Jim Walraven

 

                                               Jim and Julie

I just discovered something today that really makes me sad. Jim Walraven, one of my best friends, has died. I know it makes no sense, but emotionally I believed he would always be there.

We used to exchange e-mails at least once a week since we couldn’t get together in person. He didn’t answer one of my messages and I thought he was just getting tired of our frequent e-mails. He didn’t answer my Christmas card so I just Googled him.  All I found was his obituary. There was a picture of him and his little dog, Julie. He told me once that Julie had saved his life. He was depressed and getting ready to commit suicide. She jumped up on the bed next to him, licking his face and wagging her tail, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave her alone. 

Jim and I were old friends. We had gone to the same medical school, but we didn’t really know each other until later. It was after Vietnam, after we had both gone into private practice that we got to be friends. We were sitting together in the doctors’ lounge one day after making rounds and discovered that we had both been in Vietnam. Not only in Vietnam, but in the same Division, and with the same position. Preventive Medicine Officer. I was actually his replacement! 

After that, we started trading weekends covering for each other, and on Sunday nights when we called to report on any changes in each other’s patients, we would talk, not only about medicine, but about our interests, our personal lives, our philosophy of life. Jim was a Buddhist. I don’t think he went to a Buddhist church, if there is such a thing, but he admired their philosophy. I had gotten interested in the Eastern religions too, during my tour in Vietnam. Our conversations renewed my interest, and I read a couple of books by the Dalai Lama, and by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist. He gave me a copy of the Tao Te Ching, the foundation of Taoism. I sometimes meditate. It gives me peace. 

I admired Walraven so much. He was a good doctor, and dedicated. I don’t think he took a vacation during the eight or ten years we worked together.  His patients loved him. No problem was too big or too small. He had ointments for this, balms for that. He had the pharmacist compound special mixtures for him. 

And he was always interested in something. He got an Apple computer for the graphics feature, which he used to plan renovations to his house. He was a pilot, and a sailor. He built a sailboat in his back yard. It was large enough to sleep a couple of people in the cabin. It had beautiful mahogany paneling. For a while he was into Bingo. He’d go one night each week. He proudly announced during one of our Sunday conversations that he had won a $500 Jackpot. He bought a metal detector and for a while he was into treasure hunting. Treasure hunters share information. They have periodicals that describe potential finds. Jim was particularly interested in an army payroll that had disappeared back in the 1800’s down in Southeastern Indian Territory, now Oklahoma. For a while he’d spend his free weekends down there, with his metal detector, scouring the countryside for treasure. 

We got together with our wives too. Jim’s wife Gracie was working in marketing for a department store. She got to be friends with my wife at the time. They had no children, but lots of friends. They had an active social life. 

Jim and I lost track of each other for a few years. I took the geriatric boards and became a geriatrician. Kaiser Permanente advertised for a geriatrician in Dallas, so I moved down there, and later transferred to Denver, where I retired.

Years later I ran into Jim during a trip to Oklahoma City and we started corresponding. He and Gracie were living in a retirement center where they had planned to retire. Jim was the same dynamic person as he had always been. He had only recently retired, working five or ten years longer than me. He was studying Spanish, writing book reviews of Spanish books. He had joined a group who met weekly to practice their Spanish. He was making jewelry – pendants and bracelets - out of charms he found at Michael’s, as presents for the ladies at the center. I was compiling stories about my experiences in Vietnam, so he wrote down some of his experiences, much more exciting than mine, and gave them to me to include in my book. 

At the same time, Jim’s wife Gracie was suffering from dementia, and he had become an almost full time caregiver. They still went out together, but he had to help her with everything, dressing, bathing, eating. She still appeared normal superficially, but more and more she had episodes of agitation. After a particularly scary incident where she wandered off toward a busy street, Jim had to put her in an assisted living facility for dementia patients. Then he would go there every day to make sure she ate, to watch her medication to make sure she wasn’t oversedated. The cost of maintaining her at the dementia facility and living at the retirement center became too expensive, so he had to move. He bought himself a small house with a GI loan where he lived until he passed away. 

Jim Walraven meant a lot to many people. He was a fascinating, interesting person who saved lives, relieved suffering, and brought joy to all of us who were fortunate enough to know him. 

Getting old is different than I thought it would be. I used to tell my patients to cultivate friendships with younger people so you won’t be left alone when you’re old, but I no longer feel that way. I would never be able to replace my memories with new friendships. Take my memories of Jim. He was such a dynamic person. He led such a rich, meaningful life. The times we shared, the conversations we had over the years are priceless. I could never build such a relationship again. I’ve known several remarkable people, my wise cousin that I’ve mentioned in previous posts, my lifetime friend Harlan, who died just a couple of years ago. They were part of my life, part of the times I’ve lived in, but now mostly in the past. 

As I grow older, I feel more and more out of place. Most of the people I’ve admired, people I have known are gone. All that’s left of them are brief summaries of their accomplishments, like Jim’s three paragraph obituary. What it was like to know them, to experience their spirit, their enthusiasm lives on only in the memories of those of us who were touched by their lives. When we are gone, so will be our memories of them. I’m happy though.  I’m fortunate to have known some remarkable people, and I’ll continue to try and communicate some of those memories in words, but they are a pale imitation of reality. The future is for others.