Justin seemed to come from another era. Big, loud, bold. He seemed like a 1840s mountain man and trapper, or maybe a field medic on D-Day, the first one to make landfall on Normandy with a stream of thankful men charging behind him.
He was one of the best athletes Paso Robles HS ever had. Then he wrestled at Stanford and later became a doctor. But if you ever tried to get him to talk about his accolades, he deflected you. You might get a one-sentence answer about his past successes. If I asked, “How hard was it to get into Stanford?” he was eager to change the subject to something self-deprecating — like how every time he goes to his daughter’s volleyball games, he’s the one person in the stands to take a stray volleyball to the head (insert loud Justin laugh).
And that laugh, so loud and pure — it came from the middle of his throat. On his biggest laughs, he would tilt his head back to maximize the decibels. He always laughed at his own jokes. It was endearing. Your laughter just gets swept up in the tide of his laughter, and suddenly everyone is part of Justin’s happy orbit.
He was first my friend, and then my doctor, and recently my parents’ doctor. A few months ago, Justin and Lisa invited us over for dinner, and when I told Justin how sick my parents were, and how their current doctor seemed checked out, he instantly said, “I’ll take them, brother, just call the office.”
A few weeks later, after my dad’s first visit, I asked my dad what he thought of Justin as his new doctor. My dad’s reply was, “Dr. J talked to me more in 45 mins than my last doctor talked to me in the past 10 years.” And it wasn’t just small talk — Justin was a river of knowledgeable medical guidance. He asked questions, leaned in on the edge of his seat, and really knew how to use his team in the office to amplify what he did for the town of Paso Robles.
He loved medicine. Loved it, especially anything cutting edge. You could text him anytime for medical advice, and he would freely give it. His brain just got it, and he was generous with the answers.
The first time I met Justin was at a large Thanksgiving party about 15 years ago. An hour into the party, the host was trying to make a toast, but the 200-person audience was so loud and a few glasses deep, and he couldn’t get their attention. Justin whistled and yelled, “Listen up!” and then made an amazing intro to redirect attention to the host. It was one of Justin’s recurring roles at big parties.
There was something slightly Hagrid-from-Harry-Potter about Justin — incredibly strong and large, but more gentle than tough. He never gossiped. Never complained. He was a stellar husband and father and set the bar incredibly high. For example, his wife Lisa never got to go to her high school prom, so Justin literally organized a high school prom for Lisa’s 50th.
I organized a guys’ movie night to see Mad Max: Furiosa, and Justin privately asked if it was cool if he brought his daughter Skye. She really wanted to see the movie with him. Skye and Justin started a chain reaction of all of the other dads bringing their teenage kids. It was one of the best movie nights ever.
I heard someone say that the really big personalities — those so large it seems like they came fully formed from a great past life — when they die, their memory doesn't fade with the people that knew them. Time just passes. That was the case with my maternal grandma, and it will be the case with Justin. Every day you can feel their presence, like they are just a text message away. He’s gone, but he’s still there. Twenty years from now, the memory of Justin Davis will live crystal clear in the town of Paso Robles.
I love and miss you, my brother-from-another-mother.