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: non-mercenary, respect for the profession, and a 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 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. 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 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 opinion, on everything from squash to medicine to life. He was simply a joy to be around: the infectious laugh, the elongated stupps teeth, the raised eyebrows and stare when 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 wink, and a grin to say ‘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 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 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. Maybe he felt an obligation to the profession. But maybe he was just that type of guy. Just helping someone along the journey of life. Nothing more, nothing less.
My father and Dr. Lee were both colleagues and friends. Yet for me, their relationship transcended these trite appellations. They knew each other from medical school days almost seventy 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 hospitalized for four months in the US. And it was Uncle Bud who operated on my dad in a desperate attempt to save him in 2004. The day after my father passed, I visited him at his residence in Lamaha Street. At the best of times Uncle Bud was a man of few words. At the worst of times he was downright silent. 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. 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 in today’s society, to complete a glorious century of honour and achievement. Today as we say goodbye, I shed a quiet tear; of sadness yes, but more so of 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. And for that we should all be grateful. I am.
Yours faithfully,
Roger Arjoon
