I wish I could say I grew up longing for a career in home care. I had much more modest dreams.

I wanted to be a businessman. Even at a young age, I remember buying candy and small toys in bulk to sell them to my peers at recess.

It made perfect sense to my entire family when I went to business school outside of San Antonio at Texas Lutheran University.

My grandfather, a first-generation Iranian-American immigrant who had a large hand in raising me, was on the top of my list when it came time to send out graduation announcements.

He was one of the most accomplished men I had ever known. An engineer by trade, he built refineries and buildings that still stand today. He was soft-spoken, and he enjoyed the taste of brandy and a good soccer match. He loved the Los Angeles Lakers, the local favorite of the town in which he decided to raise his family.

I remember the day in early March 2004 when he called me grief-stricken and a little embarrassed, saying that he might not be able to make my graduation.

At 84, he had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) and was dependent on oxygen – so dependent that a three-hour flight without his portable tank was next to impossible, and though I didn’t know at the time, life-threatening. Due to post-9/11 restrictions, traveling with oxygen tanks on airplanes was prohibited.

I was in shock when I had heard that. “You can’t be serious, baba joon,” I remember telling him. He stayed quiet for about 30 seconds and replied with a mild cough, “I’ll be there, sonny. Don’t you worry.”

My mother and I spent two to three days on the phone with the airline trying to find some way for them to allow my grandfather’s portable oxygen on the plane. We had no luck.

After many attempts, my mom finally called me with the great news that my grandfather was going to make it. I was thrilled and relieved knowing that he would be there to watch me walk the stage.

I can recall meeting my family at the airport in San Antonio. The first person I saw getting pushed off the plane was my grandfather. He was gasping for air, but smiling the way only a grandfather could. I ran to him and wrapped my arms around his frail body.

He kept looking around me as if he was expecting someone. I later found out he was looking for his oxygen tank, which was being delivered to the airport. Thankfully for us, the respiratory company was waiting for us outside the terminal.

The next day, I walked the stage, and while all-star Spurs center David Robinson gave the commencement speech, I looked over at my grandfather and waved. He didn’t see me, but after a nudge or two from my sister, he pretended like he did and waved, almost knocking his 30-year-old bifocals off his face.

That day still plays back in my mind as one of the most important days of my life, when I was surrounded by family and friends, gleaming with accomplishment.

Four years passed, and my grandfather’s health was failing. He died on a Tuesday in fall 2008. I flew to California for the funeral, and had the honor of giving his eulogy.

After the memorial, two people I did not recognize approached me. The first introduced himself as my grandfather’s home health nurse of five years. He recognized me from all the pictures my grandfather had in his living room.

Confused, I shook his hand, and was immediately greeted by the second member of the group. Her name was Tanya, and she was his occupational therapist. They both had the same story.

I didn’t know it at the time, but due to his poor health and condition, my grandfather had been on service with a home care agency in California since early 2003. Because of his chronic illness and the taxing effort involved in leaving his home, he was eligible to receive home health care benefits though his traditional Medicare insurance plan.

They went on to tell me that in 2004, right around the time I sent my gradation announcements, my grandfather called all the clinicians who were caring for him over to his apartment.

“I need your help,” he had said with a tear in his eye. “My grandson is graduating from college, and I need to be able to make the three-hour flight without my oxygen.”

The two clinicians, under the guidance and orders of my grandfather’s doctor, designed a home health program to rehabilitate him to the point that he was able to make that three-hour flight. His therapists focused on building his endurance and conserving his energy.

His nurse helped him properly maintain dosage and compliance with his medications, and educated him on his disease processes and how to slow his breathing, which allowed him to live a better life.

That was the day I decided I wanted to make a difference in the lives of seniors in this community. Home health care provides intermittent skilled nursing and therapy services to seniors in their homes, where they heal and rehabilitate. It provides education to both patients and their families on the disease process, and it allows them to age with dignity in their homes with their loved ones.

It is not very often that we find the perfect balance between what we want out of life and what we want out of business. I consider myself very fortunate to have found that sweet spot.

I am in the business of making a difference and having a direct impact on improving the quality of life for our aging population, and I trust that my staff and I will be involved in creating many of the same wonderful memories for others as my grandfather’s caregivers were able to give me and my family.

I am also fairly certain that my grandfather would be equally proud now as he was when he saw me accept my diploma. Though I did not initially see this in my future, I grew up to become exactly who I wanted to be, and I am doing exactly what I need to be doing.

Total Home Health is located at 10010 San Pedro Ave., No. 120, San Antonio, Texas 78216. It is on call 24/7 and always accepting patients. For more information, visit www.totalhh.com.