I can remember the white-washed room, the gown, the inclined bed and the tubes running toward my grandfather in the hospital. A clear mask covered his mouth.

“I love you, nonno,” I said, using the Italian term for grandfather.

My mother had to tell me he couldn’t respond. I kissed him on the cheek, and I walked out of the hospital room. That was the last time I remember seeing him alive.

Doctors diagnosed his lymphoma late, likely in stage 3 or 4, when I was in third grade. The time from his diagnosis in October 2003 until his death in February of 2004 was pivotal. I learned about strength. He fought through our Christmas dinner, which we had on New Year’s Eve because he’d been in the hospital, until he had to leave the table to use his oxygen machine. Before his cancer was diagnosed, he could hardly sit in chairs because of the pain it was causing.

Cristofero Mastroeni came with Concetta Mastroeni to the United States from Italy in 1967, with educations that didn’t extend beyond elementary school. My grandfather left school at a young age after a physical reprimand from his teacher. My grandmother never went to school because she had to take care of the house after her mother died.

My motivation behind going to college quickly became my grandfather. I told my mother around that same time I’d go to Syracuse one day. She told me to save my pennies.

At SU, the more I walked through The Daily Orange’s red door, wrote stories and submitted resumes for internships, the more I convinced myself that the diploma I’ll (hopefully, assuming everything goes as planned) receive in May was little more than a piece of paper. I admittedly let my grade-point average slip a bit. I skipped class more than I’d like to.

The countless hours I spent at 744 Ostrom Avenue meant more than any particular hour I spent studying or reading for class. Recently, though, I’ve thought about my initial motivation to go to school.

When I went to pre-school, it was often my grandfather who picked me up because my parents were at work. I’d spend Saturday mornings playing outside and picking berries from my grandparents’ mulberry tree. Occasionally, we’d play board games, like Trouble. To move pieces in Trouble, you have to get a six on the die to move out of the home space on the board. He’d let me move when I got a six or a one. Other times, before 9/11, my grandfather drove me to the gate of the Rochester International Airport in his old Chevy Malibu and we’d watch planes take off and land. After, we stopped going as often.

At his wake, I stood with my family accepting condolences. Although I’d said goodbye at the beginning of the night, I went back to his casket at the end of the night. I stood over the casket, leaned in and tried to blow 100 kisses to my grandfather to take with him. Before I could get to 100, my uncle pulled me back, thinking I was trying to jump in the casket with my grandfather. When they closed the casket, I cried for the first time that night.

It’s been a while since I’ve visited my grandfather’s spot in the mausoleum he’s in. I’m disappointed that I can’t pinpoint the last time I visited. Each time, I make sure to write my name and an entry in the pages of the visitor’s book that they burn. I’m not so sure I believe the message ever gets delivered, but it doesn’t really matter.

Frankly, the degree itself doesn’t mean much. It’s just a piece of paper. But I know what it means to my grandmother and would have meant if my grandfather was here. That, alone, makes it worth something now.

Chris Libonati is a senior staff writer at The Daily Orange, where his column will no longer appear. He can be reached at cjlibona@syr.edu or on Twitter at @ChrisLibonati.

Published on April 25, 2017 at 10:29 pm

Contact Chris: cjlibona@syr.edu | @ChrisLibonati