Shahar Madjar, MD

My second-cousin is also a urologist. Our grandfathers were brothers. His first name is Igal. He spells his last name Madgar and I spell my last name Madjar, which when asked, I tell people, “It should be pronounced like in ‘a mad jar,’ like in ‘a crazy jar.'”

Because we both are urologists, Igal and I sometimes happen to meet at conferences. This May, I met Igal in Chicago, at the annual meeting of the American Urological Association. And on my agenda, besides talking about our more challenging patients and about our private and professional lives, was a question I wanted him to answer for a long time. I asked him, Can you tell me about your father and mine–the story you had told me that brought laughter to my heart, and has now, like many memories, vanished into thin air?

When I hear a story, or read a certain beautiful sentence in a book, I often pause to think for a moment or two before moving on. How can I keep these thoughts, these cherished moments of appreciation from vanishing? How can I keep the stories alive and my memories vivid?

Here is a memory that I hold dear, about how I first met Igal: I knew there was another doctor in my family but I didn’t know who he was, what kind of a doctor he was, or where he practiced. In one of my clinical rotations as a young physician-resident in Tel Hashomer Medical Center, as I was walking along the corridors of the hospital, I noticed a sign on a door that read, “Dr. Madgar, urologist.” I gathered some courage and knocked on the door. I introduced myself and asked Igal if we were somehow related. He asked who my father was and I answered, “My father’s name was Itzhak.” I could see the wheels in Igal’s mind turning as he was piecing together memorable moments, people, and places, as he was pinpointing our exact positions along the timeline of his family’s history, and along the branches of his family tree. “Shahar,” he concluded, “we are second cousins!”

How can one revive a beloved, forgotten story? In our last meeting in Chicago, I asked Igal to repeat the story. He, now 75, still practicing urology, full time, with a mind as clear as the water of Lake Superior retold me this:

Our two families immigrated to Israel from Bulgaria. My grandfather and Igal’s, my father and Igal’s father, their wives, and their kids. They had very little money and the times were hard. Years later, my father somehow managed to open a store in downtown Haifa and became a creative welder and later a businessman who developed a reputation as an energetic, clever, yet short-fused, easily angered man.

Knowing my father’s mercurial nature, Igal’s father drew immense pleasure from pulling tricks on him. One day, he learned that the phone line at my father’s shop was sketchy. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. That was, of course, very upsetting and stood in the way of great business transactions. And so, when my father received a call from the Ministry of The Post, then the governing body of all humanly possible communications, my father was very excited.

“I am calling from The Ministry of The Post, and I heard that your phone line isn’t working properly,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

“Exactly,” my father said, “and I have been calling and calling you guys to…”

“We will have to do some testing,” the voice said.

“Okay.”

“Repeat after me, 1, 2, 3,” the voice said.

“1, 2, 3!”

“Now louder.”

“1, 2, 3,” my father shouted into the receiver.

“Now, 2, 4, 8,” the voice commanded.

“2, 4, 8,” my father said.

“I said, 2, 4, 6!” the voice said, “there must indeed be something wrong with the line.”

“You said, 2, 4, 8, not 2, 4 …”

“Now put the receiver on your desk, take 3 steps back, and shout: 2, 4, 6!”

At that point my father got red in the face, and shouted back, “Are you $&@king kidding me?” To which the other voice responded, “Perhaps just one more small test and we will be done with all of this.”

“Go ahead,” my father said impatiently.

The voice responded quickly, “Take the phone and shove it up your A$&!” A loud laughter was heard, and the caller hung up.

As Igal was telling me the story, we laughed hard. It is such a good story because it is true to the temperament of my father as I remember him from my childhood and my early adulthood. He was bon vivant and had a good heart. His volatile temperament helped him in some situations but had made his life, in the final tally, more difficult. Despite his success in business, I often detected sadness and loneliness in his eyes. And as time passes, surprisingly, I feel closer to him, and more forgiving, perhaps because when I look in the mirror, I see his image.

He died in an accident, hit by a double-decker bus in London, England.

As for Igal and me, on my first meeting with him, he convinced me, using clear language and concise arguments, to become a urologist. “Urology,” he said, “is the best profession!” It was the best advice I have ever received, and for that I owe Igal my professional happiness.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Dr. Shahar Madjar is a urologist at Aspirus and the author of “Is Life Too Long? Essays about Life, Death and Other Trivial Matters.” Contact him at smadjar@yahoo.com.