Dr. Melissa Freeman walked the bustling streets of New York with a quiet grace, her warm smile often greeting strangers in passing. Amidst the city’s millions, this extraordinary woman was hidden in plain sight, caring for the sick.

Sadly, the kind and loving doctor who was a granddaughter to a slave died in her Bronx home at the age of 98. She led a life of service, and we have so much to learn from her witness. 

I first met Freeman in 2018. I arrived at her small private practice in Harlem, where, inside, she was finishing up her busy day’s work. We had scheduled an interview, but she was still seeing patients, delicately taking her time with each one. Sitting in the waiting room, I could hear her voice murmuring down the corridor, as her niece, also named Melissa, fielded phone calls and booked appointments at the desk. When I asked her niece if it was always this busy, she chuckled and said, “We can be working until midnight sometimes.” 

Moments later, the longtime physician emerged. The first thing I noticed was her elegance, matched by a kind smile that instantly put me at ease. “You must be Colm,” she said warmly. Any notion I had of conducting the interview on my terms vanished as she began interviewing me instead. Her curiosity was boundless, and she quickly asked about my background, my family and my interests, responding to my answers with follow-up questions. I cracked some jokes, and just as fast, she came back with witty responses. She was immediately captivating and engaging, and I couldn’t help being drawn in by her. I knew she was going to give a wonderful interview — but I had no idea how incredible her story was going to be.  

We settled in her back office, and I took out my microphone to record. She even asked me about that! She was curious about everything, and when I spoke, she listened carefully. Then, all of a sudden, she would shout, “Lavern, Lavern, can you bring me my bag?” Lavern Williams was a gentleman who was there to assist with the recording. He was a close friend of the doctor, and I would later find out that he dedicated his time to helping her until the very end.  

I remember apologizing that she was having to do the interview at the end of a long day after seeing so many patients, to which she responded with a smirk. “No, I’m okay. ... Are you okay?” It was hard to believe she was 94. “Okay, tell me your story,” I prompted. 

Melissa Freeman was born in April 1926 in the Bronx, New York. She and her brother grew up in the home of their grandfather, Albert B. Walker. As a child, she didn’t know much about her grandfather’s story. “He was a quiet man,” she remembered.  

“He would get up early in the morning and sweep the property. In the summer he would plant roses and we would run out to school saying, ‘Good morning, Papa,’ and he would say, ‘Good morning.’ He was a simple man. He would sit on the porch and read his Bible. We don’t know how much he could read, but he would sit there quietly and read his Bible.”  

Little did young Melissa know the extent of her grandfather’s sorrowful past. After he was born in the 1850s, he was taken from his mother and sold into slavery. He worked the fields in Virginia up until the age of 11, when, in 1863, the Emancipation Proclamation was signed, freeing all slaves. Telling me his story, Freeman’s demeanor changed. Her smile had gone, and I could tell from her face that it was difficult for her to talk about it. As she described what her grandfather went through as a child, it hit me to my core. Listening to this 92-year-old woman talking about her grandfather's enslavement, her eyes teary, the generational pain slavery caused was evident. It was as if the heaviness of that legacy had somehow been passed down. But she continued, “He didn’t know what emancipation meant, but they told him, ‘You can go back to your mother now.’ … And somehow, and we don’t know how, he was able to find his mother again. But when he returned to the house, she didn’t recognize him because he had grown, and he said, ‘I’m your son Albert.’ And from that day, they never parted.” 

Albert and his mother eventually settled in the Bronx, where he worked as a reptile keeper at the Bronx Zoo. Reflecting on his life, his granddaughter admitted, “I feel hurt and angry that it happened. It was a terrible era in this country’s history.” Albert died in 1931, leaving behind a legacy of quiet resilience that would inspire his granddaughter. 

Growing up, Melissa was a gifted musician who studied music and art. But then she set her sights on something more ambitious: medicine. She was keenly interested in biology, and a friend suggested she apply for medical school. But given the social norms of the time, and the fact that she was a Black woman from a poor family, she thought it would be impossible. “I couldn’t see it happening. But then sometimes I would think, ‘Well, maybe it is possible ... but, no, really, it’s not.’” Perhaps it was her grandfather’s story that gave Melissa a sense of determination because, against all odds, she graduated from Howard University College of Medicine in 1955, one of only four women in a class of 150. 

Dr. Freeman would go on to have an incredible 65-year career in medicine. During that time, she was a pioneering physician in New York, renowned for her dedication to internal medicine and addiction treatment. In the 1960s, she developed a groundbreaking methadone-maintenance therapy for heroin addiction. She was among the first physicians to treat women using this compassionate, innovative approach, marking a significant advancement in addiction medicine. And even at the age of 92 when I met her, she was juggling her time between a methadone clinic in Lower Manhattan and her private practice in Harlem. And, yes, she was still riding the subway every day, checking paperwork and messages on her iPhone as she traveled. And when she would arrive at her Harlem office after spending the morning at the clinic, there would already be a line of people from the community waiting to see her. I asked her why she was still working at her age, and she smiled again. “I just love helping people — seeing people survive serious ailments that wouldn’t have happened before. Now they have a chance. I like to help others.” When I asked her what her grandfather Albert would have thought of her becoming a practicing doctor in New York, after he had been a slave, she said, “He would never have believed it. Never have believed it.” 

When I asked her to look back at her medical career and pick a highlight, she thoughtfully reflected, “Well, one of the first women I ever treated who was on drugs — to be able to see her bring a baby into this world and continue to take care of that child, that was a high point for me. And that’s something I want to continue to do. I’m not ready to give it up. It’s what God put me here to do.”  

At the end of our interview, I asked her about her last comment: “Do you really believe God put you here to do this work?”  

“There’s no other way I could have done it,” she answered. “God has been with me throughout all of my life.” And with that beautiful smile, the interview ended.  

Dr. Melissa Freeman never chased fame, fortune or followers. She never married or had children, but devoted every waking hour to her patients, working right up to the age of 95. After our interview, I knew I had met someone truly special: someone who had a light shining from within, the kind of person you meet only once in a lifetime. I would be lucky enough to visit Dr. Freeman a number of times in the years following that interview; we would have dinner, sing, share stories and talk about life. And each time we departed, her friend Lavern would always close our time together with a prayer to the Lord.  

The kindhearted doctor told me in our interview that God had put her here to do that work. And on Monday night, God told her that her work here was done. 

 Dr. Melissa Freeman passed away in her Bronx home at 98 years of age. She died in the arms of her loving niece Melissa, and special friend Lavern. 

May she rest in peace.