On March 7, 2019, I unfortunately lost my Dad (which is why support has been a bit slow recently). I thought I'd post my eulogy for him here, as delivered, should anyone care. He was a good man, and will be missed.

Good morning, everyone. I’m David Nanian, up here representing my Mom and my brothers, John and Paul. Thanks so much for coming.

All of us here knew my Dad and were, without question, better off for it.

He’d greet you, friend or soon-to-be-friend, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye because, well, that was the kind of person he was. He exuded warmth and kindness. It was obvious as soon as you saw him.

And so we’re here today to celebrate him. To celebrate his achievements, certainly, because he was a great doctor. But also to celebrate his … his goodness. He was, truly, a good man.

It took my brothers and me a while to realize this. Like most kids, we went through the typical phases as we matured, where Dad went from a benevolent, God-like presence when we were kids, to a capricious one when we were teens… but that was mostly about us, not him.

Dad worked hard. Mom was a constant, grounding presence at home, but Dad’s typical day started early, and he usually wasn’t home until 8.

Dad’s sunny optimism and caring nature helped to heal many patients, but it took a lot out of him, and when he did come home, he was bone tired. After eating he’d usually fall asleep in his chair in front of the TV—only to awaken if we tried to change the channel. My brothers and I even tried slowly ramping down the volume, switching the channel, and then ramping it back up…it would sometimes work, but when it didn’t he’d wake up with a start, hopping mad.

He’d work hard, and would cover other doctors’ shifts on holidays, so that he’d have larger blocks of time for vacation with the family. And when that time came, he was a sometimes exhausting whirlwind of energy, trying to cram in eleven-something months of missed family time into a few focused weeks…something he’d be looking forward to with anticipation, while we were a bit more apprehensive.

Where would the new “shortcut” on the ride to Kennebunkport take us this time? Was Noonan’s Lobster Hut 3 minutes or 3 hours away?

It was always an adventure.

When I was in my teens, Dad gave me a job mounting cardiograms. I think all three of us did this work at one point or another. It gave us a chance, not just to earn a little money to fritter away on comics or whatever, but also to see Dad at work. There, we could see how admired he was by his colleagues, staff and patients, and I began to see him not just as the “Dad” presence he was during our childhood, but as a real person.

During this time (and even today: Mom recently had this happen in an elevator when Dad was in the hospital), people would constantly stop me in the hallways and tunnels of Rhode Island Hospital as I was doing an errand for him—typically, getting him a Snickers bar—and they’d tell me what a great person he was. How he’d helped take care of their parent, or had a terrific sense of humor, or how quick he was with a kind word or helpful comment.

Later, during my college years, my friends—after meeting my parents—would constantly tell me how awesome my Mom and Dad were. How normal. How much they wish their own parents were like mine.

Which was weird at the time, but, I mean, they were right. I have great parents. I had a great Dad.

So I wanted to tell three little stories about why that was, from when I was old enough to understand.

—

Dad’s enthusiasm and optimism were positive traits, but they occasionally got him into some trouble.

I’d recently graduated from College, and that winter our family went on a ski vacation to Val d’Isere.

Dad was absolutely dying to try Raclette—which, if you don’t know, is a dish popular in that region where a wheel of cheese is heated at the table and scraped onto plates that have potatoes, pickles, vegetables, meats. It’s delicious, but quite filling.

So, we went to a small, family restaurant, and they brought out the various parts of the dish—there were quite a few plates of the traditional items—along with a big half-wheel of cheese and its heating machine.

Now, normally, that 8 pound chunk would last the restaurant a long time. It seemed super clear to the rest of us, just from the size, that there was no way it was “our cheese”. But Dad was absolutely convinced we were supposed to finish the whole thing. To do otherwise was to insult our hosts.

And so, to the obvious horror of the owners watching from the kitchen, Dad—in an attempt to not be ungrateful, to not be the ugly American—tried to finish the cheese.

The rest of us tapped out, but more plates came as Dad—never one to give up—desperately tried to do the right thing.

In the end, much to his chagrin, and the owner’s obvious relief, he couldn’t. Dad apologized for not being able to finish (I think, this is where my brothers and I snarkily told him to tell the waitress “Je suis un gros homme”), and they replied with something along the lines of “That’s quite all right”—but Dad’s attempt to conquer the wheel with such gusto, for the right-yet-wrong reason, even though we could all see the effort was doomed, was human and funny and endearing.

—

He loved to sail. We had a small boat, a 22-foot Sea Sprite named Systolee, and we’d sail it for fun, but Dad also participated in the East Greenwich Yacht Club’s Sea Sprite racing series.

Season after season, we’d come in last, or second to last, but he had a great time doing it, holding the tiller while wearing his floppy hat, telling us—the crew—to do this or that with the sails.

I’d had some success one summer racing Sunfish, and the next year, Dad let me skipper the Systolee in the race series, with him and Mom as crew.

I didn’t make it easy. It was important to be aggressive, especially at the start of a race, and both Mom and Dad would follow my various orders nervously as we came within inches of other boats, trying to hit the line exactly as the starting gun went off.

But he let me do it. He watched me as, one day, I climbed the mast of the pitching boat in the middle of a race in a stormy bay to retrieve a lost halyard—admittedly a crazy thing to do—despite his fear of heights, since he knew abandoning the race would be end up being my failure, not his.

And that season, we came in second overall. But more than the trophy and the opportunity, he gave me the gift of trusting me, and treating me as an equal, week after week. Of allowing me to be better than him at something he loved.

—

Finally, Dad had some health challenges later in life. At one point, he came down with some weird peripheral neuropathy that was incorrectly diagnosed as Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Fortunately, more testing in Boston showed that it wasn’t ALS, but some sort of neuropathy, and while it didn’t take his life, it did take away much of his balance, and with that, it took away skiing.

Dad loved skiing—and missed a real career writing overly positive ski condition reports for snow-challenged Eastern ski areas—and from my earliest days skiing with him it was clear he wanted nothing more than to be the oldest skier on the slopes, teaching his grandkids to love it the way he did.

Possibly, he just wanted to be old enough to be able to ski for free. He did love a bargain.

Anyway.

He didn’t let his neuropathy hold him back—of course he didn’t—and started traveling with Mom all over the world, and they’d regale us with the stories of the places they’d been, the classes they took…the number of bridge hands they won (or lost). He especially loved the safari they went on in Tanzania, and brought back many great pictures of the landscape and wildlife they’d seen.

He loved learning new things, and had more time to read, to make rum raisin ice cream (the secret, he’d tell us, is to soak the raisins in the rum…overnight!), and to enjoy the Cape with Mom. He was able to relax and play with his grandkids, and it was great to see him entertain my friends’ kids as well.

When he got his cancer diagnosis, he took the train to Boston to meet with his doctors, learned about Uber and Lyft, and was just fiercely determined, independent and optimistic. To illustrate his attitude, he just had a cataract repaired and he had the other one scheduled to be fixed in a few weeks.

During this time, the doctors and staff at Mass General would tell us that he was their hero. Not, I think, for facing his disease with courage and determination, although he did do that. But because he was 88, 89, 90, and full of life, of humor, and of love.

And of course, we all saw that too. Because he was our hero.

—

The last time I was with Dad, just a few weeks ago, he was clearly feeling poorly, and while he kept a brave and cheerful facade he also, with a voice tinged with regret, wanted to make sure that I knew how proud he was of John, and Paul, and me. And how he felt badly that he never told us that enough…because he didn’t want to spoil us.

You know, books and movies through the centuries constantly depict sons and daughters desperate to get the slightest bit of approval from their dads.

For us, though, he took clear delight in what we all did. He looked with admiration and approval at John’s beautiful photography, Paul’s Peace Corps service and ultralight outdoor kit business built from his travel and experience hiking the Appalachian trail, my crazy computer stuff.

And so I told him, as clearly as I could, that it was never in doubt.

Of course we knew. 

Just as each and every one of you know how much he cared for you. Whether you were part of his family, a patient, or a friend, he made it clear. He was truly happy to know you. You were truly loved.

And now he’s gone, and the world is a little bit darker because of it. But we all have, within us, a memory of him. A memory of his kindness, his boundless optimism, his love, his zest for life.

And with that in our hearts, we can look out, perhaps at the snow outside: dirty brown, with bare patches, rocks, ice…ice covered rocks. You know, if you’re an Eastern skier: it’s “machine loosened frozen granular”.

Imagine him there, with his arm around your shoulders, and a big smile on his face, and see it the way he’d make you see it.

See that the snow condition’s fantastic. It’s always fantastic. Life is terrific. Every day.

Remember that, greet the day with a mischievous smile and an open heart, and think of him.