Adam Ellick - An Awkward Oath

 

When my father was dying of cancer, he called me into the living room. Beside him was my 77-year-old grandpa Marty. And he said, "No matter what happens to me, always take care of Marty." I was 21, so of course, I agreed. What kind of monster wouldn't? But I didn't love Marty. Marty was a raunchy, offensive little fella. Massive gut, spindly little chicken legs. And when he spoke, it was an offensive comment about a woman or he was railing against a relative who didn't pick up a lunch bill seven years ago. [audience chuckle] 

 

Marty was born to dirt-poor Jewish immigrant parents. 13 kids shared an outhouse. And when Marty was 16, he was forced to quit school to work in a butcher shop. Marty was obsessed with money. His goal was to never be poor again. He eventually bought that butcher shop in a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. Everyone there said Marty had the best burgers in town. And he did, because he laced the meat with a cheaper type of meat called pork. [audience laughter] 

 

My grandfather, we didn't have much of a relationship growing up. When he was in the meat shop, I was fulfilling my narrow view of success. I was accumulating degrees and becoming a journalist. I was dating girls who worked at think tanks. [audience laughter] And now, I was stuck with this oath from my father to take care of a man I didn't love. But I wasn't going to let my dad down. 

 

After my dad died, for the first few months, I'd call Marty once a month and check in with him. The calls were awkward. We were just going through the motions. And then, one day I got a call that Marty was in the ICU. I went there, and we probably both thought this was the end. Because when I got there, he finally had a real and raw conversation with me. He told me that he was still haunted by memories of what he saw liberating the Dachau concentration camp. He told me about losing his virginity to a French woman during the war. And he told me what we all knew that he still felt guilty for being an absent, workaholic parent. 

 

He survived. And then, I started calling him every day on my way to work. I just wanted to inject a little bit of happiness into his lonely life. He soon declared those calls the highlight of his day. I was just listening. He revealed to me why his business went bankrupt at 75. It turns out one of his own sons stole all the money from the meat shop. Marty was still heartbroken. I was just listening. Sometimes we forget about our amazing power to just listen someone back to life. 

 

Now, I'll spare you the details, but as Marty got into his 80s, he was sicker and sicker. Every time, three or four times, ICU, surgery. We'd call the funeral home, and the sucker would come right back. [audience laughter] Then I had to start going every month to Delaware to visit him. And on those car rides, I was hating myself. "You should be writing a book or going on dates." But he needed things, and I had to take care of him. When I got there, we had so much fun, because this broke guy was freeing himself of all his resentment. The womanizer now had a female fan club. We went to his favorite frozen yogurt store, and the girls came around the corner and kissed his cheek and they're like, "He's our unofficial grandfather." [audience laughter] 

 

I was kind of jealous of both sides. [audience laughter] The nurses in the rehab center would come visit him on their day off to hear his stupid jokes. During grad school, I brought a friend to visit him from Armenia. We walked in the door, and he said, "Everyone else goes to get laid on spring break, and this schmuck goes to visit his grandfather." Marty and I are both a bit abrasive and grouchy, [audience chuckle] and I feel like we created this space together that was like a place, and a vulnerability and a sweetness that we never wanted to show to other people. 

 

I saw us as two single guys. We shop alone for groceries, and we sleep in empty beds. Marty had two failed marriages and I've had a mess of a love life. I feel like being together during those visits was our way of processing together, our loneliness. The last time Marty went into the hospital was for hernia surgery. And the doctor said, "Don't do it. It's way too dangerous." At this point, Marty had a pacemaker and a feeding tube and a catheter and a colostomy bag. It was no life and he said, "Let's do the surgery." He called it suicide by surgery. [audience laughter] 

 

Just before we wheeled him into the operating room, I was at his bedside. He was unconscious and I was bawling. I was trying to decide, do I want this man to survive or to die? I thought back. I panicked. I thought back to that pledge I made my dad. I was supposed to take care of him and make him live. But there was nothing left. The doctor came to console me. By my side, she was a gorgeous Russian cardiologist. [audience laughter] And she said, "You know, just before he closed his eyes, he told me, 'Are you still single?'" [audience laughter] 

 

I apologized to her in the midst of my tears, and I said, "I'm sorry. Please don't even tell me what else he said. I can't even imagine." And she said, "He told me that if he survives, he's going to introduce me to a schmuck who has the warmest heart in the world." [audience aww] This whole thing started with me being terrified about taking care of someone who I didn't even love. As he wheeled away, I realized that now I'm terrified to let go of someone who I truly loved. Thank you.