In Memoriam
Eulogy
given by George Kopits
The Cathedral
of Mary Our Queen
June 22,
2002
It
is impossible -- especially on this occasion of irreparable personal loss
and sorrow -- to summarize the life philosophy, talents and accomplishments
of my brother Steven [Istvan, his name in Hungarian]. Please bear with
me in this flawed attempt at covering the many aspects and attributes of this
wonderful and profound man, who so personally touched our hearts and our minds.
His has been a most valuable, rich, and complex life.
Steven had deep roots in Central Europe, with a childhood caught in the turbulent
years of World War II, followed by the Soviet occupation of Hungary, his birthplace.
Years of exile took our family through various European countries, to
settle eventually in Argentina. During that period, Steven received
a solid Jesuit education in which he demonstrated academic excellence. Also,
in his teenage years, he wrote poetry and developed a keen appreciation for
music that provided him with much comfort throughout his life.
Steven's medical vocation developed early on, inspired by family tradition, as a natural offshoot, to become the last member of three generations of surgeons. Both our grandfather and father had pioneered orthopedic surgery in Hungary. After earning a medical doctorate at the University of Buenos Aires, Steven followed in his father's footsteps to the United States. He received most of his training in Baltimore: starting in the early 60s with internship at Mercy and Union Memorial, and continuing with a residency at the Johns Hopkins Hospital. At Hopkins he spent more than two decades as associate professor and chief of pediatric orthopedics. By the mid 80s, with the establishment of the International Center for Skeletal Dysplasia -- as its founder and director, at the St. Joseph Medical Center -- Steven had become fully absorbed with his lifetime passion: the caring and healing of little people.
Steven was true to the Hippocratic oath in every possible respect. He never ceased to learn and develop new procedures and techniques -- there are even surgical instruments named after him. The famous steel "halo" that he devised for patients suffering from Morquio syndrome was described in considerable detail in a London Times article (February 16, 1986, p. 36). Above and beyond applying unique professional skills, Steven took pride in providing total care for his patients. With a twist of the age-old advice that physicians should not get emotionally involved with their patients, he often expressed the view that good physicians must be emotionally involved with their patients. Indeed, he went far beyond dealing with the medical problem at hand, as he also assisted his little patients emotionally and financially, with the aim of restoring their self-respect and ability to function in their own environment. Steven's guiding philosophy was that instead of changing the handicapped to fit his/her environment, it is the environment that should be adapted to the needs of the handicapped. At an international conference in Rome, he argued vehemently with some surgeons who advocated lengthening the legs of dwarfs so they could reach the height of "normal" people, a treatment he considered barbaric.
Although healing little people became a central focus, Steven helped raise a family of four wonderful, talented and loving children, and seven grandchildren -- all present on this occasion -- while caring for his elderly parents. He was an active member of this beautiful parish. He was a leader of the Hungarian community in Baltimore. In addition, in his little remaining spare time, Steven nurtured his love for music and travel.
Steven traveled often in the United States, Europe, and Latin America to treat patients, often at a breathtaking pace. He followed closely world events and was appalled at social injustice and poverty. He was particularly sensitized to difficult conditions in his adoptive Argentina, as well as other countries in Latin America, where he visited frequently to perform surgery on disadvantaged children. He also felt a strong sense of loyalty to the United States. But Steven reserved a particular love for his native Hungary, its rich history, culture, and traditions. His wish -- to be fulfilled sometime soon -- is to be buried in Budapest, in the family crypt.
Any attempt at cutting through the complexities of Steven's persona and his world would be incomplete without highlighting his many outstanding attributes. He was generous to a fault. Anybody who knew Steven was well aware of his selfless readiness to help and to care not only as a physician, but equally as a friend, as a colleague, or as a family member. Those in need around him could count on Steven at any time of day or night, notwithstanding distances, time zones, or his many other pressing engagements. Steven's compassion for his fellow men knew no bounds: always ready to provide the right advice, medical treatment, a helping hand. He routinely overcommitted himself, and then, with unrivaled tenacity, he delivered -- always with a smile or a joke. His optimism, engaging personality, and his joyous demeanor were contagious. His presence filled the room.
Instead of amassing a fortune by pursuing a lucrative private practice, Steven chose to focus on the treatment of skeletal dysplasia, an obscure field of orthopedic surgery. Neither academic recognition nor public fame was sufficient incentives for his extraordinary activities. Rather, the well being and the smiling faces of his patients were his greatest source of satisfaction. He resented the well-meaning label on the cover of the Washington Post (Sunday Magazine, December 9, 1984) characterizing him as the "God of the Little People." Steven knew well the difference between God and surgeons. He was all too aware of the limits of his profession. In the Post interview he said "…through this whole thing, I felt that I was taken by the hand. Each time a new challenge has come up, something happened to prepare me for it." Indeed, he often declared that he was acting merely as an instrument of Divine Providence.
Steven's greatest challenge began in early 1999 when he was literally struck down by the effects of a malignant brain tumor, while examining patients at the annual clinic for Little People in Orlando. He met this last challenge in his life's journey with a blend of unflagging faith, willingness to fight, and unimaginable energy. He underwent reconstructive surgery on his left shoulder, followed by two brain surgeries and radiation treatment, and, what was most painful for Steven, suspension of all operating privileges. Beating all odds, Steven recuperated and resumed his work with his patients for another year and a half. However, the trial was not over. The worst was yet to come, as his health began to deteriorate about a year ago. Throughout this final ordeal, Steven conducted himself with utmost courage and dignity, while fully cognizant of the limitations of cancer treatment. He was willing to undergo an experimental treatment, aware that this would benefit future generations rather than himself. Ultimately, he derived his strength from trust in the Almighty, his loving family and close friends.
Steven had a rich and exemplary life, cemented with deep faith in God, hard work, and remarkable talents. It all boiled down to a singular ability to harness and deploy his know-how for the betterment of mankind -- fully living up to the Parable of the Talents.
It is so hard to part -- albeit temporarily.
Istvan: We all love you and admire you. We feel fortunate in having been around you. Thank you for touching our lives. We will miss you.
Isten veled, Istvan!
