Howard Bliman

My name is Daniel, and I am the son of Dr. Howard Bliman—my father. Like many who lose a parent too soon, I carry the realization that I knew less about him than I wish I had. Yet what I did know—what so many of us knew—was a man of remarkable depth, generosity, and presence. He was a devoted physician, a loyal friend, an active member of his community, and, above all, a deeply caring human being. He had a rare instinct to do good for others, whether they were family, friends, colleagues, or even strangers. That same care and attention extended into every corner of his life—from his profession to his passions, and especially into the quiet, unseen moments that defined him most as a father.

To me, he was an artist, a writer, and a teacher in ways I did not fully understand at the time. His artwork, spanning decades, revealed not only talent but an extraordinary attention to detail. Whether through cartoon sketches, landscapes, or architectural designs, he had a remarkable ability to bring realism and emotion to everything he created. That same precision defined his writing. He was an exceptional writer, with a natural sense of flow, emphasis, and clarity. I remember reading speeches he wrote for important moments in his life—his Bar Mitzvah, his medical school graduation—and being struck by how intentional every word felt. He often said, “It’s not always what you say, but how you say it,” and he lived that truth in everything he expressed.

That lesson revealed itself most clearly in how he helped me find my own voice. In middle school, when writing felt difficult and uncertain, he would sit with me late into the night, making sure every assignment was completed and every sentence thoughtfully considered. He never complained, never made it feel like a burden. He did it simply because he cared—because he was a loving father who believed in showing up fully and patiently. At the time, I often felt I leaned on him more than I should have, and perhaps I did. But looking back, I understand it differently. It is easy to critique a finished piece, to point out what could be improved or what should have been done differently. It is far more meaningful to sit beside someone in the act of creation—to help shape something from uncertainty into something whole. My father never stood at a distance to judge; he was present in the process, guiding, encouraging, and quietly teaching me what it meant to create with care. Any strength I have as a writer today began in those late nights, with him beside me.

That same focus and curiosity carried into everything he did. He had an incredible ability to immerse himself in any subject, no matter how complex or even mundane. As a doctor, this made him exceptional; as a person, it made him endlessly interesting. In family life, it showed itself in his thoughtful planning—especially when it came to trips. He would meticulously organize every detail and, somehow, in just a few weeks before traveling, learn enough of a new language to communicate with confidence. He made experiences richer, more intentional, and more memorable for all of us. One of my favorite memories is from a father-son snow camp when I was young. During a group competition, my father led our team in creating a life-sized snow sculpture of a buffalo. While everyone contributed, it was his artistic vision and careful execution that brought it to life. People from across the camp came to admire it, and although it was a collective effort, I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of pride watching him be recognized.

I witnessed that same ability to capture meaning and memory years earlier when my grandfather—his father—passed away. I was only eight, but I vividly remember the speech my father gave. It was not defined by sorrow alone, but by precision, thoughtfulness, and deep respect. He told the story of my grandfather’s life—his survival during World War II using false papers, his journey to America, and the life he built for his family. Even then, I recognized how powerfully my father could bring a story to life. Recently, I listened to a recording of his Bar Mitzvah, likely the first time it had been played in decades. Near the end, he spoke about the life he hoped to lead—one grounded in honesty, purpose, and helping others—and he closed with a line that has stayed with me ever since: “I hope I can live up to all this.” In every sense, he did. Through his work as a physician, through the relationships he built, and through the care he gave so freely, he fulfilled that promise.

It has taken me a long time to write this, and even now, I know it cannot fully capture who he was. I am not the natural writer he was—but in trying, I feel I am following the path he showed me when I was younger. It is easy in life to stand back and evaluate, to measure what something is worth only after it is finished. But the truth is, meaning is found in the effort itself—in showing up, in caring, in creating something with sincerity and purpose. My father understood that. He lived it. And in doing so, he left behind something far more meaningful than words alone could ever express.

He leaves behind a loving family—his son, his daughter, and our mother—as well as a wide circle of friends, colleagues, and patients whose lives he touched deeply. Time moves forward for all of us, but my father’s life is a reminder to use our time well: to care for others, to pursue what we love, and to leave something meaningful behind. I will remember him every day as the man he was—thoughtful, articulate, creative, compassionate, and endlessly loving. Love you, Dad.