Promise Me

by Nancy G. Brinker

  I was sad to lose the corporate support of Curves, and I have the utmost respect for its founder’s religious convictions—as I do for all people of every faith—but we remain focused on our mission.

  A happy footnote to that whole brouhaha: Even though Curves withdrew its corporate support, I continue to see many terrific women at Race for the Cure events walking or running with their Curves workout groups. I applaud the daily, proactive commitment of these women to their own health, and I appreciate their continued support. With all eyes on the prize, they’ve risen above the fray and taken to the streets. I stand ready to follow their example.

  The White House chief of protocol is responsible for facilitating a smooth experience for the president, vice president, secretary of state, and their spouses when they interact with foreign dignitaries. When we mix with other cultures, there’s always potential for embarrassment, faux pas, or a general lack of communication. The chief of protocol and her (or his) team research key phrases, customs, cuisine, taboos—everything and anything we can do to make sure a visiting head of state feels welcomed and respected from the moment he or she steps off the airplane to the official handshake photo with the president. If a queen has an allergy to roses or a prince has a deathly fear of heights, the chief of protocol makes sure the daisies and ground-floor accommodations are in place. The position is part ambassador, part Emily Post, the diplomacy of etiquette and the etiquette of diplomacy.

  I knew several people who’d done the job, including Shirley Temple Black, who served under Gerald Ford, and Lucky Roosevelt, who served under Reagan. There was no learning curve in this position; mistakes have far-reaching consequences, so only perfectionists need apply. Also required are research skills, social graces, the stoic patience of a stone lion, and a genuine respect for people of all cultures from all over the world.

  In spring 2007, the White House reached out to see if I was interested in the position. I thought long and hard before I accepted.

  “If it was something in Health and Human Services, I wouldn’t even stop to think,” I told Mom and Daddy. “But this would be a complete disconnect from the direction I’ve been moving my whole life.”

  “The connection might not be obvious,” said Mommy, “but you’ll find it. Women of my generation didn’t have all the open doors. Sometimes we had to climb in a window.”

  It occurred to me I’d be learning about diverse cultures from every corner of the globe, interacting with their leaders, and getting to know their wives. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to use the position as a lobbying platform for women’s health, but I’d be building a foundation and forging relationships that might later help me to advance breast cancer treatment and awareness on a global level.

  But here was my father. I couldn’t leave Mommy to take care of him by herself. And selfishly, I was rather enjoying my life the way it was at the time. I was back on the SGK board, seeing an interesting man, traveling, and adding to my burgeoning collection of Hungarian art. My friend Barbara Rogoff and I spent hours poring over auction catalogues and excavating dusty basement archives far and wide.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The timing isn’t great.”

  “There’s never a convenient time to serve,” said Daddy. “You do it because you were called. Your president asked you to serve, so you serve.”

  I let Laura know I was willing and ready, President Bush called to pop the question, and we made it official. I immediately immersed myself in study and preparations. My father remained sharp as a bullwhip and kept working to the very end. He was in a horrific amount of pain, but he didn’t complain. Two days before he died, he was sitting up in his hospital bed, reading the Wall Street Journal and reviewing profit-and-loss statements.

  “That’s how I want to go,” I told Mommy.

  My father taught me how to live, and he taught me how to die. He finally slipped into a coma and passed away on a June Sunday in 2007, the day before I was to give a speech in front of fifteen thousand physicians, administrators, and others gathered for the annual conference of the American Society of Clinical Oncology. Mommy held off the funeral for a day so I could go and deliver the talk.

  I won’t say I did it because Daddy would have wanted me to (though he would have); I did it because I wanted to, and I wanted to because I am the woman he raised me to be.

  On September 14, 2007, I was sworn in as chief of protocol. The following two years were an adventure, an education, and a tremendous challenge; it would take me another two years to recount every great leader I was honored to greet and every thrilling stamp I added to my passport.

  Visiting presidents and prime ministers stay at Blair House, the presidential guesthouse just across Pennsylvania Avenue, and it was my responsibility to see that everything was in order there. I organized visits and activities and coordinated with the kitchen staff to make sure the right food was being served. Mrs. Bush was responsible for selecting gifts suitable for the recipient, and she had an impeccable sense for choosing the exactly right bike or Fabergé egg or painted porcelain dish. I made sure the staff was well versed in personal and political issues so the conversation would be amiable and appropriate, never “How was your flight?”

  When visiting heads of state came to meet with the president, I usually met them and their entourages at the South Portico outside the White House and escorted them to the West Wing, but when the Dalai Lama arrived, he flew into Washington on a commercial flight, and I met him at the gate. He waved and greeted me, jolly and laughing. As we walked down the concourse, it was as quiet as a stroll through a bamboo forest. People recognized him, but they didn’t rush toward him or call out. Peace and happiness radiated out from him, and even those who didn’t know who he was seemed noticeably affected by it.

  According to Tibetan tradition, he’d brought me a kata, a long white scarf used for offerings and greetings, which he blessed. I bent my knees and scrunched down a little so he could reach up and place it over my shoulders, and as he did, he noticed the little pink ribbon on my lapel.

  “What does it signify?” he asked.

  I told him about Suzy and about SGK, and he blessed me with the nicest compliment possible.

  “You did a good thing,” he said, smiling that wonderful crinkled smile.

  The pope made a six-day visit to the United States while I was in office, and I was the first one to greet him when he arrived. For months my team and I prepared for his arrival. For the first time ever, the pontiff would be met by the president out on the tarmac on his arrival, along with a huge crowd. The daunting logistics of it occupied my every waking thought from the moment the plans were announced. It was a brisk and beautiful April day in Washington when Shepherd One landed at Andrews Air Force Base. The boarding stairway was wheeled into place and secured, but a gusty wind kept whipping the red carpet away from the foot of the steps. A few people made nervous jokes about the winds of the Holy Spirit, but I was more than a little anxious at the thought of this eighty-one-year-old man negotiating those steep steps only to have the rug literally pulled out from under his feet.

  Just before President Bush and the First Lady came out onto the tarmac with their daughter Jenna, I climbed the staircase with a representative of the church to greet the pontiff and make sure everything was as it should be. As we boarded, he looked up and smiled at me.

  “Your Holiness,” I said, bowing my head slightly, returning his smile. “On behalf of the president and Mrs. Bush, welcome to the United States.”

  He took my hand between his palms. The gesture was warmer than a handshake, fatherly and generous. During his stay in the United States, the pope took time to bless a box of silver ribbon-shaped pins and had them sent to my office. The day he left, I was at Andrews to see him off, and I thanked him for the ribbons that would mean so much to the men and women of faith who would receive them. He took my hands and blessed me for my work.

  I couldn’t help myself. I burst into tears. All I could think of was Suzy, sta
nding breathless on a street corner in Rome, clutching those two little statuettes to her heart.

  Priceless, Nanny. Blessed by the pope.

  President Bush allowed me to expand my job description a little to include a cultural exchange called Experience America. This grand adventure threw a group of foreign ambassadors all on the same bus, taking them out of the status quo and squiring them from sea to shining sea. We’d taken a beating in the foreign press over the last few years. My objective was to share my love and wonder for this great country and show our guests the America that Americans have made, the America Walt Whitman heard singing, blithe and strong. We visited Ground Zero, the NASA jet propulsion lab at Cal Tech, an ethanol plant in the Midwest, and miles of Americana in between, ending up at College Station, Texas, where we all had lunch with President “41” and Barbara Bush. People said they never had so much fun, but more important, they saw the verdant green America beyond the Beltway.

  The year 2008 was a contentious one in American politics, and I tried to exert a calming, nonpartisan influence. Winding down my time at the White House, I was already looking outward into the world where I knew I belonged now, and I saw the vital connection, this bridge I’d crossed. I had friends and allies in every corner of the globe. I’d sought first to understand; now I was ready to seek their understanding.

  Laura Bush and I had done a lot of traveling together, and we talked a lot about the particular challenges facing women in developing nations. Together we formed the U.S.–Middle East Partnership for Breast Cancer Awareness and Research, forging relationships with remarkable men and women who were positioned to help us launch awareness-building campaigns, grassroots advocacy and support efforts, and technical training. We orchestrated outreach that would include tasks as tangible as needle biopsy training and as esoteric as empowerment for girls and women.

  In October, Laura and I hosted a breast cancer conference at Blair House, and in celebration of the event, the White House was illuminated in pink. Meanwhile, Katrina McGhee, SGK’s VP of Global Partnerships, traveled to Africa with other staffers, preparing for the launch of the Ghana Breast Cancer Alliance with actress Gabrielle Union; Malaak Rock, Chris Rock’s philanthropist-activist wife; and Billye Aaron, the gracious wife of baseball great Hank Aaron. SGK’s CEO announced a grant of $250,000 and plans for a symposium that would bring together the great minds and hard resources needed to bring breast cancer care to women in desperate need.

  Barack Obama took office on January 20, 2009, and the next day I was on a train and back to work at SGK, which had been christened Susan G. Komen for the Cure two years earlier, a rebranding that captured a fresh vision encompassing so much more than we originally dreamed it would. I’d met with political and spiritual leaders from all over the world and laid the foundation for important dialogue to come. I’d also worked with many amazing people in the State Department and at the White House and was lucky enough to bring some of them along as this new phase unfolded. It felt good to be back at board meetings, my focus back where I wanted it to be, but with a whole new perspective. I’d been appointed to a position with the United Nations as the World Health Organization’s Goodwill Ambassador for Cancer Control. In addition to advocating for cancer awareness and prevention, I would investigate and report on the state of cancer care in all parts of the world and help form WHO’s global strategy for prevention and control of noncommunicable diseases.

  I had a lot on my plate, but compared with the pressures and pace at the White House, the 60-hour weeks felt like a pleasure cruise. It occurred to me that I could have a bit more of a social life now.

  It had taken me a while to learn how to date again after Norman remarried. I did see a number of interesting men and was actually pretty fond of a few of them, but none of them had me flying into Love as he had once upon a time. I’ve always had a penchant for bad boys, and I was now in a position where any indiscretion on my part might reflect poorly on others. I couldn’t allow myself to be led down the garden path.

  After I’d been seeing one wonderful fellow for a while, I came to the conclusion he wasn’t the right fit for my life. Instead of trying to reform him, I sat him down at his private club and said, “You’re fired.”

  “Fired?” he echoed.

  “Yes. You’re fired. From dating me. From my life. I’m sorry, I have to let you go.”

  “Oh.” He looked like he wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure he should. “I’ve never been fired from somebody’s life before.”

  I saw a long black car arrive outside the window.

  “Well. There’s my date for the evening,” I said. “Best of luck to you.”

  He looked a bit shell-shocked as I gathered my things and walked away, but we actually laughed about it later, and we’ve remained the very best of friends. (Bad boys make wonderful best friends.) When I told Norman about it, he laughed, but then he told me very seriously, “No one will ever love you like I do.”

  He’d told me this many times over the years, and it always felt like both a blessing and a curse. I certainly didn’t want it that way, but I knew it was true. I knew I’d never marry someone else as long as Norman was alive.

  “Don’t settle,” he said. “Somebody out there will see what a great package you are.”

  “I’m not everyone’s cup of tea,” I reminded him.

  I’m afraid some men viewing my life from a rotunda perspective don’t see how they’d fit in. Friends try to fix me up and coach me to be “less intense,” which rankles me; men are never told that their accomplishments make them less desirable. I don’t sit around waiting for a man to give my life meaning, but I’m always willing to find time and energy for the right relationship. I’m an able ally for a strong man, and I must say (because Suzy’s not here to say it for me) I still look pretty good in a sports car. I’ve had a little work done, but just before the anesthesiologist put the mask over my face, I stopped the surgeon’s hand and said, “Don’t give me my money’s worth.” I aspire to the kind of beauty my mother has; it’s physical and classic, and comes from taking care of herself with the same tender vigilance she extends to others.

  Norman’s health had deteriorated over the years. He was increasingly unstable on his feet and often used a motorized scooter now. Along with the progressive effects of his brain injury, he’d had cancer in his throat and a host of other complications that accompany a lifetime of high mileage, but he made the Herculean effort it took to participate in every SGK board meeting, even if he had to come in a wheelchair or tune in via video conference. He always held my hand under the table and always parted with “I love you.”

  I’m so grateful those were the last words I heard from him.

  The last board meeting Norman attended was in March 2009. Margaret Valentine (who works for us at SGK now) told me that on his way home, he said to her with great satisfaction, “Boy, oh boy. They are on fire.”

  Norman died that summer. June 2009. The news left poor Eric utterly bereft, but Norman would have been proud of how fiercely protective he was of me in the difficult days that followed. There was a huge memorial service planned at Meyerson Symphony Center in Dallas, but I was bluntly uninvited. A close friend of Norman’s who knew it wasn’t his style to exclude anyone interceded on my behalf so I could attend the memorial, but I wasn’t allowed to sit with my son or accompany him to his dad’s gravesite.

  Eric arranged private visitation the night before the service, but when I saw Norman laid out in a pedestrian suit and tie, I was stricken with the same heartsick reaction I’d had to seeing Suzy in her coffin. He’d always said he wanted to die with his boots on, and if it had been up to me, that’s how he would have been buried. White jeans, fresh polo shirt, stick by his side. Ready to ride. But it wasn’t up to me. I had no standing here, no right to feel as profoundly widowed as I did. I was reminded of the way I’d felt when Jake, the man I’d dated during my early days at Neiman Marcus, died just as our relationship had begun to blossom. Polite society knows wh
at to do with a widow or an orphan, but who are we when etiquette hasn’t invented a word for our particular form of bereavement?

  During the funeral, a famous friend of Norman’s got up and made a statement about how “the last few years of Norman’s life were the happiest,” and my face burned as if I’d been slapped. The platitude was such an insult to Maureen, to Norman’s beautiful children, and to the man Norman was when he was Norman: the vital, brilliant businessman, the spring-step entrepreneur, the empire builder, athletic lover, and fearless horseman. How small and chauvinistic to eulogize him as someone who prized dotage over powerful partnerships that produced amazing human beings. Among the thousands who came to honor Norman that day, in addition to the hundreds who knew and loved him as a tour de force in the restaurant industry, were hundreds of others who knew and loved him because of the work he’d done during his twenty-six years on the board of Susan G. Komen for the Cure, people who knew the organization wouldn’t be what it is if not for this man who gave me a platform and taught me how to use it. Nothing was said about the lives he’d saved.

  That night, Larry Lavine, Norman’s partner in Chili’s and beyond, brought together all of Norman’s protégés, the people of whom Norman was proudest. Managers and innovators he’d raised up and mentored. Entrepreneurs and restaurateurs who’d thrived on his guiding principles. There was Eric, who’d delighted his dad by leaving a handprint on JetBlue’s unique branding, then found his way back to Peoria, where he carried my father’s work into the future. I was so honored to be included. We toasted Norman’s memory, shared stories and laughter, and warmly agreed to come together every year to celebrate that little bit of Norman’s great heart still beating within each of us.

  A week or so later, Brenda’s daughter Connolly graduated from junior high in San Francisco, and I was slated to give the commencement address. Norman and I had both been looking forward to it. Now the occasion felt so weighted with emotion, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to speak. But standing at the podium next to the wide-open water, looking at this beautiful grandchild Norman Brinker and Maureen Connolly were kind enough to share with me, I felt nothing but joy and humble gratitude. I dedicated my remarks to her grandfather and did my best to let this girl know what extraordinary love and valor resided in her DNA.