Some friendships in medicine are formed quickly – and last a lifetime.
I was deeply saddened to learn of the passing of my friend and co-resident, Ari Daniel Abel, MD. We trained together in ophthalmology at Greater Baltimore Medical Center from July 1998 to June 2001, part of the same class navigating long hours, steep learning curves, and shared milestones that define residency. We were the last pure GBMC resident class before the program was absorbed into the combined Johns Hopkins Wilmer/Sinai/GBMC program—a distinction that makes that shared experience even more meaningful.
Ari’s obituary is here.
Residency is where you see not just the physician someone will become, but the person they already are. Ari stood out for his compassion. In a field focused on protecting sight, he never lost sight of the person behind the patient. He brought kindness and steadiness to his work and to those around him.
After residency, our paths diverged in typical ways—but in many respects, we all returned to our roots. I went into private practice in my hometown in New Jersey and have remained in the same practice since July 1, 2001. Ari pursued a prestigious ASOPRS fellowship in Albany, New York, and then returned home to Wilmington, Delaware to build his own practice. Our classmate, Carey Rowan, MD, also returned to his hometown, stepping in to carry forward his father’s ophthalmology practice after his father’s passing. I always admired—envied, even—Ari’s willingness to hang out a shingle and create something of his own, and Carey’s willingness to take on a practice without any formal practice management experience on day one.
What I’ll remember just as much are the moments outside the clinic. Ari taught me how to eat Maryland crabs—patiently walking me through the process—and he often shared his love of plastic surgery pearls, always curious and eager to learn beyond his immediate field. Years later, I found myself calling him from New Jersey to his office in Wilmington for advice on patients.
He’d also frustrate me by never picking up the phone when I called—you had to catch him at just the right time. But when you did, nothing had changed. He offered the same thoughtful, practical wisdom he had as a resident.
In ophthalmology, we often focus on outcomes. But a physician’s true impact is measured in less tangible ways: the trust of patients, the respect of colleagues, and the consistency of their character. Ari embodied those qualities.
My thoughts are with his family, friends, and all who knew him. I am grateful that he was part of my journey.
In medicine, we protect sight—but it is people like Ari who remind us what truly matters to see.
May his memory be a blessing.
