He is to this day the noblest man I have ever met. He was the strongest rock, yet he had the gentlest smile. He spoke softly for the most part and was well known for clearing his throat with a little cough before answering the phone, but his voice held a sense of importance. It was captivating. It was truth. His words were spoken fluidly and surprisingly softly, often intertwined with Spanish phrases, and he was likely to finish most sentences with a little smirk and a flash of his envied straight teeth. He was my Grandpa Gurule.
He was also known for being a man of habit. For instance, I could count on him to cheerfully greet me, “Mi Pancha, mi consentida,” when I entered his house and then quickly offer me some cookies or a soda. Growing up in the house about two dozen steps away, I had learned his routines. It wasn’t challenging, because he did the same thing every day, in the same order, never skipping a beat. He would wake early like most men of his generation, walk through the curved hallway between his room and the kitchen passing the washer and dryer and a pantry that was always full on the way and he would slowly shuffle across the kitchen to the large set of windows that covered the front of the house and he would open the blinds. It was the first task to be completed every day. That’s how you knew if he was awake yet. Then straight to the bathroom to prepare for the day ensuring to pay extra special attention to those beautiful teeth I mentioned earlier. He would undoubtedly emerge cleanly shaven, with the wisps of hair that circled the crown of his head neatly in place, with khaki pants, which later in his life were supported with striped suspenders, and a collared short-sleeved shirt. The rest of the day included watching the news and maybe some crazy wrestling on the Spanish channel, drinking a glass of cold water from the jug he faithfully filled every day in the refrigerator, spending hours in his beautifully kept garden (only after putting on his fedora that sat on the long hutch in the dining room), eating meals with too much salt, making a fresh batch of tortillas that were perfectly round and pudgy, and sitting on the porch quietly watching traffic pass (I always wondered where his mind took him). A man of habit, a man you could say I’ve grown to be like. My parents and other family members often tease me, because I am so different from everyone in my family. When I remind them that I am just like my grandpa, they nod their heads in agreement and we become silent and a smile spreads over our faces. He was a good man.
The few weeks leading up to the start of school, I began to dread the work that was in store for me- the hours I would spend in the library before tests to retain the biochemical pathways found in the body, the weeks I would spend studying for my first set of board exams, and the months that would unquestionably be jam-packed with sequential lectures, tutorials, and so much more. I dread it, I’m dreading it right now, but on the contrary, I am craving the routine. I crave the life of having a full schedule, meetings to attend, things to do and people to meet. I enjoy being busy and waking up each morning with an already formulated to do list. I like knowing that at 5 pm I will be on my way to the gym and following that I will be preparing dinner. I know that sometime in the day, I will spend a few minutes talking to my mom on the phone, a few more minutes checking and replying to emails, and even more minutes tending to my very own garden (with only a couple of squash plants remaining).
Routine, planners, appointments and reminders- It’s a life I’ve chosen for myself and a life I’ve grown to love.
Bring it on med school!
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