Dr. Ulman, Family Physician

Our family physician, Dr. Richard Ulman, died on February 21, 2013.  He was 85 years old and had been in poor health due to vascular disease.  He was more than their doctor to the Florence, OR, Sampsons—he was a personal friend.

The Ulmans must have arrived in Florence in the early 1950s.  Before that, when my frequent tonsillitis and ear infections kicked in, Milly and Vake had to find a babysitter for Sandy, then drive 50 miles to Coos Bay so I could get a shot of penicillin in the butt.

The Ulmans lived across the street on Rhododendron Drive  from Uncle John’s house.  Mrs. Ulman, Arlis, told about Dean’s hanging out the window of his second floor bedroom, sneaking a smoke and looking green in the face.

Dr. Ulman treated us through tonsillitis, earaches, and tonsillectomy for me and Mark.  He guided Vake through infectious hepatitis when there was no hospital in Florence and no money for using one anyway, directing Milly to scrub the bathroom and boil his handkerchiefs and bedding and to serve his meals on separate dishes—and Vake pulled through without infecting the rest of the family.  Dr. Ulman shot Milly up with gamma globulin to boost her immune system, but it was too late for Tina, Mark and me when Vake came down with mumps.  Sandy escaped. He teased Vake about catching kids’ infections when Vake’s legs were covered with ringworm (fungus) from working on a dirty plumbing site.  But he made a house call on Christmas day, for no charge because it was Christmas day, when Vake was stricken with sciatica.  He stitched up both of Mark’s hands when Mark fell off his bike and landed on the bottles he was carrying to redeem for cash at the grocery store.  Dr. Ulman was away, so his business partner treated Tina’s broken arm, but he was back in time to stitch up Mark’s foot when he was jumping on his bed and landed in my rock collection where I’d left a coffee can with a sharp edge. And on and on and on.

Dr. Ulman joined the Sampson boys (Gene, Johnnie, and Vake) in their deer-hunting camp in eastern Oregon.  Vake marveled at the neat job Dr. Ulman, physican and surgeon, performed when it was time for him to butcher his own deer.

By then, I was old enough to babysit the Ulman kids.  “Do you want money, or a shot of penicillin?” Dr. Ulman always asked me when he drove me home.  “I have some penicillin in the refrigerator.”

When Milly aged, her shapely figure changed to a little round apple on sticks for legs.  Dr. Ulman pinched an inch of at around her middle and asked, “What’s that?” 

“Fat ovaries!” Milly snapped.The Ulmans remained family friends well past Vake’s death and into Milly’s last years. 

 We, the family, regarded Dr. Ulman as our personal friend, but from the tributes appear on line (Facebook:  "You Know You’re From Florence, OR When..."), it appears everybody else in town did, too. Arlis and their children Greg and Carrie have our sincere condolences.