Dear Editor,
IN a country where one’s sense of propriety is constantly being tested and tempted, Uncle Bud never flinched or faltered. He was 5 ft 5” on a good day, but walked as a giant among men. He was a part of that greatest generation of doctors in Guyana, characterised by a disregard for money, respect for the profession, and a true sense of responsibility for service to the community. And he was his own man: one of highest integrity, respected by all who knew him and someone with a silent strength and an unshakable inner voice.

I first met Uncle Bud when I was starting to play squash at the Georgetown Club as a 10- year-old kid. By then he was the elder statesman at the courts, after having himself enjoyed a remarkable international sporting career in cricket and squash.

I am not sure he knew it, but as I grew up under him around the courts, he had a subtle, yet impactful influence on me. He was someone I looked up to on how to play the game and comport myself on and off the squash court. Over the years he would graciously play with me whenever I asked as I tried to improve my own game. He did however, stop playing me once I finally managed to beat him, but he would always remind me of who owned the better head-to-head record.

Over time, I increasingly sought his advice and opinions on everything from squash to medicine to life. It was an easy relationship as he was simply a joy to be around: that infectious laugh where his eyes disappeared into the creases of his face, that ‘sweet-boy’ swagger that was such a natural part of his walk, that elongated “stuuups” teeth with the inevitable disapproving shake of the head, and those raised eyebrows and stone-cold stare if you messed up. Even when he yelled at me for my many transgressions, I couldn’t get too upset. If you were feeling down, he was always quick with a joke (the dirtier the better), a grin, and a wink to reassure you that ‘everything will be OK’.

Along with my parents, it was Dr Lee who inspired me to think about a career in medicine (and it was solely due to him why I had a predilection for surgery). He could not have been more helpful with his encouragement, advice and patience with my many questions and went out of his way (sometimes uncomfortably so) to accommodate me. He even allowed me on several occasions into the operating room where I saw everything from a leg amputation to a colectomy.

This access offered me the opportunity to be a first-hand witness to his skill as a surgeon, his compassion for his patients and how much he was revered by his colleagues and staff. I don’t know why he was so accommodating to me during this time; maybe he saw something in me he felt a need to nurture. Maybe he felt an obligation to the profession. But maybe he was simply just that type of guy. Just helping someone along this journey we call life. Nothing more, nothing less.

My father and Dr Lee were both colleagues and friends. Yet for me, their relationship transcended these bland appellations. They knew each other from medical school days almost 70 years ago at UWI. They jointly operated on Uncle Bud’s first wife Joan during an unfortunate illness. They both stitched me up on several occasions after mishaps in my reckless and clearly uncoordinated youth. They jointly diagnosed my lung infection when I was hospitalised for four months in the US. And it was Uncle Bud who operated on my father in a desperate attempt to save him in 2004. In the battle of life and death, they had each other’s sixes and bunkered down in each other’s foxholes . . . right to the very end. The day after my father passed, I went to see him at his Lamaha Street residence. At the best of times Uncle Bud was a man of few words. At the worst of times, you wondered if he even spoke English.

Yet, he was at his articulate best as he conveyed how ‘shaken’ and ‘deeply affected’ he was at my father’s passing. I was as humbled by his words as I was by his emotion. It is a memory and moment I will never forget. I wrote in my father’s eulogy at the time: “The trust and respect my father and my family have for Dr. Lee is sacrosanct and inviolable. Dad would have wanted no one else to care for him in his final days.” I believed it then. I believe it now.

Eighty-seven is a damn fine innings to play. The beauty of his innings is in the quality of his stroke play, as much as it is in the length of his stay at the crease. But I can’t help but feel that both he and we ‘wuz robbed’. For there is perhaps no more deserving a person, or necessary an example for us – especially in today’s rudderless society – to complete that glorious century of honor and achievement. Today as we say goodbye, I shed a quiet tear.

A tear of sadness yes, but more so a tear of profound gratitude for what he meant to me and my family. As individuals and as a society we are worse off with his passing. But as individuals and as a society we are better people for having the privilege of having him in our lives, even if only for 87 short years; and for that we should be eternally grateful. I am.
Regards
Roger Arjoon