Remembering Dr. Joseph Costa
A selfless physician who lost his battle with Covid-19 on the intensive care unit which he worked
While growing up in a household with parents who both hold professions in health care, various doctors and nurses become close friends. They call the house after school and on weekends; visit on occasion with their own spouses, kids, and dogs; and even join us on vacation to the beaches or mountains.
My parents’ feelings about these people become clear after watching them interact at home and even when we get to visit where they work. An Intensive Care Unit (ICU) is exactly how it sounds — intense. I get the sense that visitors buzzed in not to see patients, but instead to visit someone at work, is rare and treated with a certain reverence. “Hey, you look just like your mother!” is an endearing line I hear each time. Sneaking a peek at a patient who is intubated, unconscious, and kept alive by the beeps and mechanical breathing of monitors and tubes is unnerving. In the discomfort, I absorb a greater appreciation for what my mom and her colleagues do for a living.
A hand touched my shoulder as I stood in the doorway next to a light blue partition, the thin veil between a ninety-year-old African American woman just a few days from dying and the rest of the world. Dr. Costa smiled as I looked up at him, pleasantly surprised to see me and eager to “let Mrs. Adams rest.” My quiet, inquisitive stares wouldn’t wake her, but I obliged and followed him back to where a group of nurses gathered, smiling and laughing, taking advantage of some downtime. The doctor cracked a joke and was on his way.
His gentle demeanor could disarm a bomb. Even untrained, I would have followed him into surgery if he needed me. Dr. Costa epitomized the qualities of a selfless, gentle leader. According to my mom, and confirmed by witnessing just a few minutes on the unit, he had the respect of every patient family member, nurse, and physician peer. In a world where life, death, and bureaucracy all meet — every hospital system in the country — this is no easy feat. Yet Dr. Costa, Joe, always found ways to rally his troops and care for every patient that came under his medical jurisdiction with the grace of a loving father.
Joe had a dog, Daisy, who I called Sadie in private because she looked more like a Sadie and there was no real harm in it. One summer, Joe and his husband were going away for a week and asked my mom if I’d be interested in taking care of Daisy. She’d stay at the house and I could come down to let her out a few times each day. I could even stay at their townhouse, in the basement guestroom, if I really wanted. I declined the overnight effort but appreciated the trust that they had in me to take care of their beloved mutt. She is a good dog.
On one of our morning walks through Baltimore’s Bolton Hill neighborhood, we came to the foot of a tall, red-brick, corner mansion that had been converted to a multi-family unit some decades prior. The Zoning Board had added a commercial space to the back of the first floor where a coffee shop now operated, caffeinating the residents and local art students alike. Joe had purchased the building, adding ‘landlord’ to his already impressive resume. I was seeing the brick and mortar for the first time but felt the importance of its role in the neighborhood immediately. Joe’s place in the Baltimore community, bringing new life to both the sick and tired, was well-established and unassuming. He lived as one of the great unsung heroes, exuding pure humility.
My brother and I would later rent a two-bedroom apartment in his building to get away from the bustling areas of south and east Baltimore. Joe had now taken on a multi-dimensional role in our lives — family friend, business owner, physician, and rent collector. He became the guy we called when the sink stopped working. Yet his persona as a kind, gentle soul remained. It was his true nature regardless of the situation — a quality that is hard to find. When my brother would later move out to start a new chapter with his soon-to-be wife and dog, Joe told me to only worry about my part of the rent until I decided to make my next move. He didn’t have to do that. That’s just who Joe was.
Months later, while on the phone with my mom, she shares with the intertwined tone of a friend and medical professional that Joe is sick. He has symptoms of and would be diagnosed with an auto-immune lung disease that is treatable but has no known cure. As a physician, he has the knowledge and wherewithal to live and work comfortably but admits that one day it will likely contribute to his demise. Only his small circle of friends and family would know about it for years until the symptoms — shortness of breath and lack of energy — would tip people off of an underlying issue. He wore it with grace and dignity, continuing to serve his community and put others well before himself.
My mom worked with Joe side-by-side for almost 30 years. They, as both a pair and as the leaders of a collective care unit, never faced anything as challenging as what COVID-19 brought to their facility. The amount of stress endured and energy required tipped the scales like never before. On par with hospitals all over the world, their patient headcount spiked, resources diminished, morale took a dive, and the imminent danger of contracting the virus greeted every single doctor and nurse who entered the hospital for their long, tiring shift. Joe was no exception, walking the 1.3 miles down St. Paul Street door-to-door like he had each day, ready to help lead his peers through a grueling effort. And he did it with a smile.
Another phone call and the same somber tone returned, though even lower and slower this time. Mom wasn’t delivering bad news to me necessarily, though it was devastating, rather she appeared to be acknowledging the weight on her own shoulders. She was in disbelief. Joe had contracted COVID and was being admitted to the hospital — their hospital. The long-time leader of a tight-knit, skilled, and faithful unit would now become a patient.
This virus found his already vulnerable lungs and grabbed on tight. Its genesis, no doubt, the halls and rooms that he patrolled for decades — another example of its merciless nature with little regard for PPE. It exploited his weakened immune system until only a ventilator kept him alive. In the most inexplicable fashion, and with the heaviest of hearts, it was time to say goodbye.
After a weeks-long battle, Dr. Joseph Costa passed away peacefully in an ICU room that he’d visited thousands of times. He was surrounded by his husband and dozens of faithful, teary-eyed colleagues all in disbelief that they would thank and bid farewell to their friend for the last time. He would take his last breath with all of them present, just as he had wished. Joe embodied the selfless mission that his oath as a doctor at Mercy aimed to instill. He gave the ultimate sacrifice, solidifying a legacy for eternity.
Since his death, the stages of grief have run their course — sudden disbelief that he is gone, a dose of anger that this virus continues to impact our lives in such an unrelenting way, and deep sadness as to the gravity of what just occurred. Moving to acceptance is encouraged by laughter, remembering the times when his sense of humor could fill a room. His memorial service, broadcasted via social media, featured comments from peers all over the country taking time out of their days to pay proper respect.
Then the media took hold of the story, and millions of people soon found out about Joe — like The Today Show and The Washington Post. His husband spent some time reflecting on their life together on Anderson Cooper’s AC360. The hospital will dedicate a street outside the facility, as well as his former unit, in his name and honor. A foundation will be created to help others for years to come. Through yet another example of the pain that COVID-19 has brought upon us, much good will follow in its wake.
When I think of Joe, renewed images of unrelenting kindness and humility come to mind. He cemented his legacy entirely too soon but had been laying the foundation for decades. Joe rose to the occasion as a compassionate person and professional, a dedicated physician committed to the heat of this medical battle without a second guess. A true legend, this unsung hero is unsung no more. Rest in peace, my friend.
