The former COO of a firm I worked at asked me point-blank at his farewell dinner “what are you?” and I stood there, confused by his question. “What is Stamatis?” he re-iterated…I ended up giving a canned answer about being a can-do, hard-working, dependable guy but spent a lot of time thinking about it after dinner because the question threw me off guard. Here was an incredibly accomplished COO stepping into retirement, asking me a question outside of the realm of corporate normalcy. When he came back at me with “we are all consciousness” I realized that he had probably fully checked out of his role and must have had one-too-many at dinner. I did appreciate his question and answer though, more so because it finally wasn’t work related.

In retrospect, the answer is clear as day; I am a memory in the making. We are the stories people tell about us; dead or alive. The best jobs, universities, and opportunities usually require character references in order to be considered. We tend to ask those who we believe would tell the best versions of the honest story of who we are and what we do best. Each and every one of us is writing our own story but with each action we take, we inspire – good or bad – the stories of others. In aggregate, it’s called history – but history is nothing more than a composition of shared stories of humans being their most impactful selves.

They say that when someone passes away, it’s better to ask their loved ones to tell you a story about the person they lost rather than try to share with them how you felt about them. It’s because those memories are the only things they have left to help lift their spirits. The stories you share or create with others build a library of content that create the eternal character of who you are. I still remember when my grandfather [Stamati] in Greece was dying of cancer almost a decade ago. I made every last-minute rushed arrangement to visit him after I caught wind that he didn’t have much time left, but I still didn’t make it in time. “It’s better you did not come” my father told me, “you don’t want to spoil the memory. He is not the [grandfather] you remember.” Stubbornly, I didn’t understand the value in that statement at the time; I just wanted to see my grandfather. In hindsight though, I have nothing but positive and happy memories and have only seen him (and can only remember him) as a healthy old man.

I have a unique story to share. A story I did not remember until someone else reminded me of it. In high school, I noticed a fellow class mate of mine limping. I grabbed a hold of him and helped him along his way for as long as I could. Despite how much time I spent with him, I forgot about it as the months passed. It was instinctual for me to help him out and a normal frame of operation for my life so I didn’t think much of it. It seems though, that the receiver of my help did not forget about it, and he actually surprised me almost ten years later with a Facebook message (after not having said much to each other since that occurrence) telling me how grateful he was for my help and that other people just walked passed him. I can’t tell you how much it blew me away to receive a random note like this. One simple action from my past came full circle to remind me that all we are all nothing but the memories we leave in our wake.

With time, any material good we can buy withers to dust but words, emotions, memories, and the impact we have on others have the capacity to be eternal. If we actively choose not to waste our time and devote our energies to thoughtlessly giving and thoughtfully taking, we will naturally create future memories of ourselves in others. Each of us is writing a story, directing a movie, living and ego-narrated tale of our own making. Ink fades, film archives can burn, but the memories we help create and feelings we inspire in others are all we ever truly leave behind.

The first page or chapter of a story is what makes you want to continue reading; the hook. But it’s the final pages of a story that make the story a great one; one worth reading over and over again. But what is a final chapter without the rest of the book? It is just words without a context, lacking in emotion and feeling. The final chapter is only as good as the sum of the chapters before it. In order for the final pages of a story to be great, so does the rest of the story. It serves a purpose to tie together all of the loose ends, to make you feel every emotion at once, to clarify things and shed light on the story line.

You should never rush or skip straight to the last chapter because it won’t be nearly as good if you didn’t absorb the rest of the story, piecing together every little word. This post is about the final chapter of my grandfather’s story, but don’t fret because it is also a celebration of all the wonderful chapters preceding it.

***

We refer to him as Superman. “We” as in my cousins that is and “him” as in Pappou (Pa-Poo), our grandfather; a man who I’ve always believed exists without weakness, the strongest man in the world…and the coolest guy in Greece. When he speaks or tells a story people simply listen…they’re always so captivating. Everyone in Gythio (our hometown in Greece, where my roots originate, where my father was born) knows him because he practically built half of it. He’s intimidating; the type where if he laughs you laugh, but his jokes are actually funny so it makes him more down-to-earth. If the man gives you advice, you could take it blind and have full faith that he’d be right; he’s been through more shit than anyone I’ve ever met. I won’t get too deep into that but let’s just give you a quick rundown to get you into the right setting.

• His parents were murdered when he was fifteen…along with older brother George (who my father – youngest of five – is named after)
• He was forced to raise his four younger siblings all by himself
• He got married at nineteen to my grandmother Dimitra (sixteen). Together they lived in a small shithole made of rocks and mud where they raise five children…they did a great job. Also, excuse my French. Shitholes can be lovely homes too
• He was a master craftsman, making a living by helping build the town around him all while trying to build something great at home…his family
• After finally saving enough he bought a water front property and built a beautiful house with his sons. He has three boys and two girls in case you were wondering
• Only one of his children stayed in Greece. Three of them had left before they even turned twenty, my dad was seventeen
• After his children left for the U.S. and Canada he pretty much just kept occupied until his grandchildren, like me, could visit him in the summers

Summers in Greece were always spent hunting octopus, gathering sea urchins on the beach, going for rides on his motorcycle, listening to his stories, getting history lessons about our family, and – my personal favorite – building things with him. He is the craftiest and most innovative man I’ve ever met. I can honestly say that this man has had a direct influence on my life, especially because of all the things he taught me while we built things together in his apothiki (shed) (Ah-po-thee-kee). His inventions and contraptions always make you wonder “How did he think of this?!?!” He could give MacGyver a run for his money. He turned a fishing reel into a paint mixer using an old phone cord, thin steel wire, and a wooden handle. Try to wrap your head around that one without your brain approaching the verge of explosion.

That’s one thing I love about him. He always stressed how EVERYTHING has an alternate use (please refer above for fishing reel to paint mixer example). Why should you be confounded to the uses the object was intended for? Make a new use for it, something that’s better for you. He taught me that I needed to be able to look at something and analyze how it worked….to take it apart in my head. Before I built something, before I put hammer to nail (or pen to paper), I had to build it in my head. I had to visualize what I was going to make. If you work through it in your head, you can work through it in practice. That was a life lesson that I learned without realizing he had taught it to me until now. Visualization pertains to more than just building crafts; it is an essential skill in any endeavor. He always made everything seem so fluid and natural, like he had made it a hundred times before that when it was actually his first attempt at constructing something. That was all due to his visualization and planning in his head beforehand.

I went to visit my grandparents in Gythio during the summer of 2012 for about eight days. I wasn’t surprised to see that my grandfather hadn’t slowed down one bit. He wasn’t out-and-about or hunting for octopus as much (he did that every single day when I was growing up, now it was more like three times a week). He still built things though, because that was always more mental than physical, but Pappou was finally getting old; it wasn’t difficult to see. Now he enjoyed lounging in an air-conditioned room and watching TV or sitting on his balcony and smoking a cigarette, watching the cars go by, thinking. What was he thinking? I’m not sure. All I know is that I’d sit there and watch him as he stared into the distance. We talked a ton during my short stay that summer, but it was those short moments of silence that I appreciated the most; those deep exhales of breathe that he took; him telling the world that he was accomplished…that he was finally able to relax. I miss those few seconds between us where neither of us would say anything because that is what made certain that he was standing there in front of me.

After we found out he was diagnosed with lung cancer I only had one thing on my mind; that I HAD to go and see him one last time. It wasn’t even eight months after I saw him – how could it be possible? How long was the cancer there for? How much longer does he have to live? Did Superman find his kryptonite? There were so many questions to ask but I was only concerned with one. Who was coming with me? I was going alone or with a pack, it didn’t matter to me…I WAS GOING. I managed to round up my brother and a few of my cousins and go to Greece for five days with the sole purpose of seeing our grandfather for one last time. Our parents (who had gone to see him already) didn’t want us to go but we stubbornly persisted and booked our tickets anyway. Stubbornness, persistence, and ambition are just a few of the many characteristics that run in our family all thanks to Pappou.

We arrived to Gythio late on Thursday night so we went to say hi to Yiayia (grandma) and then went straight to our hotel to go to bed. The next day we got up and went over to Yiayia and Pappou’s house to see the family; a loud (and I mean LOUD) mix of cousins, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters. It was the first time so many of the cousins had been there together, we usually went at different times.

Yiayia made the most delicious home cooked meal I’ve ever had (Yiayia’s cooking is ALWAYS the best meal I’ve ever had…God know she feeds you like you won’t eat for another six weeks). She told us that after we were finished eating, we would all go and see Pappou together. I was nervous, I wasn’t sure how I would react or what to expect. After our early dinner we all packed into two cars and drove to go and see Pappou. We were all quiet. Even the cousins who had already seen him weren’t saying much. I always try to smile or talk in these situations to help lift everyone’s mood (I’m the talkative cousin) but even that was hard to do.

I froze when I saw him. I couldn’t believe he was there in front of me. It was overcast outside and the weather wasn’t what I was generally used to. Who would’ve thought it gets cold in Greece in mid-April. He smiled at me and said “I was wondering when you were coming. You look A-Okay.”

“Thank you Pappou” I replied. I couldn’t say a word. There was a huge lump in my throat that was blocking any words from coming out. Seeing that I was having trouble expressing myself he continued.

“Have you been working hard?” he asked me. He knew the answer to the question but he asked it anyway.

“Always” I replied. He and my father (they’re the same person) always told me that I needed to work hard and stay smart; that’s it. Everything else would work itself out. I finally managed to spit a few words out of my mouth.

“So how much longer do you think you’ll be around?” I asked. I knew the answer to the question but I asked it anyway.

He let out a small chuckle, looked me square in the eyes with that assertive gaze of his and said “Always.”

At that moment I felt my heart weigh down into the depths of my stomach, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. As strong as I always wanted to seem to my grandfather I couldn’t prevent that tear from escaping and trailing down my cheek. The corners of my mouth uncontrollably began to push themselves downward. It pained me to see him like that. And just then, without warning, he spread his wings and shot straight up into the sky right before my eyes revealing the tombstone behind him where his body lay six feet underground, as cold as steel, because my grandfather died two days after I booked the tickets to Greece so I never got the chance to see him one last time. I only had the opportunity to write about what it “would’ve” felt like during my plane ride home but it’s not the same. This wasn’t a story but a tribute. I’m sorry I fibbed, but I had to get you to listen somehow.

Cheers to one of the strongest, smartest, and coolest men I’ve ever known.

1927-2013

I love you Pappou

This is a story about a boy; an asthmatic and overweight eleven year old from Brooklyn who decided to join his local Boy Scout troop with his first cousin. They were the same age and always did everything as a team, things weren’t about to change. So they jumped in line with the troop, silently promising each other they would not let the one another fall.

Summer camp was around the corner and the boy’s doctor prescribed him an emergency albuterol inhaler that he was to carry with him at all times, just in case he had an acute asthma exacerbation (asthma attack). He never had an asthma attack before, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He was officially stocked and ready to go.

While at camp the troop participated in all the events and activities the camp had to offer, but one of many things that separated this troop from the rest was the early-morning physical training. At the break of dawn each day the scouts would engage in a morning exercise. The boy and his cousin lined up, side-by-side, as always. His cousin was the more athletic one and had no trouble keeping up with the drills and the boy used this as motivation to push himself harder.

After the drills the troop would go for a jog around the camp grounds. The boy was already tired but he got in line with his cousin anyway. No more than a mile into the jog the boy began to feel a shortness of breath come on. This had never happened to him before but he decided to ignore it; he had to keep up with the troop. It wasn’t long before he started wheezing, he was experiencing his first ever asthma attack. He began to panic when he realized his air way had shrunk to the diameter of a straw. Gasping for air he remembered his pump and used it as his doctor instructed. Within a few minutes he was able to catch his breath and return to normal.

One of the leaders instructed someone to escort the boy back to base camp. “NO!!” demanded the young boy, “I don’t want to stop running.” The patrol leaders were left speechless at this boy’s ambition but were skeptical to let him run again, they were obviously concerned for his health. “I’ll just run back myself if you won’t let me” said the boy as he walked back to the front of the line, next to his cousin. The leader shook his head in disbelief and gathered the troop so they could jog back to basecamp together.

Each day after that, the troop would run until the boy had his asthma attack. Shortness of breath and wheezing became a daily routine. He was able to control himself during his attacks and most importantly he learned to never panic. He would take note of where each attack took place and each day he would fight off the next one until he was past his mental marker. He officially became the troop’s half-way point and with each run, that point would grow further and further from base camp; he would never settle for anything less.

By the end of his third summer camp his asthma was obsolete. He really had to push himself to his limits for as much as a single wheeze. He had officially won his battle against asthma…or so he thought. For his fourth summer camp, the troop decided to try something new. Instead of going to the usual camp for two weeks they decided to journey to New Mexico to take part in a ten-day, 102 mile trek through the mountains. The camp was at a much higher altitude than what these scouts were used to (8,000 feet above sea level). Higher altitude meant thinner air, which meant less oxygen by volume, which meant you had to take more breaths for the same amount of oxygen; not the ideal atmosphere for an asthmatic. This was high adventure at its finest and only the most physically fit scouts qualified. The two cousins made the cut.

On their first day they did not do any hiking. They simply went through an orientation and prepared for the next ten days. The troop was split into three separate crews and by chance, the cousins were separated. They would reside in the same camps but the only time they would be separated was when each individual crew was hiking and had water duty. They accepted their fate and retired for good night’s sleep before they set forth in the morning.

The boy was cognizant of the high altitude and change in air pressure and wondered how being 8,000 feet above sea level would affect his asthma symptoms. So on the first day of the trek he purposely pushed himself to induce a controlled asthma attack so he would know what to expect and how to react just in case. He recovered, as usual, and proceeded to take his adventure head on. It wasn’t until day seven that he felt challenged. It was the longest hike he’d ever been on, clocking in at fifteen miles total for the day. On top of that, his crew had water duty that evening and the nearest fill station was three miles away. Once he arrived to camp, the water crew was given a half hour to rest before they made the secondary hike down to the watering hole. The asthmatic boy’s cousin saw the weariness in his eyes and decided to tag along even though his crew did not have water duty; he didn’t mind another six-mile hike.

Once they arrived to the watering hole, they rested for a few minutes and then began to hike back to base. After a day long trek and three-mile hike for water the boy was fatigued; but he had to carry his three gallon jug back to camp. He ignored any signals that he should rest and continued forward; insisting to everyone that he was fine. About halfway through the return trip he felt it; the familiar onset of an asthma attack. As always, he continued until it was inevitable, his asthma attack would be the only thing that would stop him. Once he began wheezing, he put the water jug down.

At first, it seemed like a regular asthma attack. What he had failed to recognize was that even though he already had a minor attack earlier that week, his elevation at the time was 4,000 feet higher; which meant there was even less oxygen by volume in the air. Halfway through his attack he noticed that he was not catching his breath the way he normally would; no amount of air seemed to be enough. And that’s when he remembered that it is not about how much air you inhale, but how much oxygen your blood absorbs per breathe. He tried signaling that this wasn’t normal, shaking his head in fear. His albuterol pump was not helping and for the first time ever during an asthma attack he was afraid. He was way past the halfway point and was approaching suffocation.

As he panicked for breathe, he stared his cousin in the eyes, sure it would be the last time he ever saw him. His cousin had the most disappointing look of failure spread over his face, feeling like he did not live up to their promise; the promise of never letting each other fall. He didn’t know how to react; they simply stared at each other as the boy was approaching his final breaths. His vision began to tunnel and all peripherals were fading to black. He couldn’t speak as he fought for air, unable to say his finals words. “You didn’t fail me” he thought.

It wasn’t until he saw a tear trickle down his cousin’s cheek that he was able to work up the courage to catch his breathe. “NOT NOW!” he thought, “I can’t leave my teammate yet! We have to finish this adventure we started” as he forced himself out of his trance. He snapped out of it and began to relax, running through his regular recovery routine. After a few minutes he was back to normal, except this time he took a look around, appreciating everything that surrounded him. “We thought you were a goner on that one” said his cousin. The boy smiled and replied “I just did it to make you cry” and then they got back into formation and continued their hike back to the camp ground.

Success in life is relative to how you respond to failure. The greatest indication of character is how someone reacts during times of panic and distress. Refusing to fall victim to your greatest fears requires the highest degree of courage. I was moments away from my last breath and all I could think at the time was “I am not giving up now; not yet.” What would you think about if you were approaching your second to last breath?

PS: That was the last asthma attack I ever had.