The beginning of my mom Cate’s voicemail was halting. She took a moment and steadied herself before sharing the news of her brother Jimmy’s rapidly declining health. “Michael,” she said, “Uncle Jim is very, very sick. He’s taken a turn for the worse in terms of his Parkinsons. He’s quite ill. They have hospice in to take care of him. And he’s not expected to live very much longer. Please give me a call when you get this message. I love you. Bye-bye.”

Three days later, on April 5, my sister Anne Marie left a message telling me Uncle Jim had died earlier that afternoon, sometime between 5:00-5:30 p.m. while holding his daughter Kim’s hand. He was 79, three weeks shy of his 80th birthday.

James Ryan O’Malley was many things to many people: husband, father, grandpa, brother, pediatric physician, volunteer, table tennis aficionado to name but a few. To me, he was my uncle who happened to be a doctor.

The evening before his April 16 memorial service, my brother Mark, my sister Mary, and I were at her home in Santa Rosa sharing memories about Jim when Mark asked me, “What do you remember about Uncle Jim?”

“Camping, of course,” I said. “And pingpong.” The O’Malley-Sweeney camping expeditions during the 1970s, led by Uncle Jim, are family legends. And while “Ping-Pong diplomacy” was helping the United States thaw relations with Red China, Uncle Jim was introducing pingpong to us kids. Then there was the first time I ever saw a $100 bill. Uncle Jay unfurled it during a Lake Tahoe family vacation. I was awe-struck. He won it playing craps and seemed quite pleased with himself, as I recall. I mentioned his cars: that green Country Squire station wagon (see: camping), his Chevy Bel Air (it had a HUGE steering wheel), his Mercury Capri (I think it had a sunroof), and his little BMW sedan.

“Yeah,” Mark said, “Uncle Jim liked his toys.”

Mark mentioned that Jim was rarely dismissive of us kids. He would give your opinion due consideration, no matter the position. Mark recalled Jim’s fondness for turtleneck shirts, too.

There is one memory of Uncle Jim I treasure over all others. I must have been in third grade. One evening, he and I had just left one of our YMCA Indian Guides meetings  (Jimmy was Half Moon, I was Quarter Moon). And we raced each other back to his car. I can still hear the change and keys in the pockets of his slacks jangle. That instance, racing Uncle Jim to the car, is the closest thing to a father-son moment I’ve ever known.

There are a thousand more recollections: Jim and his wife Karen facilitating our family’s move to Santa Rosa, the picture taken by my dad, Bob, of Jim holding his niece Mary after her baptism, Jim saying grace at holiday dinners, his being on-call and having to check-in with the hospital during those same dinners, the way he pronounced his older brother Charlie’s name, dropping the letter r, putting an h in its place, and ending up with Chahlie (a vestige from their childhood, I’ve since learned), his fondness for Ennio Morricone’s soundtrack from the film, “The Mission.” The list goes on and on.

Father Gary Lombardi presided at Jim’s service the following day. It was a warm April morning. “Jim,” he told the packed house, “was a good, good man.” I would only add he was a memorable man, as well.

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Later that afternoon members of the Sweeney-Ogata-Alcocer-Paulson family, along with our cousin George Gowland, convened at Mary’s house for an early dinner of pizza and salad. After everyone had settled in, Mary raised her wine glass. “I’d like to propose a toast to Uncle Jim,” she said. The nine of us raised our glasses in unison. “Here’s to Uncle Jim,” she offered.

“To Uncle Jim,” the table echoed.

Mary sipped her wine, smiled, and looked conspicuously at her daughter Cassie seated at the opposite end of the table. Taking her mother’s cue Cassie said, “I have some news.” Then looking directly at Cate she said, “you’re going to be a great-grandma.” There was a short silence. Then the table erupted. Cassie and Frankie Flynn were going to be parents in the fall.

April 16, 2016 turned out to be a day like no other.