Requiscat In Pace

Isaiah 58:10 "and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday"

There are a very small number of people whose spirit so resonates with your own that they become the dearest of friends, even if time and distance keeps you apart. Jerry Umanos was one of those few for me. I dare say there are many dozens of people who would say the same thing about him, his spirit was so compelling. He loved life, he loved people, he loved Jesus. His shocking murder on April 24^th while working at CURE Hospital in Kabul will create such a void in so many lives. And yet, the memories each of us has of Jerry will continue to shape us for however many years we have left on this earth.

I first ‘met’ Jerry over the phone; it was probably 1986 or 87. He called the University Pediatric ER where I was the senior resident that night. He found himself working in a small inner-city hospital and had a teenager with lupus who was critically ill. One often got such calls from ‘LMDs’ (local medical doctors – a derisive term), and as youthful and arrogant residents tended to doubt the story and the medical abilities of the caller. Our hospital was out of Medicaid days – which meant we were instructed to try and not take any more patients with Medicaid that month. I still don’t understand, but it seems that in order to remain financially solvent each hospital had a predetermined number of patient-days each month allocated to Medicaid patients. Our pediatric intensive care unit was full as well, so even if we had Medicaid days, we had no room. Jerry explained the clinical situation and that he had not been able to convince any other Pediatric hospital to take the young girl. It was clear to me that Jerry was both a brilliant pediatrician as well as a compassionate person. I told him to send the patient over and we would keep her in our ER until I could find an intensive care unit bed for her.

A few years later, in 1992, when Amy and I were about to start working at Lawndale Christian Health Center (LCHC) in Chicago, we met Jerry and Jan at a welcome picnic. Jerry immediately recalled our interaction over the young girl with lupus from a few years prior.  In his usual fashion, he said with a laugh, “I remember when you saved my butt…”  Of course all I had done was accept the patient in transfer; as I recalled it, Jerry had guided me on what to do once she was in my care.

As it turned out, Jerry, Jan, Amy, and I had been almost crossing paths for several years. Jan worked at LaRabida Children’s Hospital as a social worker where both Amy and I had rotated during residency. We met and cared for two of their to-be-adopted children. Whereas Amy and I were intimidated by the prospect of adopting children with known health needs, Jan and Jerry had opened their hearts and home.  Typical of both Jan and Jerry’s sense of humor, we were reprimanded for not having potty trained their son during his long stay at LaRabida (Jan was right, it never crossed our minds, we were so focused on his medical needs). Then Jerry reminded me of a note I had written in the medical chart of his now adopted daughter, in which I had written under neurologic exam “WNL”, which is medical jargon for within-normal-limits. Problem was, she had cerebral palsy and used a wheel chair. I attributed the note to sleep deprivation, but told Jerry that I was not sure what had happened because obviously when I took care of her she had a normal neurologic exam! Thus began our years of friendship. To this day I cannot imagine how he remembered one single note from what must have been thousands of pages.

My mind is a flood with wonderful memories of the years I have known Jerry.  Early in our practice together at Lawndale he shared with me his dream that we could make it a place of such excellence in health care that people would want to come there, even if they could afford to go anywhere they wished.  He certainly did his part to make LCHC such a place. There was no better general pediatrician that I am aware of in Chicago. The perfect combination of a sharp mind and a compassionate heart. He took care of our children – the highest professional compliment I can pay.

We worshipped together at Lawndale Community Church for several years. One Sunday as we approached the front door Jerry held it open for us, and my then 3 year old son John exclaimed in horror, “Dad, there’s a doctor here!” Worried perhaps that I might not realize the danger! Jerry laughed, of course, and told John it was even worse – he lived with doctors! Always a great sense of humor.

Several of us men who worked at Lawndale met on Saturday mornings for about 10 years for fellowship, prayer and Bible study. We laughed as Jerry told us his plans to make a batting cage in his basement; winced in empathetic pain when he told us about his mountain biking escapades; cringed at his ideas for anniversary gifts for Jan; and generally marveled at his always joyful spirit.  During these times I got to know Jerry on an even deeper level.  What I saw was a beautiful reflection of Christ.

Jerry and I both left Lawndale for other callings, but we remained in touch.  Not infrequently, Jerry would email me a medical consult, complete with pictures and x-rays. I would do my best to answer his questions. But I admit I opened those emails with a sense of dread. If Jerry did not know the answer to a particularly tough question, odds were I would struggle. I wonder if those patients in Kabul realized how seriously Jerry took their health care. He could not settle for not knowing – he would reach out thousands of miles for a consult. I would occasionally return the favor.

As it happened, this past December we were both back in Chicago. We tried to arrange a gathering of the old (literally I am afraid) Bible study group, but our various visits to family did not allow the time, so we promised to try again this summer.

Now it is not to be. I know we will meet again in a better place, but for now, I am weeping. May your light continue to rise in the darkness.