He used to work with steel, rivets, bolts, blueprints; the things that held structures together. His hands could weld beams, measure tolerances down to fractions, and sketch out structural dreams on napkins that somehow became reality. Steady and precise, his fingers were the kind you’d trust with your life, because people did, every time they crossed what he built.

Then came the tremor, like an aftershock. Small at first—a little shake when pouring coffee, a twitch while tying his shoes. He laughed it off, chalking it up to age, caffeine, stress. We all did. After all, who looks at a man like that…strong and capable…and thinks, *something’s slipping*?

But the tremor didn’t stop. It didn’t stay small.

Writing his name became a challenge; it looked like a child’s scrawl. Holding a screwdriver turned into a two-handed affair. He stopped cooking and dropped his tools. One day, the spoon he used to feed himself clattered against his plate, and he regarded it as a betrayal. When he turned to me, I saw it…the moment of realization: *I’m losing control*.

“Essential tremor,” they diagnosed…an apparently benign neurological condition. That word, *benign*, burned in his ears. What’s benign about losing the ability to hold his granddaughter without the fear of dropping her? What’s harmless about struggling to sign a birthday card?

We tried everything. Medication dulled the tremors but also dulled him. Therapy provided tools yet didn’t restore steadiness. Deep brain stimulation was suggested through surgery, wires, and electricity. He recoiled at the idea of anything touching his brain, saying, “I’ve done enough engineering. I don’t need to be the blueprint now.”

Some men leave legacies in blueprints. Others leave them in the hands that keep trying.