There鈥檚 a moment in the story when he鈥檚 finally found the correct aisle.

His job 鈥� the sole task that his wife has given him that early spring morning 鈥� is to get one simple item. Though trust is a foundation of their 32-year marriage, evidently it doesn鈥檛 apply to the grocery store.

爱妃传媒 halfway down, on the left-hand side, he sees it. At the same moment, just a little farther down, he notices someone waving at him. As he gets closer, he realizes the smiling man is a high school football coach. He knows this, not because of anything he鈥檚 wearing or because he鈥檚 seen him on TV, but because, years ago, he saved the man鈥檚 life.

From the front passenger seat of the SUV, the storyteller pauses a moment, looking out the window at the trees streaking by in the early afternoon light. 鈥淚t was colon cancer,鈥� he says, almost as if he鈥檚 forgotten you鈥檙e there. 鈥淏ut we got it.鈥� 

Then he continues.

鈥淪o, we鈥檙e talking, you know, just catching up,鈥� he says, when another man, a little bit younger than the two of them, comes along. He鈥檚 one of the coach鈥檚 former players. The two men embrace. The coach tells him, 鈥淭his is Dr. Cole. The guy who fixed me.鈥�

The former player hesitates for a moment before chuckling in amazement. 鈥淪mall world,鈥� he says. 鈥淵ou fixed my mom, too.鈥� It鈥檚 a moment MUSC President David J. Cole, M.D., FACS, says he鈥檒l never forget. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 not why we do what we do,鈥� he says, now turning slightly in his seat to catch you out of the corner of his eye, 鈥淏ut yeah, it was an incredible feeling. That鈥檚 as good as it gets right there.鈥� 

Even though he must be tired, he smiles. He鈥檚 at the tail end of a nonstop Regional Hospital Network tour 鈥� Florence, Marion, Black River. Over the past 36 hours, Cole has set foot in three different MUSC Health hospitals, toured countless units and met hundreds of doctors, nurses and staff. It sounds like a lot because, well, it is. But it鈥檚 a fair barometer of what a typical week looks like for the still-practicing oncology surgeon who just also happens to be the big boss to nearly 25,000 people across six colleges, 14 hospitals and 750-plus care locations statewide.

 

Back in the Mount Pleasant Publix, the three men 鈥� surgeon, coach, player 鈥� share a few more laughs before eventually shaking hands and going their separate ways. And that鈥檚 when he sees her. Rounding the corner, coming down the canned vegetables aisle. Greeting her with the warmest smile he can muster, Cole attempts to explain to his wife Kathy what just transpired. It was a moment, he explains. Like something out of a movie. But it doesn鈥檛 matter. Because right now, he鈥檚 not the respected surgeon or prestigious university president, he鈥檚 simply the empty-handed husband.

With a tight smile, Kathy bends down and grabs it off the shelf. 

鈥淥ne job,鈥� she says. 

鈥淗oney, you don鈥檛 understand,鈥� Cole recounts, stepping right back into that very moment, his voice raising an octave 鈥� no doubt exactly the way he would have said it to her then 鈥� 鈥渢his was bigger than green beans!鈥�

For several weeks, spanning November and December of last year, MUSC writer Bryce Donovan and photographer Sarah Pack shadowed the man entrusted with keeping a $5.4 billion a year train on the rails. From the wood-paneled walls of board meetings to the bright lights of the operating room, they watched as he handled his colleagues, patients and everything in-between with a level-headed calm that鈥檚 made him the perfect fit for a position he鈥檚 held for the past nine years. 

This is a sneak peek inside the life of MUSC President David Cole. 

Rubbing elbows

With the sun fading to indigo and high tide sparkling among the marsh grass, David and Kathy Cole stand on a nearby veranda, shaking hands and trading smiles with legacy donors. Events like this are crucial, because even though MUSC is considered a state-funded organization, less than 4% of its annual budget comes from the government. That means people like these 鈥� the ones who the Coles are on hand to celebrate on this unseasonably warm autumn evening at Alhambra Hall 鈥� are key players in the growth and success of MUSC. 

 

The schedule of a university president can be brutal. The meetings. The phone calls. Financial and personnel decisions. But for all the long hours and the stress, there are a few perks to the job. Like the big corner office. The ear of influential people. And nights like these. Because 鈥� and most university presidents will begrudgingly admit this 鈥� in hyper-specific circles, they enjoy a celebrity status of the highest order: the higher-ed equivalents of Taylor Swift.

So it should come as no real surprise that the hundreds of people milling about the black-tie event 鈥� some mingling, some dancing to a jazzy rendition of a Hall & Oates song 鈥� all have the same two things in common: a financial dedication to MUSC and the desire to talk to Cole. Even if some of them aren鈥檛 100% certain which one he is. 

At that very same moment, on the opposite side of the event space, a woman waiting in line for a drink strikes up a conversation with a short, bearded man. They laugh a bit, enjoying a rare warm Charleston evening with no sand gnats. The small talk ends with him getting a glass of wine and her applauding all he鈥檚 done for MUSC. With a look of bewilderment, the man walks away to rejoin his friends at a nearby table, and with a wry smile says, 鈥淧lease refer to me as Dr. Cole for the rest of the evening.鈥�

Checking in

 

It鈥檚 11:09 a.m. as the gray SUV pulls out of the parking lot at a building Cole and other top-level MUSC executives call home base. Dating back to the Civil War, the red- and brown-brick structure was originally built to house small arms and do cannon repairs. Nearly 160 year later, the weapons have been replaced by computers and conference rooms. But at its core, the building still has the feel of a place where high-stakes preparations are made. 

As Colcock Hall shrinks in the rear-view mirror, Cole, sitting in the passenger seat, grabs a folder and begins to leaf through his agenda for the next two days. It consists of meetings with staff, dinners with prominent members of the community, facility tours 鈥� medical university president-type stuff. He turns his attention to his talking points for the first of several of meetings he鈥檒l have over the next 36 hours, only occasionally breaking the silence to share anecdotes on food courts or motion sickness. 

Three hours and eight minutes later 鈥� with a quick bite to eat and a story involving his mother and her fascination with skim milk in between 鈥� the road trip culminates in front of one of four South Carolina hospitals purchased by MUSC nearly four years ago. Cole makes it a point to visit these locations as often as his schedule will allow. Those visits aren鈥檛 lost on the people who work there. After an informal Q&A with some of the Florence medical staff, one nurse tells Cole that before MUSC purchased the hospitals, previous leadership was never around. 鈥淪o, for you to come from Charleston and check in, it means something,鈥� she said. 鈥淲e feel heard.鈥�

 

Over the course of the next several hours, Cole, along with MUSC Health Florence CEO Jay Hinesley, chief operating officer Jason Cox and chief medical officer Rami Zebian, M.D., makes the rounds. Along the way, the group checks out a new bronchoscope, some handheld ultrasound machines and a giant imaging system that looks like something right out of a Ridley Scott movie. Cole鈥檚 eyes light up as he learns about each 鈥� a not-so-subtle indicator of his love of medicine. 

Later that evening, at a dinner attended by MUSC Health Florence leadership and several key community members, Cole shares his central tenet as president of MUSC: 鈥淎s long as I鈥檓 in this role, above everything else, the patient is going to be the center of what we do.鈥�

He鈥檚 a medical university president, sure, but a physician first. 

鈥淭hese are O.R. shoes.鈥� 鈥淥h, are they?鈥�

 

Leah Ladue can鈥檛 hide her nerves. Lying helplessly in the hospital bed, her parents at her side, she knows the next few hours of her life depend on the man sitting to her right. With his arms resting on her bedrail and a blue surgical cap covering his white shock of hair, Cole searches her eyes, trying to ease some of those fears. 

鈥淨uestions? Concerns? Mysteries?鈥� he asks gently.

 

Thirty-one minutes from now, Cole and his team will begin a right mastectomy on Ladue 鈥� the entire procedure will take about three hours 鈥� removing multiple cancers in the process. It鈥檚 a serious surgery 鈥� the breast tissue will be removed all the way to the muscle 鈥� but one Cole has performed hundreds of times in his career. 

鈥淲ill I have to spend the night here?鈥� is all Ladue can manage, dozens of heavier questions no doubt lingering behind those scared eyes.

Cole smiles, nods and then turns to her parents and says, 鈥淲e鈥檒l take good care of her.鈥�

Moments later, as he walks back to the operating room, his wedding band and Apple watch carefully tied into the drawstring of his scrub pants and his black surgical dress shoes softly clicking on the linoleum 鈥� 鈥淎 lot of surgeons wear those clogs,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 prefer these. My son calls me an OG surgeon鈥� 鈥� he chats amicably with a surgical resident and physician鈥檚 assistant Jennifer Ridgeway, both of whom will be assisting with the procedure. The stakes couldn鈥檛 be higher now, and yet, Cole seems the calmest he鈥檚 been in days. 

But it鈥檚 not really a surprise, after all, this is where he鈥檚 happiest. Where it all began.

Following his heart

 

The basketball court in his driveway confirms what you already suspected. Yes, the six-foot-two New Mexico native loves hoops. Played power forward for his high school team, even got a few junior college offers. But the sport never really defined him. So when he instead chose to go to 鈥� a school that didn鈥檛 offer him a basketball scholarship 鈥� it was with the mindset that his future lay somewhere off the hardwood.

At NMSU, he was on it. He graduated with honors and was named a finalist. Then it was off to in New York. From there, things kicked into high gear. He did a residency at in Atlanta. Worked his butt off. Fell for a pediatric bone marrow nurse named Kathy. 

 

Four cities, three kids and several decades later, Charleston eventually became home court for the Coles. Recently, they鈥檝e even recruited two new players to the roster: granddaughter, Emily, and six-month-old Cairn Terrier, Sassy.

The story was mostly roses until 2019, when a medical issue forced Cole into one of the scariest moments of his and Kathy鈥檚 lives: he would need major surgery to address a congenital heart defect. It was a gut punch to the family, but like all obstacles they had faced before, they would meet it head on. The hours-long open-heart procedure kept him out of commission for a while, but in the end, life got back to normal for the Coles. Only this time it came with a few lifestyle changes and some welcomed perspective. 

Four years later, he still carves out time twice a week in his busy schedule to get to the Wellness Center and squeeze in a 60-minute workout.

鈥淚 love working with him,鈥� MUSC trainer Alicia O鈥機onnor says. 鈥淗e鈥檚 fun because he鈥檚 an athlete.鈥� Cole momentarily stops doing squats to interject: 鈥淵eah, yeah. I just think she needed a reclamation project.鈥� 

A new shrine

 

Almost symbolically, a lone sailboat navigates the Ashley River out the window below as Cole stands in a corner, gathering his thoughts. He turns and takes his seat at the table. 

The room is filled with doctors, a few children and lots of men in fuzzy red hats. The reason they have all gathered on the 7th floor of is to announce the South Carolina Pediatric Burn Center, a joint affiliation between MUSC and  

 

Cole鈥檚 job on this overcast morning is to welcome everyone and kick things off with a light anecdote. Making partnerships like this work are rarely as seamless as the events held to celebrate them make them seem. Oftentimes, years of planning, discussions and negotiations have gone on behind the scenes to make them a reality. And it can be a delicate balancing act. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn鈥檛.

But as president, that鈥檚 Cole job: to navigate the waters of diplomacy. Though admittedly more at home in a clinical setting, it鈥檚 this dance, this tightrope between friendships and business partnerships, where the man really earns his paycheck. 

Today is a win, he says. A game changer for the people of South Carolina. On its face, it might sound a bit idealistic, but when you鈥檙e the pitchman for his particular product 鈥� saving people鈥檚 lives 鈥� there really isn鈥檛 such a thing as hyperbole. It鈥檚 just flat out true. When health care improves, a community benefits.

Another day begins

There鈥檚 just something funny about a grown man in a suit cleaning up after a dog. Maybe it鈥檚 the absurdity of it, the blatant dichotomy. Or maybe it鈥檚 just reassuring to be reminded that that even the successful have to deal with, well, stuff.

It鈥檚 5:51 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, and Cole stands in his front yard, dressed to the nines, pleading with Sassy to go to the bathroom. 

鈥淪ometimes this feels like a pointless exercise,鈥� he says, trying to sound tough, his smirk betraying how much he loves this tiny furball.  

After finally hitting the jackpot, the duo head back inside, where Cole is greeted by his wife, wearing bedazzled, fuzzy slippers, gingerly nursing her coffee. His morning routine consists of a handful of variables 鈥� this morning, it鈥檚 unloading the dishwasher 鈥� but always a few constants: morning news on the TV and making his own lunch. Today it鈥檚 pimiento cheese on Captain John Derst鈥檚 bread. And, of course, there are the cookies 鈥� Lorna Doone, shortbread. Loved them since he was a kid, he says. 

 

Kathy escorts him into the garage before kissing him goodbye. He tosses his bag in the back seat of his car, hops behind the wheel and fires up the engine. He throws the transmission in drive and puts on a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. The only thing missing is the 鈥淒ays of Thunder鈥� soundtrack. Instead, from the radio emanates a mellow number by Boz Scaggs, probably more fitting, even if a tad disappointing. 

As he deftly navigates the morning rush-hour merge onto the Ravenel Bridge, the sun shines brightly on his face, marking the beginning of another long and arduous day rising on the horizon for the man running MUSC. 

鈥淭his job can be exhausting,鈥� he says a few minutes later, as he backs into his parking spot at Colcock Hall. 鈥淏ut I鈥檓 constantly reminding myself we鈥檙e trying to make a difference in people鈥檚 lives. And that鈥檚 not an easy thing. So I try to focus on the journey, the path to changing people鈥檚 futures for the better, because that鈥檚 what gets me up in the morning.鈥�

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