Remarks at the Memorial Service for

 R. Lawrence Ferguson, M.D. 1 October, 2005

By Martin G. Luken III, MD, FACS

I was honored to be asked by Roberta, Sarah, and Katherine to share with you all today a few recollections of Larry’s and my many years together. As most of you know, Larry and I were partners for over twenty-five years, during most of which we spent more of our waking hours together than we did with our families. Larry was the Big Brother I never had, and I’m sure I exasperated him from time to time as only a little brother can do: I’m the father of a couple of sons, and have some practical experience observing this phenomenon.

For his part, Larry encouraged me to do things I might not otherwise have tried. He would draw on his boundless store of self-confidence and share it with me, and more often than not I would succeed.

For well over a decade Larry and I were the only neurosurgeons at Michael Reese Hospital, in the days when that venerable institution was a thriving teaching hospital. We were, if you will, the Batman and Robin of neurosurgery at Reese, although a more appropriate image might have been The Odd Couple: it was awfully difficult not to feel a bit like Felix Unger when paired with a Free Spirit like Larry. But however odd the couple, ours was a splendidly successful partnership, our respective strengths and weaknesses complemented each other, and they were clear to us both. Larry was the Big Picture Guy, and I was the Detail Man…although sometimes the scope of the Big Picture frankly verged on the extraterrestrial. But there never was a dull moment in our offices, and many times we’d end a day and another adventure together urging each other, with a chuckle, never to change.  There are four characteristics of Larry’s that I’ll particularly remember.

The first was his energy, and the passion – really the zeal of a late convert - with which he’d pursue whatever was his current interest. And those interests certainly were wide-ranging. When I first came to know him there was squash. Then came martial arts, followed by gold coins and precious stones, then horseback-riding, then bridge…the list goes on and on, and I’d need Sarah’s and Katherine’s help to make it complete. But always there was fishing, which he explained as being genetically determined: “I’m Canadian…ay.” And, finally and perhaps most fulfilling to him of all, there was ballroom dancing, with its intoxicating combination of athletics, romance, and showmanship.

The second characteristic I’ll remember was his intellectual curiosity, his ability to see possibilities and make connections not obvious to those around him. This sometimes led him off on fairly wacky tangents, but more often than not his intuitions proved accurate, and benefited us all. He was among the first champions of microsurgery in Chicago, and established an internationally known training course in microsurgical technique at Michael Reese. Later his interest in omental grafting led to papers he was invited to present in Britain and China. And, as his final illness began to take its toll, he returned once again to the question of fine motor control and microsurgery, and collaborated with the faculty of bioengineering at the University of Illinois in research which continues to this day.

I’ll also remember Larry for his courage. As a strong man and accomplished athlete he certainly had great physical courage, and was never intimidated by confrontation. But what amazed, impressed, and finally inspired all of us was the courage with which he faced his dreadful illness. If he had dark and depressed hours or days – and he certainly must have - he never let them burden those of us around him. Whoever first commented that the measure of character is grace in the face of adversity must have had our Larry in mind: there certainly never beat a braver heart than his.

Finally, I’ll remember Larry’s generosity, his outgoing warmth that filled a room and touched everyone with whom he came in contact. It extended to the modest and humble as easily as it did to the high and the mighty. I’ll never forget attending a neurosurgical meeting with him in another city, and seeing him ask a rather forlorn older lady-of-a-certain-age to dance: he waltzed her around the room for a couple of medlies, undoubtedly made her day, then graciously took his leave and rejoined his colleagues, leaving her quite aglow. Certainly he loved his girls – particularly Sarah and Katherine – but he had a particular gift for nurturing and sustaining abiding friendships with other men, of whom Tom Whealy and Frank Arment, here today from far away, are only two of many. 

Larry was a party waiting to happen, and he loved nothing more than bringing his friends together to enjoy him and each other. And this gathering today is Larry’s last such gift to us.

He would be delighted that you all had come. He would be sure there was plenty to eat and to drink. And he would make clear to each and every one of you just how important it was to him that you were here. 

You men would be reminded of some war story, or of some zany adventure you’d shared. At the very least he’d refer to one of the jokes he’d told you a thousand times, and never tired of telling again – Teaching Rover One More Time, or “Hark I Hear A Cannon Roar!” – I can tell them in my sleep, but would give anything to hear Larry tell them one more time. And for all of you ladies…there would be at least time enough for one more impromptu dance lesson.

That’s how we’ll remember Larry, and that memory will warm our hearts for the rest of our days.

Martin G. Luken III, MD, FACS

 R. Lawrence Ferguson, M.D.