In a touching scene in “Parenthood,” the grandmother tells anxious parent Steve Martin that life is a carnival. While some prefer the merry go round, a metaphor for a happy but predictable life, she prefers the roller coaster, with all the excitement of the ups and downs. Perhaps this explains my relationship with Henry.

I started out with good intentions; I was looking for an intelligent and interesting man with whom to share my life. Henry, an M.D., Ph.D., Professor of Neurosurgery, brain surgeon, and tumor specialist, seemed to be that man. So what that he was 18 years older than I am, shuttled back and forth between Oslo—his home for nearly 40 years—and Irvine (with a promise to move here “someday”) and, to use an overused phrase, was “emotionally unavailable.” He had a hold on me—an unbeatable combination of that New York Jewish personality and humor, a Yiddishkeit that can only come from someone of his generation, and intelligence. And he cooked for me.

With Henry, I was in a constant state of heightened anticipation, waiting for the ups, the signs that he was moving here, the expressions of intimacy. The ups were all the sweeter and all the more exciting, in comparison to the downs, which I taught myself to rationalize. In time, I also came to prefer the roller coaster ride . . .

Henry delighted in making me laugh. He had a Woody Allen-ish, “poor me” quality that worked well when, upon his return from Oslo, he discovered the now moldy cheese that he had left in the refrigerator or when he decided that he should have ordered what the person at the next table was having. And no one could tell a mohel joke like he could.

But he refused to be serious when I wanted to discuss his moving here. So, when he finally got a “permanent” faculty apartment, I was thrilled! It turned out, however, that this just made it easier for him to go back and forth between Oslo and Irvine. But I chose to focus on the “easier to come back here” part.

Henry understood all things scientific and could fix anything. Despite his being more accomplished than I am (or anyone, for that matter), he admired me and respected my independence, and I adored him.

But when I needed help on a home repair project, his admiration and respect turned into a “You’re on your own, kid” posture. But that was okay; he was confident that I could take care of things myself. Besides, when he wanted to go bike riding with me, he did pump up my tires.

Henry loved to cook for me and surprise me with new dishes. When he would make my childhood favorite, kasha varnishkes, and say, “Eat tatelah,” I would become a little girl, sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. Surely, this was as an expression of his feelings!

But when he was in Oslo, he had a knack for writing e-mails that were off putting, even offensive. I broke up with him (twice) over this, but each time, let him back into my life, based on his post-breakup humorous and solicitous e-mails. Clearly, he had been unaware of how his e-mails affected me and wanted to make up for it. When he started sending me “articles of interest,” rather than “regular” e-mails, I just knew that he was really saying, “I miss you.” Not that he actually ever said this, but he was a man of few words.

When Henry was back in Oslo, I had his “blessings” to date other men, as long as I stopped seeing them by the time he returned. I always did. No one compared to him.

Not long after Henry returned to Irvine, to start what would have been our third year together, I saw “Shopgirl,” in which Claire Danes has a relationship with the much older and emotionally unavailable Steve Martin. After all the ups and downs, she finally admits to herself that their relationship has no future. She has two choices—to stay and be hurt later or to leave and be hurt now. She chose the latter and, finally, so did I.