Oh, Mama Mia!
Tucked hard into the northwest corner of Broadway
and Monument, smack up against the Hopkins medical
campus, Mama Mia’s Restaurant stands like a modest
lighthouse amid an imposing sea of battleships. When
pressed, officials within those imposing medical buildings
will confess they once coveted the little restaurant’s
teensy slice of land, to prepare for Hopkins' future
growth. But the restaurant’s owners were an immigrant
family from Greece who held fast to their belief that
the restaurant was their ticket to the New World, not
a windfall from the next-door neighbors.
Anyway, those neighbors, it turned out, could be won
over with cheese steak subs.
Just this past winter, ownership of Mama Mia’s
passed into the hands of one very hard-working widow
who had been working in the family business since 1998.
She doesn’t like to dwell on her establishment’s
exposures to the real estate market. "No selling
to nobody," says 46-year-old Foula Giannopoulos,
"except the family."
According to Giannopoulos, two of her uncles bought
the restaurant about 40 years ago, when the decrepit
block was broadly in need of attention. Soon, the building’s
strategic location became appealing to executives at
both Hopkins and the prestigious Kennedy Krieger Institute
across the street. But city rules forbade them from
initiating offers on any surrounding properties.
"We certainly weren’t banging on doors,"
says Jack Grinnalds, the School of Medicine’s
senior director for facilities management. Grinnalds
describes Hopkins' "passive" interest in the
property simply in terms of "land banking."
By the early '90s, though, the Maryland Transportation
Authority saw the Mama Mia’s corner as a sweet
spot that would become part of a new Metro station.
But as the new Hopkins stop on the transit system took
shape, medical campus executives watched with bemusement
as every other property in the row fell to the wrecker's
ball—except Mama Mia’s. Suddenly, instead
of tearing the restaurant down, workers began reinforcing
it. In the end, the surface subway entryway emerged
in the shadow of the resilient restaurant.
Soon after that, Mama Mia’s decided to celebrate
its survival. It transformed its dingy brick exterior
into an alarming mustard yellow with blue accents.
Even the most distracted passersby couldn’t miss
it. Watching the spectacle from across the street,
gray-suited Hopkins administrators smiled at the little
Today, as the sole owner of Mama Mia’s, Foula
Giannopoulos is also smiling. "We ain’t
going nowhere," she confirms, as she proudly
outlines plans to upgrade her small dining room—new
tables and chairs, some snappier décor—along
with new offerings like turkey club sandwiches and
chicken tenders, and spicier garnishes like jalapeno
Giannopoulos has actually been a terrific neighbor,
Hopkins execs say. She agrees. "I never have
a problem," she says. "Eight years, no
problems. Everybody loves me."
From Pythons to Patients
Robinson, the snake man, in front of
the med school dorm and (below) with
a former pet.
One thing medical students living in Reed Hall can
count on is the dorm’s prominent posting of rules:
No toaster ovens, no hot plates or crockpots, and NO
PETS. For first-year student Ray Robinson, who at 36
came late to medicine, it’s that last one that’s
the bummer. Pets have been Robinson’s weakness
since he was a boy. When he was growing up in Los Angeles,
Robinson’s older brother used to show up at home
with all sorts of reptiles, and Ray would end up taking
care of them.
Later, when Robinson spent 10 years working as a counselor
through California’s Department of Mental Health,
as a sideline he began breeding reptiles. Pretty soon,
the 2,400-square-foot “holding tank” he’d
rented was teeming with chameleons, lizards, geckos
and snakes—lots of snakes—pythons, boas,
colubrids and all sorts of rattlers. Little by little,
Robinson began refining his breeding techniques, until
some of the offspring he was producing turned out to
carry mutations in color and patterns never before
seen. Learning there was a market for these one-of-a-kinders,
Robinson got businesslike, enrolled in community college
to learn a little genetics and launched a reptile and
snake-breeding business, Living Proof Reptiles. By
then, he’d become what’s known in scientific
circles as a herpetoculturist—a reptile authority.
By 1999, Robinson was supplying snakes all over the
world to private collectors, zoos and researchers working
on serums for snake, spider and scorpion venom. Some
of his rattlesnakes were selling for upwards of $2,000.
He became the first breeder to produce genetic mutations
in a rattlesnake and one type of boa called a Kenyan
Sand Boa. That last item sold for $2,500.
Realizing he had an affinity for science, Robinson
enrolled at UC Davis and started doing biology. Then,
with an eye toward a career that would let him work
with both people and science, he decided to become
a physician and began sending out medical school applications.
Last spring, when he received a call from Assistant
Dean of Admissions Paul White telling him he’d
been accepted by Johns Hopkins, "I withdrew my
name from every other school."
Today, in between classes, studying and running
around campus, Robinson still keeps a hand in Living
Proof Reptiles. But with a number of tough years to
get through in Baltimore, he’s letting his business
partner handle the breeding and selling. He’s
also downsized the business to concentrate only on
California native rattlesnakes. Still, he keeps in
touch with clients. And he knows one thing for certain:
"Once I’m done with my medical training,
never live without snakes again."
Thrill of the Hunt (scientifically speaking)
Jeff Rothstein describes how well Hopkins
plays with others.
The entourage of Hopkins
faculty researchers and administrators that arrived
in the hushed opulence of Chicago’s Standard
Club on an afternoon in early April was a hungry lot.
They’d jumped from work to airplane to work again
without eating. Hunger of a different sort had pulled
them to the Midwest. They wanted warm bodies to fill
the new biotech park that’s coming to life adjacent
to the medical campus. Why Chicago? The lure was a
room thick with industry big shots—a who’s
who in pharma, medical device and diagnostics firms.
In just two years, the 282,000-square-foot first building
in the Science + Technology Park will be full. Occupying
part of the space will be new basic science labs. The
remaining 180,000 square feet will house a mix of biotech
companies and retail stores. "But at this point," says
Helen Montag, special assistant for corporate affairs,
"filling the space is like building a shopping mall.
Hopkins as a tenant is a great attraction, but we’re
searching for a couple more anchors [the equivalent
of Nordstrom at the mall]."
"We want both young and more established biotech
firms," adds Michael Rosen, liaison for Forest
City Enterprises, the park’s developer, "and
the right service companies. We’d like one, for
example, with the know-how to manage clinical trials."
an art to this sort of thing.
But how to attract tenants? Shepherded by Dean
Chi Van Dang and Jill Sorensen, head of technology
licensing, these scientists—all sharpies in neuro-research—became
the bait. Each spent five minutes at the mike describing
his field to an audience of biotech types who’d
gathered for BIO2006, the industry’s annual convention.
With nearly 20,000 attendees from 62 countries, you
couldn’t get a better potential tenant pool.
Neurosurgery chair Henry Brem described tiny, versatile
chip-based drug delivery systems in the brain; Radiology’s
Jonathan Lewin highlighted the new VASO system that
maps a retina’s visual areas. Min Li in Neuroscience
explained how the High Throughput Biology Center can
pull order from the bewildering mass of data that today’s
technology generates. Jeff Rothstein dazzled with an
array of services, including animal and tissue models
for the major neuro-diseases.
At the cocktail party afterward, business cards fluttered
and talk was animated. Finally, at Midway for a 9:30
flight home, came the first clear reward—the
airport Ben and Jerry's.
Miller greeting passersby.
Stroll the medical campus with Ed Miller and you discover
one thing right away—the dean/CEO is one friendly
guy. Andre Hurst, the president of the University of
Geneva in Switzerland—accompanied by three highly
placed academic colleagues—found this out on
a gorgeous day at the end of March.
After the men had spent a half-hour in Miller’s
office discussing potential exchanges between Geneva’s
medical school and Hopkins, the dean jumped up and
suggested a campus tour. And so, with the 6-foot-6
inch Miller swinging along in the lead, the Europeans
wound their way down Broadway, into the Hospital’s
original domed building, through the long hallways
and then out onto Wolfe Street. All the while, as Miller
pointed out the high spots, he was hailing people—and
they were hailing him.
“Hi, Ed,” called a woman rushing through
the Hospital in a white coat with a stethoscope around
“Hi, Nancy!” Miller joked. “Slow
“Hi, Ed,” smiled a lady wearing a badge
that said “Environmental Services.”
“Gloria, how ya doin’?” asked the
The academics marveled at the extent of Miller’s
acquaintances. To them, the whole episode seemed distinctly
un-Swisslike—less regal than they might have
“I made a tour like this last year at a Japanese
university with the president,” one of the academics
said later. “When people saw that president passing,
they all bowed. Here, they just say, ‘Hi, Ed.’”
Ever worry about where all those red bags of medical
waste go? So do we. And with a hospital that produces
40 pounds of trash per bed every day—up to half
of which is infectious waste—it’s no wonder
officials here are all atwitter over a remarkable new
A giant cylindrical device called a “rotoclave” has
taken up residence near an Orleans Garage loading dock
on the East Baltimore campus. It can chew through 2,600
pounds of medical waste every hour, yielding an inert,
mulch-like substance that’s 20 percent of its
previous volume, suitable for transport.
The process heats the waste to 270 degrees Fahrenheit,
explains Environmental Services Director Todd Gartrell.
And he adds that the whole process is designed to soothe
the neighbors. “All emissions are vented to a
sewer below. A carbon filter removes odors. It’s
not noisy. You would never know that all this was going
It’s a vast improvement over the previous system
that had applied chemical and radiation treatments
in a process that too often broke down and backed up.
Gartrell is so happy with the new machine that he
hopes to target other facilities in the Hopkins network,
including Howard County General Hospital, Johns Hopkins
Bayview and the outpatient center at Green Spring Station
in Baltimore County. But the machine’s great
performance is not stopping the Environmental Services
team from looking to reduce the volume of waste produced
in the first place, by trading disposable products
for recyclables. “We’re aiming to get the
volume down by 20 percent,” Gattrell says. “If
we can do that, we would be very happy.”
Everest of Woodworking
Kelen and his masterpiece
What does a rising
young physician do with an unplanned year off? For
Gabe Kelen, who’s now chair of the Emergency
Department here, that year came in 1980 and took on
the shape of a harpsichord.
A newly minted M.D. from the University of Toronto
at that point, Kelen decided late in the game to focus
on emergency medicine, a specialty absent from the
Canadian medical landscape at that time. Opting to
wait a year for a residency slot at Hopkins, he sought
a hobby, anything to absorb his unchained energy. He
settled on the idea of constructing a fine musical
instrument—a harpsichord. And not just any harpsichord.
The young physician—who’d put himself through
college playing guitar and singing in coffee houses—cast
his nascent woodcrafting ambitions on a “double-manual,” with
two layers of keyboards.
To occupy his restless hands, Kelen drafted his craft-smart
brother-in-law, and soon the obsessed duo was toiling
at all hours, acquiring delicate selects of Sitka spruce,
along with exotic tools like hair-thin drill bits.
It included “thousands of parts,” said
Kelen, fondly recalling the Zenlike state that fell
upon him as he carefully fashioned each of the 200
plectra that had to be individually honed to size.
The process lingered into his residency, requiring
the better part of three years. And when it came time
to play? “That was a different story,” Kelen
chuckles. He confesses he never mastered the instrument.
Still, it makes for a unique piece and future heirloom,
sitting near the piano (which he does play) in the
Baltimore County home he shares with his wife and two
teen children. He says he looks back on it as his “Everest
The Olympian Press
M.D., on his way to see a patient
If anyone doubts the power of the press, Robert Seung-bok
(“S.B.”) Lee’s story should put that
cynicism to rest. Last year, Lee, who was then chief
resident in the Department of Physical Medicine and
Rehabilitation, earned headline status in two Hopkins
Medicine publications—the monthly tabloid Dome
and this magazine. A quadriplegic since 1987, Lee had
shut down all four of his limbs when he accidentally
landed on his chin as he trained for the Korean men’s
Olympic gymnastics team. Even so, he went on to complete
medical school and a residency, using a wheelchair
and a special pen for people with paralyzed arms.
The Dome cover story, “Superman, M.D.,” appeared
in February 2005, followed by the Hopkins Medicine
piece. Both articles then were posted on the Web—whereupon
letters and inquiries about Lee started flowing in
from all over the world. A flurry of TV appearances
in New York and Baltimore followed, along with features
in the Baltimore Sun, the New York Times and Korean
papers about the amazing Lee. All that exposure then
resulted in a book deal with a Korean publisher.
Lee’s book, “The Miracle Lies Within You,” which
debuted in August, sold 25,000 copies the first week,
is in its third printing and remains a bestseller in
Korea, with translations into Japanese, Chinese and
English in the works. Lee has now become a national
folk hero in the land of his birth. On one unforgettable
day, he received more than 10,000 e-mails, and
a year’s worth of speaking engagements all over
the world now dot his calendar. Meanwhile, Hopkins’ mail
room was caught a bit off guard by a sudden influx
of Korean food and handmade-gift packages addressed
to Lee from adoring fans.
One more result of the Hopkins physician’s sudden
fame has been an inundation of Korean job offers, including
one as vice chair of a new rehab hospital. He’s
turned them all down—so far. Most tempting, though,
is an offer to become a physician for the Korean Olympic
team. “I’ve never been able to abandon
my Olympic dreams,” Lee says.
The degree of respect a biomedical researcher’s
work commands from others in the field used to be something
scientists only deduced from hallway conversations
or professional meetings. No more. Today, keeping track
of who’s who on the laboratory scene has become
a science in itself. A Philadelphia-based newsletter
called Science Watch uses “unique citation data
to provide monthly rankings, interviews and reports
on today’s most significant science,” (to
quote its own Web site).
Given such precise data-collecting, it was no small
thing, then, that Science Watch’s summary of
the most frequently cited cancer researchers in the
10 years between 1995 and 2005 placed five researchers
from Johns Hopkins Kimmel Cancer Center at the top
of its list. Collectively, articles in scientific journals
by these Hopkins investigators had been referenced
more than 90,000 times in work published by their peers.
Heading the Science Watch list (in place order) were
Bert Vogelstein and Kenneth Kinzler, discoverers of
the genetic mutations that cause colorectal cancer
and inventors of a screening test for the disease;
James Herman and Stephen Baylin, leaders in the cutting-edge
field of epigenetics, which pinpoints disease-causing
genetic changes that take place without affecting the
DNA; and David Sidranski, an expert in cancer biomarkers.
Raved Science Watch: “The Kimmel Cancer Center
solidifies its stance as a research powerhouse in the
field of oncology.”
All in a Name
Comparative Medicine has officially changed its departmental
name to Molecular and Comparative Pathobiology. A more
unwieldy moniker, granted, but one that gives a better
idea of what this field is all about.
Long associated with the clinical care of laboratory
animals, Comparative Medicine took a step up in academia’s
eyes three years ago when it was elevated to department
status. But the confusion over exactly what its faculty
did lingered. The new title, Molecular and Comparative
Pathobiology, reflects the department's dual focus—looking
at the molecular process of animal diseases and comparing
the relationship between animal and human disorders.
There you have it.
|> Justin Lappen and his new bride, Rachel, on their honeymoon in Thailand in April
Justin Lappen knows all the reasons why a physician
might steer away from obstetrics: risk of lawsuits,
ungodly malpractice insurance fees and a terrible on-call
schedule. And yet he has boldly followed his heart
into becoming the only graduate in the School of Medicine’s
Class of ’06 to choose Ob/Gyn as a specialty.
On July 1, he’ll begin a residency at Northwestern. “The
way I figure it,” Lappen teases, “I’ll
have a guaranteed business delivering all my colleagues’ children.”
Lappen says the deal was clinched after obstetrics
residency program director Jessica Bienstock urged
students to visit her service on their own. Lappen
couldn’t help himself. “She had me catch
a few babies that day,” he says. “There
was no turning back.”
On thinking it over, Lappen saw how Ob/Gyn might be
the nexus of his three professional passions: surgery,
bringing new people into the world and public health.
Of course, the malpractice threats still chafe, but
he has found encouragement in talking to career-long
OBs. “They all said they wouldn’t change
their choice of specialty for the world,” he
The Great White-Coat Debate
Ask any five people what one article of clothing symbolizes
the M.D. and chances are you’ll get the same
answer—the white coat. For more than 100 years,
that identifying uniform has spelled doctor. Who’d
have guessed, then, that all sorts of physicians actually
oppose the wearing of this garment?
Take Michael Carducci. When seeing patients, the idealistic
young oncologist wears normal business attire—typically
oxford shirts and ties. To convey his medical expertise,
he prefers the subtle cues of a friendly introduction
and a modestly displayed badge. He also “sits
in the chair the doctor is supposed to sit in,” and
makes sure that his desk “never comes between
the patient and me.” His goal, he says is “to
convey a tone that ‘I’m working with you.’”
Carducci’s no-white-coat credo took root while
he was still a chief resident in the early ’90s.
He came across studies that questioned whether the
distinguishing bright whites could create a barrier
in the doctor-patient relationship.
Carducci has company. One of his fellow oncologists,
Antonio Wolff, also wears civvies, citing precisely
the same rationale. He points out that physicians at
the Mayo Clinic are actually forbidden to wear white
coats, an edict handed down by a Clinic founder who
believed that uniform would make patients uncomfortable
and even frightened.
Mike Weisfeldt, director of the Department of Medicine,
mentions an illuminating side debate that took place
among the 106 members of the house staff in his department.
With short white coats the signature of medical students
and interns (further down the pecking order from residents),
should they also be allowed to wear the elite long
white coats? By a narrow margin, the group ratified
the restrictions. “I think that indicates how
the white coats convey a sense of stature,” Weisfeldt
says. He adds that teaching hospitals across the country
have been adding “white coat ceremonies” for
their incoming students in recent years.
That ceremony, in which new med students are “cloaked” by
senior physicians, is spearheaded by the Arnold P.
Gold Foundation, which promotes humanism in medicine.
The Gold Foundation has no worries about the white
coats, creating a barrier with patients. “Any
time you put the word doctor in front of your name,
you’re introducing a barrier,” says foundation
president Sandra Gold. She’s more concerned with
wanting med students to reflect on the responsibilities
that come with the medical profession.
Luckily, most physicians are allowed their personal
preference. Internist Paul Auwaerter, who wears his
white coat as a matter of course, is grateful for the
latitude. “I don’t know what I’d
do without the pockets,” he says.
The Medicine in Art
|> Med students at the BMA
One medical student
studies the reclining figure. The man’s eyes
are closed, his head thrust back, his right hand hanging
limply at his side. “He’s either sleeping
or exhausted,” said Rush Chewning as his fellow
students looked on. “He’s not dead because
he’s got good color. He’s either wounded
or out cold.”
“He’s not wounded,” another student
says. “He doesn’t appear to be in pain.” Others
note the woman at his side. “She has a certain
lightness to her face. She seems radiant.” Some
study another woman in the painting, her breasts bared. “She’s
a little disturbing. Are those fish scales starting
at the hip?”
The subjects of this evolving diagnosis are not living
people but figures in a painting. The setting is a
light-filled gallery at the Baltimore Museum of Art,
where on four separate weekend afternoons this spring
more than 70 School of Medicine students gathered to
observe selected works. Their visits were part of a
pilot program to help improve visual observational
skills using art as a medium.
The project, developed by Sarah Clever, an assistant
professor of general internal medicine, and BMA guide
Marcia Gregory—and backed with administrative
support from the office of the dean of students—featured
three works: a 1938 mask from African Guinea, a painting
by American artist Horace Pippin depicting a French
village devastated by war, and “Rinaldo and Armida,” the
large canvas featuring the slumbering warrior, a 1629
work by Anthony Van Dyck.
Floating an e-mail to the entire student body describing
the project, Clever never expected many takers. But
within the first hour, she had 25. In all, 83 signed
up. Medicine and art are not as disparate as they may
seem, Gregory points out. Like the human body, “works
of art are complex and require careful analysis.”
The students would be given absolutely no background
but, with minimal guidance from Gregory, would interpret
the works on their own. Gregory, who is manager of
docent and tour programs, knew from experience that
the Van Dyck, the only one in the museum’s collection,
was well suited for the project. “It’s
big, it’s one of our treasures, and I knew we
could tease out the story.”
Programs such as this are not new. Yale medical students
have attended “clinics” at the Yale Center
for British Art in New Haven, and similar courses are
in place at Stanford, Cornell and Mount Sinai School
of Medicine. Even police officers in New York have
sharpened observational skills at the Frick Collection,
a Manhattan museum.
Clever hopes the pilot program will continue in the
fall. Evaluations were uniformly positive. “Translating
images into words is challenging,” one student
wrote. “However, it’s a very useful skill
Anne Bennett Swingle
Neuroscience's Act II
With a neuroscience department and its namesake director
already widely considered the best in their field,
what was Hopkins to do for an encore?
Lasker-award-winning Solomon Snyder—the only
chair the Hopkins neuroscience department has ever
known—was stepping down, prompting a global search
for a worthy successor. But as sometimes happens with
departments that possess a magnetic reputation for
attracting big talents, the perfect fit emerged from
within: Richard L. Huganir, a world-renowned authority
on neuron-to-neuron brain functions who has been on
the Hopkins faculty since 1988.
Huganir’s scientific credentials are impeccable
and impressive. He’s a Howard Hughes scholar
and a member of the American Academy of Sciences and
has authored or co-authored more than 180 scientific
articles and reviews. What’s more, “he
has the vision to take the department into what is
quickly becoming a new Golden Age of neuroscience,” says
Dean/CEO Edward D. Miller.
One part of this vision has to do with Huganir’s
commitment to foster the careers of women and under-represented
minorities within the neurosciences.
A professor of neuroscience since 1993, Huganir is
acclaimed for shedding light on what goes on when nerve
cells in the brain communicate. His work on the makeup
and activity of proteins and other brain chemicals
has profound implications for the treatment of such
neurological diseases and movement disorders as Lou
Gehrig’s disease, stroke and dementia.
Huganir has also served as director of the department’s
graduate program, chair of the National Institute of
Neurological Disease and Stroke’s board of scientific
counselors, and treasurer of the Society of Neuroscience.
Huganir obtained an undergraduate degree in biochemistry
from Vassar, then earned a Ph.D. in biochemistry, as
well as molecular and cell biology, from Cornell. He
did postdoctoral work at Yale and Rockefeller universities.
Bennett and Bayview: The Next Chapter
Richard Bennett ’82 came naturally to his affinity
for older people: He practically grew up in a nursing
home. Since 1937, his family has operated a small Northwest
Baltimore elder care facility, and he was raised on
Bennett, now a nationally recognized gerontologist,
was recently appointed executive vice president and
chief operating officer of Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical
Center, where Hopkins’ Division of Geriatrics
is among the biggest draws. His early experience, he
says, is going to serve him well. “I grew up
watching compassionate care being delivered and also
observing the business of health care.”
Bennett has a stellar reputation in both fields. Serving
since 1997 as executive medical director of the Johns
Hopkins Geriatric Center (now the Care Center), he
led an array of clinical programs that have become
national models. He also directed the center’s
fellowship training program, overseeing one of the
largest groups of clinical and research geriatrics
fellows in the nation. In 2003, he was appointed vice
president of medical affairs at Bayview and the next
year was elevated to senior vice president of medical
A pure Baltimore product, Bennett headed straight
for gerontology when he graduated from the School of
Medicine in 1982. After a residency and fellowship
at Hopkins, he joined the faculty in 1989 and quickly
made his mark with landmark research on such afflictions
of the elderly as post-antibiotic diarrhea and pressure
ulcers (bed sores). He also developed approaches for
older people to live at home and “age in the
community,” as services and medical treatment
are delivered by outside providers.
Neil A. Grauer
The Maven of Scientific Marketing
A certain buzz always surrounds the arrival of a new
vice president for Hopkins Medicine. So when
word got out early this year that Dalal
health care executive from the Cleveland Clinic, had
been named VP for Marketing and Communications, people
were all ears to know her thinking.
Haldeman, it turns out, comes to marketing via a distinctly
scientific pathway. She grew up in Lebanon, studied
biology and chemistry at the American University of
Beirut and became Lebanon’s first Ph.D. in food
science after earning her doctorate from Penn State.
She became a marketing pro almost accidentally. Living
in Pittsburgh in the late 1980s, she was an assistant
professor at Pitt when Metro Health Care in Cleveland
recruited her to lead its 250-person clinical nutrition
division. When the CEO there noticed her penchant for
building patient satisfaction through service, he tapped
her to head up the system’s quality improvement
effort. Suddenly, Haldeman, M.B.A. in hand, was working
directly with clinical departments, smoothing patient
flow by cutting roadblocks impeding care delivery.
Health care marketing—with its emphasis on putting
patients in touch with clinical services—was
the logical next step. In 1996, Cleveland’s Children’s
Hospital for Rehabilitation brought her on to direct
marketing, business development and PR. When the hospital
became part of the Cleveland Clinic, the Clinic chose
Haldeman to head strategic marketing. She found herself
in a key position at one of the nation’s booming
At Hopkins, managing the “brand,” she
says, will be a vital part of her job. “It’s
the most recognized name in health care, and we have
to be careful how it’s used. I’m in awe
of this institution. Since its beginning, it has dreamed
of what it wanted to be and then become that.”
Still, Haldeman admits, it was Johns Hopkins’ reputation
in biomedical research—the science—that
drew her here. “When I was leaving the Clinic,” she
says, “a colleague told me, ‘you won’t
like Hopkins; it’s a research institution.’ I
smiled. ‘That’s the big reason why I’m
going there’ I said.”