Letter 1: From Dr. Sofia Alvarez to Dr. Richard Heller

Dr. Richard Heller

Hospice Unit, St. Mary’s Medical Center

Chicago, IL 60611

May 06, 2005

Dear Richard,

I heard you’re dying. Leukemia’s carving you hollow, they say. I should feel pity, but I don’t. Not after what you did. I’m writing because you need to know how much I despise you before you’re gone.

You stole my confidence, my future, my trust. You nearly destroyed my dream, but I didn’t break. I’ve spent a decade rebuilding what you shattered. You don’t deserve peace. I hope your final days are as lonely as you made my life.

Ten years ago, I was twenty-seven. A young resident at Northwestern, under your wing. You were Dr. Richard Heller, the cancer specialist who could tame tumors. Nurses swooned, patients adored you, and I ... I worshiped you. I thought you saw something in me--a spark worth shaping. I lived for your guidance in the OR, your steady voice directing my sutures, your fingers brushing mine to adjust my grip. Your breath warm on my neck.

I still see that silver scalpel pendant dangling from your keychain. A memento from your first Pancreaticoduodenectomy, one of the most grueling surgeries in the hospital’s history. It symbolized the skill I dreamed of earning. I felt chosen, alive, working beside you. I wanted to be like you--precise, fearless, bold. But you didn’t want a protégé. You wanted someone to break.

My first time as lead surgeon was an appendectomy. Simple, routine, nothing like your complex tumor resections. I was nervous but prepared, your presence giving me confidence. I followed every protocol, checked every step. You made sure of that.

The patient, Michael Carter, was stable when I closed him up. A thirty-two-year-old fit and healthy male. A husband and a father. But he died, Richard. Sepsis, they said, from a bowel perforation I supposedly caused. You threw me to the wolves. Reported me for malpractice. Called me reckless, unprepared. My official report branded me a failure before my career began.

I didn’t even get to defend myself. Your word was gospel. My residency ended in twenty-four hours. In the U.S. medical system, a malpractice accusation can ruin a doctor’s career--license suspended, reputation shredded. Do you know what that did to me? I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I’d lie awake, replaying every second of that surgery. I searched for the mistake I couldn’t find. My hands shook holding a scalpel.

I saw Michael’s face every night. His wife, Emily, sobbing in the hallway, his son clinging to her. You made me responsible for their loss. You made me doubt my skill, my worth. Part of me wonders why you did it, but the pain blinds me.