RON MALY HAS BEEN WATCHING THE PARADE GO BY FOR A LONG TIME. THIS IS ONE OF HIS WEBSITES.

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Not All Of My Christmas Mail Is Pleasant

By RON MALY

I'd like to start this by writing about mail.

Not email. 

Christmas mail. 

A lot of the mail most of us receive at this time of year is very pleasant--cards wishing us Merry Christmas with manger scenes, the Baby Jesus, Santa Claus, snow men and snow women, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, friends detailing what they did throughout 2016, stuff like that.

But not all of the stuff the mailman is bringing is good news.

For me anyway.

Like the letter I received a few days ago.

It was from a kind man with the tongue-twister of a name, Siva P. Jagarlapudi.

"Just call him Dr. Jag," one of his nurses told me a number of years ago.

So that's what I'll call him throughout the rest of this essay.

Dr. Jag is a native of India, and he wrote to me and his other patients that he is retiring very soon.

I guess I knew it would happen sometime.

On one hand, I'm happy for Dr. Jag that he's hanging up his stethoscope and the other tools of his trade. 

On the other hand, I'm sad that he no longer will be one of my doctors, treating my blood pressure so it's not too high or too low.

To me, Dr. Jag was much more than a medical person.

Dr. Jag started his letter to me this way:

"Dear My Friend."

He calls everyone "My Friend." 

And he is everyone's friend.

"I am writing to let you know of my intention to retire....My last full day will be December 31, 2016...."


Dr. Jag ended his letter this way:

"I have enjoyed caring for you and your families over the years. You have been kind to me and I sincerely appreciate your friendship and loyalty, and wish you the best in the coming years."

I've dealt with a lot of doctors over the years, and most of them have been excellent, personable people.

But Dr. Jag is one of a kind.

I mentioned a while back that one of my doctors sketched a portrait in pencil of me while I sat talking during my once-a-year appointment.

That was Dr. Jag.
 
Another time, a few years ago, two West Des Moines policemen in uniform rang the doorbell at my home.

When I opened the door and saw the policemen, I asked, "Am I under arrest for something?" 

"No" one of the guys said, "a doctor is trying to get a message to you."

"What's the message?" I asked.

"The doctor says you need to go to the emergency room at one of the hospitals,"  the policeman said. "Something bad showed up on your bloodwork, and the doctor is worried about you."

So off to the Mercy West Hospital emergency room I went for more bloodwork, wondering if I'd live through the night.

That time, though, the numbers were fine.

Those were years when I didn't yet have a cell phone.


When I arrived back home, Dr. Jag called me on my home phone to tell me there was nothing to worry about.

"My guess is the first test was faulty," he explained.  "Maybe the blood sat in the lab too long. Those things happen."

"Well, thanks for taking care of things," I told Dr. Jag.

In every appointment I had with the doctor after that, he and I laughed about him calling the police about my bloodwork.

He liked to talk about it.

Like I said, there's only one Dr. Jag.

Enjoy your retirement, my friend.