0a3905d5_e_Smoker_s_Memorial___Page_Two__Our_Memorial_Remembrance
[#] 16 [Date] 03/31/06 [Our Memorial Remembrance] 
My good friend, and both of my daughter's godfather, whom the eldest affectionately called 'papouli' (Greek for 'grandpa') died on July 23, 2005. Let me tell you a little bit about papouli. To know him was to love him; he always livened up the scene; he had a gregarious manner, a very boisterous laugh (he could yell pretty loud too!) and he was always ready to sit next to you and share one of his many, many, amusing anecdotes. One thing that I really remember about him most is his disarming bluntness. You always knew where you stood with him because he had the rare quality of always telling you exactly how he felt to your face, but you couldn't help but love him for it. At family barbecues I referred to him as the 'clean plate police' he used to walk around inspecting your plate to make sure you were eating. Five feet tall and stocky, this little --yet imposing-- man would walk around armed with a large piece of meat (most likely lamb) ready to drop it in your plate the minute you polished it. Most of all, I remember that thanks to him me and my mom were saved from being homeless and hungry. He owned the building where we lived and during the job recession in 92 we were like 5 months behind on rent and not once did he threaten us, he offered us money because he knew we were barely eating, and I'll love him forever because he was so kind to us. A year and a half before he died, papouli began to have these coughing spells --they were so bad that at one point I thought he would vomit. We all thought it was a bad cough stemming from some sort of bronchial infection --and so did the doctors; he was given antibiotics to combat the 'infection', well when that didn't work, his devoted family took him to a specialist who ran tests that determined that he had lung cancer. When we learned this, we were truly devastated. I remember the day his daughter (my best friend and my kids' godmother) called and delivered the grim news. I was in complete shock; I was unable to speak for quite some time and then my husband finally coaxed me into telling him what was wrong, I told him and began sobbing uncontrollably as I said the word 'cancer'. We both cried quietly so that our daughter wouldn't hear us. The decades of smoking had finally come knocking on his life, the damage was irreversible and so present. I followed his treatment and appointments through my best friend. I wrote all the days for his appointments on my Blackberry and would follow up with her at the end of the day to see if there were any good news. For a while there I really thought he was going to pull through; I remember that in March we were standing outside my old building and he said "I'm planting tomatoes this year --they're going to be beautiful and you're going to make me a nice tomato salad!" he looked healthy and happy ---I thought he had beaten the odds. Not long after that day, Joyce called me and told me that he had a brain seizure ---the cancer had metastasized to his brain; Jesus! what now? how? why? I felt so powerless and wanted to give him back his health and take away this thing from his body! Shortly before my youngest daughter's Christening; papouli said to me that perhaps he wouldn't be around for long and I should consider picking someone healthier to stand in for him. I refused to accept that, and even knowing that he could very well leave us soon, I decided that I wanted him to godfather both my kids because to me it was more meaningful to have a godfather that was a great human being, kind, and so dear to me, than to pick someone who held no special place in my heart. Emma was Christened on June 18th, 2005. At that time he could barely walk, but it meant the world to me to have him there. Five weeks later, I received a call from his daughter saying that things were looking pretty bad. I went to see him on Tuesday at Cornell Medical Center in New York City. I gasped at the sight of him. The imposing, loud, and opinionated man with the hearty laugh and kind soul was now reduced to a frail old man. He looked so helpless and for the first time ever I saw vulnerability in him, and the thought that he would be leaving us became painfully real. I took his hand into mine and sat beside him in the dim room, I didn't know if he could hear or understand me, but I began to pour my soul out. I told him that in this world many people come and go and very few leave the world a better way than how they found it, and that he was one of them because he not only saved me from being another statistic, but he let me believe in the kindness that still exists in some people. I went back to see him Friday, and he seemed in better spirits and so a glimmer of hope seemed visible. I went home and told my husband that I thought he might pull through; we were beginning to feel hope --we agreed that we would all come and see him the next morning. The phone rang at about 9:00 a.m. the next morning, my best friend's daughter --papouli's granddaughter-- was at the other end of the line; the minute I heard her voice breaking I knew. I remember feeling so empty when I hung up the phone, I felt so broken and such intense sadness. I realized that I would never hear him telling me to shut up because he had something to say, he would never yell at us for doing something he didn't like, and he would never fill my plate again and offer me a seat beside him. He was buried on July 26, 2005. I cried so much I thought I'd have no more tears left. He left an enormous void in our lives, and will forever be loved. Just yesterday, my daughter and I were flipping through our family photo albums --we looked at many pictures of our beloved papouli. I found myself sharing with her the anecdotes that he shared with me, and telling her how he always reprimanded us for some silly teenage thing we had done or said --and I thought; yes --it is so much better to have known someone great who once meant so much, than to know someone who would not hold such a special place in our hearts. Michelle Ormond
The Smoker's Memorial - Page Two
Our Memorial Remembrance