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Heather
Arch Fam Med. 2000;9:392.
HEATHER BELSEY, a medical student at the University of Utah School of Medicine, Salt Lake City, died on October 7, 1998. Responding to a call from her husband, the police found him standing in their home, splashed with blood, holding their not-yet 2-year-old daughter. Heather lay on the kitchen floor, knife wound slashed across her throat. A neighbor said he had heard them arguing, but not thought much about it until the cruisers angled in front of the house, lights flashing red and blue. Some said the couple had been divorcing. One year later, on November 18, 1999, the husband pled guilty to first-degree felony murder. He was sentenced to life in prison, not eligible for parole for 15 years.
Shortly before she died, Heather was part of the small group I taught in our school's sophomore interviewing course. She was the first to arrive for class. As I entered the seminar room, she sat in the front row, long legs stretched out, blond hair damp, sipping from a bottle of water. "Went jogging over lunch," she said. I stared for a moment at her sparkling eyes and smile that lit the room, realizing it had been at least a year since I last talked with her.
When her turn came, Heather focused on the actress serving as her "patient," a middle-aged lady complaining of a headache. The medical history was a bit rambly, a beginner's typically wandering medical interview. But Heather was no beginner at finding out the important information about someone in her care: she was compassionate and confident in a way that put all of us at ease and reassured her patient. Her enthusiasm radiated.
I was refreshed by the chance to work with Heather and her classmates, all of them bright, eager, accomplished people learning to be physicians. Teaching is an inspiring antidote to my daily rounds of meetings, money worries, and office politics. I thought that such an exquisite privilege wiped away many frustrations of life as a medical school faculty member at the end of the 20th century.
Now I regret my feelings of safety among the enthusiastic clusters of learners. In my memory, I can discover no clue to the danger she was in, but ache to turn back time in hopes of finding one, just one. Heather's death was a shocking surprise that meant my colleagues, students, and I could never again deny the reality that domestic violence can affect anyone, including those of us in the medical community.
A few days after teaching the seminar, I went to Heather's funeral. When I arrived at the church, the line of people attending snaked into the street and beyond. The service was plain, direct, aching, and funny, as we shared stories about this vibrant, dynamic person who would have been a superb physician, but was now gone.
I drove home in the dark. On my car radio, I was startled to hear a teacher say, "My students are my heroes." Mine too, I thought, especially people like you, Heather. What a wonderful gift you gave your teachers by learning medicine from us and, in return, showing us your inspiration. I hope we can honor you in return by passing on to others the caring we saw in you, even as we search for hints of the danger it can hide.
Michael K. Magill, MD
Salt Lake City, Utah
(e-mail: mmagill{at}dfpm.utah.edu)
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