The Surgeon Who Swapped His Scalpel for a Paintbrush

Days into our freshman year of medical school at the University of Louisville, all 140 of us were herded into the gross anatomy lab on the top floor of the main building. Rows of florescent lights illuminated a space where we would spend months studying the human body in minute detail. Despite my having spent summers as a nursing assistant and occasionally observing surgery, my anxiety grew as the professor began assigning cadavers. I'd never fainted in my life but the thought was more terrifying than what lay beneath the thick, smudgy plastic in the steel case before me.

Fortunately, I was distracted by the late entrance of a young man dressed in a red muscle shirt and jeans. He walked with the confidence and swagger of a rock star, not the demeanor expected for entering an academic tomb. My best med student friend, Tim, who was his roommate, introduced us. "Melissa, this is Truman."

And thus began a friendship with this charismatic man who I thought, like me, awoke every morning excited about the grand opportunity to become a physician. I skipped happily to class to engage the ultimate academic dream. Truman's smile and initial impression gave no hint of any other aspirations or hidden priorities.