me a great deal about science, medicine, and life."
It was Marty's way to recognize the tremendous role our colleagues, our students, and our patients play in our lives. He was the embodiment, I believe, of Gandhi's wish: "Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever."
I am very grateful and thankful that God gave me the wondrous gift of the privilege of walking for a while with this great and gentle man.
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