For many, the greatest influence in their lives is their parents, but for me, it was my grandfather.

When I was a kid, my parents and I moved around a lot, and we did not have a stable home. From trailers in Leesville to apartment complexes in Seymour, I never really had a place that felt like home. Until third grade, I went by my middle name, Ivie, and Ivie’s life had lots of ups and downs.

A week before my fifth birthday, my parents lost custody of me, and I was sent to live with my mom’s dad and his girlfriend of 20-plus years, both of whom I’d never met before. His name was Denny Hignite, and he was a tall and slender man, just reaching slightly over six feet tall. His girlfriend was a short woman with long, thick brunette hair, beginning to streak with silver. She was barely reaching five feet tall. I would eventually get to know them as Mamaw and Papaw.

My Mamaw would work while my Papaw spent his days at home, taking care of me and enjoying his hobbies. He quickly gained my trust, even though I was a very introverted and shy child. He was a charismatic man who carried himself with an amount of whimsy no one else could ever come close to. He had so many stories to tell, you’d never hear the same one twice. He was a man of many trades. He was an excellent cook and a great painter. Even though he only painted in his free time, he was crafty and could build anything out of wood if he really set his mind to it. Above all, he was an extraordinary grandfather.

A lot changed for me after I moved in with him, as he hadn’t taken care of any children in a long while, let alone a girl. We were both put in a situation where everything was new, and nothing made sense. We were learning together. I think this is where our bond really started. I went from playing with dolls to playing with wrenches in his garage, being scared of the dark to being scared of the fish he’d catch out on the lake, and spending my time chasing around the neighbors’ kids in my apartment complex to chasing around our St. Bernard, Layla.

Most of my time was spent out in the garage with my papaw. On cold days, I’d sit by the wood stove while he worked on some old car or random piece of broken equipment he found on Facebook Marketplace, and on hot summer days, I’d sit and keep him company while we had the garage door open to let out the sawdust from the kitchen he was building in his own garage.

One time, I remember sitting in a chair by the wood stove when he shouted (some words I won’t repeat), and it was apparent that something was wrong. It got my attention quickly, and when I looked over, he had blood pouring from his hand. In an attempt to remove a tire from its wheel, he sliced his hand wide open.

“Ivie, pull a chair over there and turn that big fan on, please,” he said.

The sight of all the blood scared little ole me; after all, I was only about eight years old. But he was calm, regardless of the sight of horror that ran down his hand. His response to the situation calmed my fear. I asked no questions and got up to grab a chair from my pink Disney princess table set I had sitting in the garage, and pulled it over to his workbench to turn the fan on. I did so successfully and moved out of the way so the air could hit him. He took a deep breath and said, “Thank ya, Brownie. I don’t know what I’d do without ya.”

Even though I was young, we depended on each other so heavily, and that made me feel seen, cared for, loved, and supported. These are the kinds of feelings that all children should feel during their childhood, but I didn’t. Not until him.

Brownie was one of the many nicknames he had given me while living with him, and it just happened to be the one that stuck. He used it so frequently that my other family members picked it up, and I still get called Brownie to this day.

Shortly after this, he started complaining that his throat hurt. Eating, drinking, and swallowing became generally difficult. He was stubborn and refused to take medicine or see a doctor, but my Mamaw and I finally convinced him. There was a mass. Of course, he had a biopsy, and we finally got the results back. It was cancer of the voice box. As time went on, he went through chemotherapy and radiation therapy to treat his cancer. He underwent multiple surgeries to try to cut out as much of the cancer as they could without taking away his ability to speak. He was losing weight rapidly and becoming so weak that he struggled to stand on his own; he wasn’t able to build or work on the random things he’d find on Facebook Marketplace anymore. It was clear he was beginning to lose himself during this time. He stayed in bed all the time and was so weak that even walking was difficult, let alone taking care of a child.

His health was rapidly declining, mixed with the stacking cost of medical bills, which meant he couldn’t properly care for me anymore. I moved back in with my father roughly six months after my Papaw was diagnosed. About a year after I had moved in with my father, my Papaw was rushed to the hospital for an emergency surgery, where he suffered a stroke, and three days later, he would succumb to his illness.

Watching my Papaw grow sick and ultimately pass away made me feel sorrow and guilt. I had lost someone near and dear to me. We had known this day was coming and was approaching more quickly with every day; however, we didn’t think it would sneak up on us so soon. In the span of three days, my Papaw had gone from just being sick to being taken off life support. Of course, it was deeper than that, but in my brain, that’s all I could see.

I believe my Papaw’s passing is what has guided me to pursue a career in radiation therapy. I will be attending Indiana University of Indianapolis to study pre-radiation therapy in the fall. I hope to be able to help others like my Papaw understand and hopefully overcome cancer. I hope this path in front of me will make my Papaw proud of me.

It has been five years since his passing, and he has still had a huge impact on my life. He took me in when it wasn’t his responsibility and cared for me no matter the circumstance. From day one, he showed me love, safety, and compassion.

Our age gap was over 50 years, but that didn’t stop him from being my best friend.