In Memory of my Son

December 18, 2011

Can it really be ten years, Bob? Ten years today since we got that phone call from the emergency room? Ten years since you went from being on top of the world to being … gone.

So much has changed since then, yet you remain frozen in time. Though I think of you every day, the memories keep growing fainter. Images of you increasingly fuse with those of your brother. The sound of your voice, captured in too few recordings, grows dimmer. The warmth of your hugs, your smile, your laugh. Where do I go to find them?

Where would you be now, and what would you be doing? Would you be on to your third startup with Max? Would you have made me a grandfather? How would you have changed the world? It’s as if there is a parallel universe where all is as it should have been, but I can get there only in my imagination.

The early years were hardest, Bob. Hard and uncertain. But I was determined to live. To find joy again. To start anew. And that I’ve done.

I’ve remarried, Bob. I think you would approve. She’s a very accomplished woman, strong yet loving, independent yet bound into the bosom of her family. She tries to understand but all she knows of you are those moments when I briefly become unglued. They’re becoming rarer now. But, in truth, when they wash over me, unbidden, I don’t fight them anymore. I relish the intensity as they are all that I have left of you.

Yiayia and grandpa are still with us, though grandpa’s time is soon at hand. He faces mortality with strength and dignity, every day a gift as his body slowly succumbs to the ravages of age. Sharp as ever, he can still find the humor in things through the aching of his bones. Parting will be sad, but not a tragedy. Saying goodbye to your father is the natural cycle of life, and there will be nothing left unsaid. What was left unsaid between us, Bob? I will never know.

You would be so proud of your brother. We all underestimated him, growing up in your shadow. The way you glided through life, the fair haired boy, was so different from his daily struggles and disappointments. The youthful accolades you earned eluded him, yet you should see him now. He survived his education unbent, learning how to learn in his own unique way. He has become a master of his art. His passion is unbridled, and I’m watching his confidence and experience expand by the day. And, oh, the path he has chosen! Standing at the cusp of a scientific revolution he takes my breath away; nothing I have ever been a part of comes close. The world will soon know whether his theories can be reduced to practice. If they can it will forever change the way we treat disease, opening a whole new chapter in mankind’s oldest struggle, the struggle against death. The struggle to spare other parents the worst pain a man can face.

You will be pleased to know that the money you left from your PayPal stock sustained Brian as he recklessly set out to seek his fortune, against my advice, though I know you would have urged him on. You’d be even more pleased to know that it is your mentor, Max, who opened that one door behind which was a man with the acumen, the courage, and the financial resources to gamble on Brian’s vision. Max looks over Brian even now, as your brother works like a man possessed turning his vision into a reality.

I’m in the autumn of my career now, Bob, my energies turned toward understanding and explaining this crazy world we live in. So many projects, so many dreams, so many challenges lie in the rear view mirror. But I have no regrets. You, Brian, and I were born to thrive on change. We were blessed to live in a time when agents of change are honored and rewarded rather than scorned and persecuted. I don’t know how much longer those times will last. But Brian will have his shot, even though you squandered yours. Maybe someday I will learn how to forgive you for that.

Sleep easy, my son. It comforts me to imagine you that way. Sleep easy.

Dad