Early yesterday morning, my grandad (not the one that's getting married) was rushed to the hospital in terrible abdominal pain. The doctors discovered that he has pancreatitis, an inflammation of the pancreas. He's probably going to be fine but they admitted him anyway so they could monitor his recovery.

My grandad lives in a large house, alone and up a long, dark, windy driveway. He called 911 and, growing concerned that the ambulance was not going to make it up his narrow drive, took a flashlight and went to meet them at the bottom. In pain, gasping for air and thinking he was dying, it probably took him a lot longer than the normal three minutes to make it down his driveway. It's unbelievable he even tried, but that's grandad for you.

Ryan and I joke about the streak of workaholism running through our family that mysteriously skipped us over. Grandad is 84 and still a practicing lawyer. He's dedicated, hardworking, motivated and still has a mind sharper than a sword. I used to wonder when he was ever going to retire and take a break, but now I realize that the moment he stops working is the moment he loses all reason for living. His work gives him something to do, something to live for; purpose and meaning. Retiring would kill him, literally.

A type of workaholism can be good when you're single. It lends purpose to life, it offers a sense of contributing to the greater goodness, it gives us something to do other than watching TV and being depressed. But workaholism is extremely dangerous. It can move in and completely take over. It can make relationships dwindle into nothingness and creates an obsessive, frantic cycle of doing to falsely foster meaning; I do something important therefore I am something important. It's this type of workaholism I profoundly disagree with even, though I fall prey to it again and again.