Quiet charisma and compassion

As a vascular surgeon, Joe Wheeler was a life saver.

He knew the work was important, but it left him unfulfilled.

When he and his colleagues had lunch together or sat down and talked about their lives and their jobs, Wheeler realized how much his life paralleled theirs.

It wasn't glamorous. It didn't make them happy.

The daily demands at the hospital were taking a toll.

Wheeler, a U.S. Navy veteran, nearly left medicine altogether. He missed his family. He considered owning an ostrich farm. He knew he wanted something else for himself.

Wheeler, 63, died Tuesday at his home. He is survived by his wife, three daughters and six grandchildren.

Fifteen years ago, when the doctor was nearly at his wits end, his life and his outlook shot upward.

He turned in scalpel and made the transition to hospice care. He soon discovered what he had been missing.

The man who was known for saving lives became better known for touching them.

"He was extremely popular as a surgeon and a lot of people weren't too happy with me when I got him into hospice," said Dr. David McGrew, who is the medical director at HPH Hospice.

McGrew first met Wheeler more than 20 years ago when he was a medical student and Wheeler was a senior intern, he said.

Years later, Wheeler sat with McGrew one day at lunch. He noticed the former bright-eyed medical student hadn't lost his fervor.

"I was one of only about two people he knew who was happy with his job," McGrew said.

He asked Wheeler to take a day off and spend time with him one day at what was then called Hernando-Pasco Hospice.

Nothing was the same afterward.

Post-it notes and backrubs

HPH Hospice Chaplain Tom Beason eulogized Wheeler during a memorial service Saturday at Faith Evangelical Presbyterian Church.

"Something is not quite right," he said near the end of his opening statements on the altar. "Something doesn't quite feel like it needs to be."

He turned his back to the 200 people in the congregation. When he whipped back around, he sported a red clown nose. The church erupted.

It conjured memories of Wheeler's zaniness around the office.

Beason said the late doctor also had a knack for "saying stuff no one would dare say."

"He would like to put sticky notes on his face ... just to make someone laugh," said Jana Donovan, a registered nurse and administrator at the Brooksville Care Center where Wheeler worked.

"He could be naughty, but never bad," said Rose Milks, regional director at HPH.

Three women who worked closely with Wheeler were asked what they would remember most about him.

All of them mentioned his famous backrubs.

"A lot of people will remember his backrubs," said Robin Kocher, who is director of communications at HPH. "He was a very personable man. He was the type of person who enjoyed working with a number of people."

McGrew described him as having a "quiet charisma."

The two became fast friends years before McGrew recruited him.

"Not long after he came to the area as a surgeon, my wife and I got together with him," he said. "You know how when you get together with someone and everything just clicks. That's how it was. He made you want to go back and spend more time with him."

McGrew said Wheeler was gifted with one-on-one conferences with patients and their families. He knew how to engage them. He knew how to make the feel comfortable.

Some doctors struggled with that, McGrew said. Those bedside manner skills were never lost on his friend. They seemed to be inborn.

"He was quiet and unassuming in the way he handled himself," he said. "He was humble about his abilities. That helped him really engage with people."

Living at the hospital was not an option

Wheeler's relationships with his staff were just like the ones he had with those he treated and consoled.

"He was so wonderful with families," said Donovan. "He would give them hugs."

Everyone interviewed used the word "compassionate" to describe Wheeler.

Some doctors were so rigid, they either tried and failed or simply avoided fully explaining a patient's condition before he or she entered hospice care.

It was often up to Wheeler to give them the hard truth.

"He had a very special way of sharing that very difficult news with his patients and with the families," said Milks. "He had an approach. It worked."

McGrew said the medical profession had started to weigh down Wheeler before he switched to hospice care. During his days as a surgeon, he would talk to patients about their diagnosis, but his interaction with them felt impersonal.

Compassion is defined as a feeling of sympathy and sorrow for someone who has suffered misfortune combined by the need to alleviate that person's suffering.

"That doesn't describe most physicians," said McGrew. "That described Joe. He was present with them. He cared for them ... We deal with a lot of emotions. We have to provide support."

During Saturday's memorial service, Milks stepped to the podium and relayed a story Wheeler had told her.

A registered nurse had come to him feeling frustrated. His job was pulling him away from his family.

Wheeler listened. His advice was anecdotal.

One day, when his daughters were young, he was driving them through Brooksville when one of them looked out the window and said, "That's where my daddy lives."

"That was the moment when he knew he wanted a different life," Milks told the congregation.

She didn't know which of his daughters had said the line that became such a climactic part of Wheeler's life, so she looked at the front pew and addressed all of them.

"You did a great thing for your dad," Milks said. "Hospice was a great fit for his personality. He was a great fit for us."