Greg Curt died last Sunday. For us in oncology, this one was especially personal. He was a wonderful, generous young man. Greg was a beloved friend and colleague. He was an accomplished cancer researcher and leader in oncology who died of the disease we treat.
The standard obituary reads that he was born in 1952 in Fall River, Mass. He graduated from Providence College and the University of Rochester School of Medicine. He did residency at New England Deaconess Hospital and a fellowship in medical oncology at the NCI.
Beyond the standard obituary, Greg had a huge influence on oncology and on several generations of oncologists. I was one of those oncologists. Greg was given the job as clinical director of the NCI when he was 37 years old. His direct reports were some of the biggest names in oncology, many not lacking in ego. He quickly became known for his irreverent disdain for arrogance—and he got away with it. Early on he perfected a management style that consisted of a grounded perspective, humility and humor. Indeed, his wit and ability to find humor in things helped him effectively lead both people much older and far more scientifically accomplished than he and young fellows in training. He often eased tension with a funny story, a joke or an impersonation. Now, twenty years later, some of us still regularly talk about his Ted Kennedy impersonations.
He referred to himself as “Captain Curt” and the NCI Clinical Oncology Program as “The Enterprise,” a reference to the popular TV show, Star Trek. He often called those of us in the Public Health Service “the Yellow Berets,” yellow being the color of cowardice. Indeed, many of finest docs at NCI chose PHS over the “real military” and service in Vietnam. Captain Curt actually owned a yellow beret.
I first met Greg in 1989, while training in the NCI Medicine Branch. It was a time when there were many patients on HIV trials at the Clinical Center. Many of our patients were in their late twenties and early thirties, the same age as the fellows taking care of them. It was especially taxing emotionally. Greg taught us to cope and persevere. All while stressing that we must maintain respect for the patients.
Greg was a powerful public speaker. Many of us used to go to NCI grand rounds to hear Greg’s introduction of the speaker and the subject more than the actual talk. Always, he spoke in a serious tone, putting the speaker and the subject matter into the proper perspective. In a way, he was putting oncology and our profession into perspective.
I last visited with Greg and his wife in May. He was in the old Bethesda Naval Hospital, where we both trained in oncology decades ago. The facility is now renamed the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, but it is still our old hospital. Greg was a good clinician. He knew the disease and its complications that he was suffering from. He was unable to talk, but he was able to communicate. His spirit was unbroken. One could see that old love and wisdom. He showed courage, grace and dignity. The teacher was giving the student one more, one last lesson. His life was a blessing to us all.
Greg is survived by his wife of 36 years, Suzanne Grealy Curt, daughter Katherine “Katie”, mother Agnes Curt, brother Frederick, sister Melanie Guimond, and by many nieces and nephews.
The author is the chief medical officer of the American Cancer Society.
