The Grandfather

July 1, 2009 was my first day as a neurology resident. It was Adam's 30th birthday, marking a new decade in our life. It was also the day I lost my father figure.

My grandfather was a simple, practical man. He taught me to swim in my youth. I spent endless summer days at his resort, splashing in the pool and eating ice cream. My brother would ride the lawnmower with him on an endless expanse of green. He worked hard but loved coming home for a good dinner and chocolate cake for dessert. Before we ice skated in the winter, he would walk out on the ice to make sure it was solid. He came to all my ballet performances and handed out our gifts on Christmas day. The summer before I turned 16 he bought me a turquoise Geo Storm. By then the resort was a retirement community and my grandparents were furiously trying to sell the last of the condos. Grandpa always had time to patiently endure 10 mile per hour laps around the development as I figured out how to drive.

When I brought home the man I intended to marry, my father did not ask him one question about himself during a five day trip. Under my grandfather's roof Adam was drilled with questions about his plans for the future, what his parents did, and his hobbies. Adam came prepared and soon after Grandpa was an enthusiastic fan of kayaking videos.

As he became sicker, I grew to admire my Grandpa even more. He was first diagnosed with prostate cancer in 1985. It was in remission until 5 years before his death. Illness stripped away the fire that inspired a juxtaposition of love and fear in those closest to him. The most stark features of his soul were exposed. His stubbornness was apparent when he insisted upon being the patriarch at my medical school graduation. My father had cancelled at the last minute. By then the cancer was eating through his ribs and pelvis. He left the auditorium after my name was called and walked off the pain in the bright meadows of the VA campus. He never hesitated to tell me how proud he was of me.

I saw Howard a month before he passed. He knew he was dying and we spoke frankly about his wishes. Ever practical, he said "Just cremate me and throw my ashes out the car window. I won't know the difference." We talked about finances and I assured him that I would care for his wife, should her life exceed her means. He had no regrets and told me he was ready. He was scared of the pain, but not of dying. He wanted Grandma to travel and enjoy life after he was gone. As I pulled out of the driveway, I looked back at his skinny figure, baggy clothing hanging off his once robust physique. I knew I would never see him again.

I called my father that night to tell him it was time to get on a plane and say his goodbyes. Unfortunately, he was not ready to face the truth. He never got to see Howard off. Later he told me he could not believe he went so suddenly. We had a strange memorial service at my childhood home. Howard's twin brother could not stop sobbing. Other relatives made meaningless chit chat. My dad kept repeating the lyrics to a country song when others expressed their condolences. "Well, life's a dance. Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow." My grandmother refrained from getting drunk until after guests left, then we kicked back martinis and she cried on my shoulder.

Howard had many characteristics that I treasured. He worked hard, pulling himself from poverty with a meager 11th grade education. He was brutally honest. He loved simplicity and found contentment in a good meal or a job well done. He was my father figure, and I miss him.