Losing A Legend: My Farewell Kiss to Dr. Bob Sanet

As I sit down to begin writing this post, Dr. Bob Sanet continues to fight for his miracle, though word has reached me that his final breath may be drawing near. Out of deep respect for his life, his loved ones, his family and friends, no one will read this until after he has left us. So for now, I will write for myself, because the weight of the moment demands it.

Bob came into my life during a season when I was still finding my way. I was 25 years old, newly married, about to be a dad for the first time, had moved to San Diego to join the VT clinic Bob was a part of, and foolishly believed I had all the answers.

And then I met Bob.

To say he shifted my perspective would be the understatement of a lifetime. Truth be told, his impact could have been measured on the Richter Scale. To be clear, he didn’t do it with lectures or grand pronouncements, he did it in conversation, in small moments, in the way he lived. Bob had a way of looking at you that made you slow down and reconsider, not because you felt wrong, but because you suddenly realized there might be a better way to see things. He was both disarming and challenging at the same time. He could laugh with you, show you immense love, push you, inspire you, and hold you accountable; often all in the same sentence. It wasn’t about teaching technique. It was about living life to your best potential, with the added benefit of improving in the Vision Therapy room, too.

I have always been a believer of the notion that two truths can exist at the same time. Life is rarely either/or. You can feel grief and gratitude in the same breath. You can be confident and uncertain in the same moment. You can know loss is inevitable and still be shocked when it arrives. And when you realize that, you also start to understand the power of focus. A mirror doesn’t create anything new, it simply reflects what is in front of it. The same is true of our thoughts. Whatever you place your attention on, you’ll begin to see more of. Focus on fear, and fear grows. Focus on love, and love expands. Bob lived that truth. He chose to see the best in people, and because of that, he often drew the best out of them.

Looking back now, I can see how much of him I carry without even thinking about it: the way I approach patients, the patience I try to bring into the room, the courage to stand up and advocate when I feel someone has been wronged. Those fingerprints are his. And that may be the truest measure of a life well-lived: that your presence echoes in others long after you’re gone. Bob’s story doesn’t end here. It lives in all of us who learned from him, laughed with him, and were changed by him.

This past September, I had the privilege of spending a weekend in Bob and Linda’s home. It was a gift I will never forget: a front-row seat to his wisdom and presence, even in his most difficult time. The conversations were quieter, slower, edged with the awareness of what was coming, but no less powerful. In fact, they may have been the most powerful of all. He spoke with clarity about gratitude, about choosing to see the good, about finding peace even as life was slipping away.

On a deeply personal level, he also offered guidance in an area of my life where I have always struggled, a private topic he and I had returned to many times over the years. With his usual steadiness, he reassured me that choosing the positive always works better, and, in classic Bob fashion, he used an in-the-moment event to prove his point. He reminded me that we alone define who we are – that our identity is not up for vote – and that if we hand that power to others, shame on us.

To be welcomed into that space, at that time, was humbling beyond words. He was dying, and yet pleased we could share a simple meal of fish tacos and a quality conversation. It felt less like visiting a friend and more like being entrusted with a final lesson. I told Bob it is hard to imagine the world without him; even harder to imagine what the VT world would be like had he chosen a different profession. He acknowledged his accomplishments and that he has been able to help a lot of people, but speculated that in 50 years, not many people would speak his name, much less remember him.

I will admit to feeling stunned. How could a man who changed the direction of an entire field believe his name might fade into the background? How could someone whose teachings are etched into clinics and classrooms across the world think he would be forgotten? Clearly, he wasn’t chasing recognition, only impact. But to those of us who know him, there is no separating the two. His name may or may not echo in 50 years, but his influence will. His fingerprints will still be there; in the metaphors we use and pass down, the courage we summon and plant in our proteges, and in the way people are cared for in the world of Developmental Optometry. That part cannot disappear.

One of my last communications with Bob was to wish him a Happy Birthday via text message the week after our visit. He responded with a very simple “Thanks so much ❤️”. Words I have tried to mirror back to him a million times over.

A friend recently told me they felt Bob Sanet was like a father figure to me in many ways; professionally, personally, and in the quiet wisdom he shared that shaped who I became in many respects. And really, who am I to argue? What an honor to be thought of in that light.

And so, as Bob’s final chapter draws to a close, his story lives in us. In the way we teach, in the way we care, in the way we pause to listen, in the way we try to improve the lives of others through our craft. His medical miracle may not have come in the form he prayed for, but perhaps the real miracle is this: his presence remains, multiplied in every person he touched, every life he changed, every spirit he lifted, and in every lesson he shared. And for my money, that will always be enough.

Rest well, my friend. We’ll carry it from here.

And Bob, thanks so much ❤️