I wish the kids could understand how desperately I don’t want to leave them.
Jai and I haven’t even told them yet that I’m dying. We’ve been advised that we should wait until I’m more symptomatic. Right now, though I’ve been given just months to live, I still look pretty healthy. And so my kids remain unaware that in my every encounter with them I’m saying goodbye.
It pains me to think that when they’re older, they won’t have a father. When I cry in the shower, I’m not usually thinking, “I won’t get to see them do this” or “I won’t get to see them do that.” I’m thinking about the kids not having a father. I’m focused more on what they’re going to lose than on what I’m going to lose. Yes, a percentage of my sadness is, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t…” But a bigger part of me grieves for them. I keep thinking, “They won’t…they won’t…they won’t.” That’s what chews me up inside, when I let it.
I know their memories of me may be fuzzy. That’s why I’m trying to do things with them that they’ll find unforgettable. I want their recollections to be as sharp as possible. Dylan and I went on a mini-vacation to swim with dolphins. A kid swims with dolphins, he doesn’t easily forget it. We took lots of photos.
I’m going to bring Logan to Disney World, a place that I know he’ll love as much as I do. He’d like to meet Mickey Mouse. I’ve met him, so I can make the introduction. Jai and I will bring Dylan along as well, since every experience Logan has these days doesn’t seem complete unless he’s engaged in the action with his big brother.
Making memories with Dylan.
Logan, the ultimate Tigger.
Every night at bedtime, when I ask Logan to tell me the best part of his day, he always answers: “Playing with Dylan.” When I ask him for the worst part of his day, he also answers: “Playing with Dylan.” Suffice it to say, they’re bonded as brothers.
I’m aware that Chloe may have no memory of me at all. She’s too young. But I want her to grow up knowing that I was the first man ever to fall in love with her. I’d always thought the father/daughter thing was overstated. But I can tell you, it’s real. Sometimes, she looks at me and I just become a puddle.
There are so many things Jai will be able to tell them about me when they’re older. She might talk about my optimism, the way I embraced having fun, the high standards I tried to set in my life. She may diplomatically tell them some of the things that made me exasperating; my overly analytical approach to life, my insistence (too often) that I know best. But she’s modest, much more modest than me, and she might not tell the kids this: that in our marriage, she had a guy who really deeply truly loved her. And she won’t tell them all the sacrifices she made. Any mother of three small children is consumed with taking care of them. Throw in a cancer-stricken husband and the result is a woman who is always dealing with someone else’s needs, not her own. I want my kids to know how selfless she was in caring for all of us.
Lately, I’ve been making a point of speaking to people who lost parents when they were very young. I want to know what got them through the hard times, and what keepsakes have been most meaningful to them.
They told me they found it consoling to learn about how much their mothers and fathers loved them. The more they knew, the more they could still feel that love.
They also wanted reasons to be proud; they wanted to believe that their parents were incredible people. Some of them sought specifics on their parents’ accomplishments. Some chose to build myths. But all had yearnings to know what made their parents special.
These people told me something else, too. Since they have so few of their own memories of their parents, they found it reassuring to know that their parents died with great memories of them.
To that end, I want my kids to know that my memories of them fill my head.
Let’s start with Dylan. I admire how loving and empathetic he is. If another child is hurt, Dylan will bring over a toy or blanket.
Another trait I see in Dylan: He’s analytical, like his old man. He has already figured out that the questions are more important than the answers. A lot of kids ask, “Why? Why? Why?” One rule in our house is that you may not ask one-word questions. Dylan embraces that idea. He loves to formulate full-sentence questions, and his inquisitiveness goes beyond his years. I remember his pre-school teachers raving about him, telling us: “When you’re with Dylan you find yourself thinking: I want to see what kind of adult this kid turns into.”
Dylan is also the king of curiosity. Wherever he is, he’s looking somewhere else and thinking, “Hey, there’s something over there! Let’s go look at it or touch it or take it apart.” If there’s a white picket fence, some kids will take a stick to it and walk along listening to the “thwack, thwack, thwack!” Dylan would go one better. He’d use the stick to pry one of the pickets loose, and then he’d use the picket to do the thwacking thing because it’s thicker and sounds better.
For his part, Logan makes everything an adventure. When he was born, he got stuck in the birth canal. It took two doctors, pulling with forceps, to bring him into the world. I remember one of the doctors, his foot on the table, pulling with all his might. At one point the doctor turned to me and said: “I’ve got chains and Clydesdales in the back if this doesn’t work.”
It was a tough passage for Logan. Given how cramped he was for so long in the birth canal, his arms weren’t moving just after he was born. We were worried, but not for long. Once he started moving, he never really stopped. He’s just this phenomenal ball of positive energy; completely physical and gregarious. When he smiles, he smiles with his whole face; he’s the ultimate Tigger. He’s also a kid who’s up for everything and befriends everyone. He’s only three years old, but I’m predicting he’ll be the social chair of his college fraternity.
Chloe, meanwhile, is all girl. I say that with a bit of awe because until she came along, I couldn’t fathom what that meant. She was scheduled to be a C-section baby, but Jai’s water broke, and not long after we got to the hospital, Chloe just slipped out. (That’s my description. Jai might say “slipped out” is a phrase only a man could come up with!) Anyway, for me, holding Chloe for the first time, looking into this tiny girl’s face, well, it was one of the most intense and spiritual moments of my life. There was this connection I felt, and it was different from the one I had with the boys. I am now a member of the Wrapped Around My Daughter’s Finger Club.
I love watching Chloe. Unlike Dylan and Logan, who are always so physically daring, Chloe is careful, maybe even dainty. We have a safety gate at the top of our staircase, but she doesn’t really need it because all of her efforts go into not getting hurt. Having grown accustomed to two boys who rumble their way down any staircase, fearing no danger, this is a new experience for Jai and me.
I love all three of my kids completely and differently. And I want them to know that I will love them for as long as they live. I will.
Given my limited time, though, I’ve had to think about how I might reinforce my bonds with them. So I’m building separate lists of my memories of each of the kids. I’m making videos so they can see me talking about what they’ve meant to me. I’m writing letters to them. I also see the video of my last lecture—and this book, too—as pieces of myself that I can leave for them. I even have a large plastic bin filled with mail I received in the weeks after the lecture. Someday, the kids might want to look through that bin, and my hope is that they’ll be pleased to find both friends and strangers who had found the talk meaningful.
Because I’ve been so vocal about the power of childhood dreams, some people have been asking lately about the dreams I have for my children.
I have a direct answer for that.
It can be a very disruptive thing for parents to have specific dreams for their kids. As a professor, I’ve seen many unhappy college freshman picking majors that are all wrong for them. Their parents have put them on a train, and too often, judging by the crying during my office hours, the result is a train wreck.
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As I see it, a parent’s job is to encourage kids to develop a joy for life and a great urge to follow their own dreams. The best we can do is to help them develop a personal set of tools for the task.
So my dreams for my kids are very exact: I want them to find their own path to fulfillment. And given that I won’t be there, I want to make this clear: Kids, don’t try to figure out what I wanted you to become. I want you to become what you want to become.
Having seen so many students go through my classrooms, I’ve come to know that a lot of parents don’t realize the power of their words. Depending on a child’s age and sense of self, an offhand comment from Mom or Dad can feel like a shove from a bulldozer. I’m not even sure I should have made the reference to Logan growing up to be social chair of a fraternity. I don’t want him to end up in college thinking that I expected him to join a fraternity, or to be a leader there—or anything. His life will be his life. I would just urge my kids to find their way with enthusiasm and passion. And I want them to feel as if I am there with them, whatever path they choose.
60
Jai and Me
A S ANY family dealing with cancer knows, caregivers are often pushed to the sidelines. Patients get to focus on themselves. They’re the objects of adulation and sympathy. Caregivers do the heavy lifting, with little time to deal with their own pain and grief.
My wife, Jai, is a cancer caregiver with even more on her plate: three little kids. So as I prepared to give my last lecture, I made a decision. If this talk was to be my moment, I wanted some way to show everyone how much I love and appreciate her.
It happened like this: Near the end of the lecture, as I reviewed the lessons I’d learned in my life, I mentioned how vital it is to focus on other people, not just yourself. Looking offstage, I asked: “Do we have a concrete example of focusing on somebody else over there? Could we bring it out?”
Because the day before had been Jai’s birthday, I arranged to have a large birthday cake with a single candle waiting on a rolling table offstage. As the cake was wheeled out by Jai’s friend Cleah Schlueter, I explained to the audience that I hadn’t given Jai a proper birthday, and thought it might be nice if I could get four hundred people to sing to her. They applauded the idea and began singing.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you…”
Realizing some might not know her name, I quickly said, “Her name is Jai…”
“Happy birthday, dear Jai…”
It was so wonderful. Even people in the nearby overflow room, watching the lecture on a video screen, were singing.
As we all sang, I finally allowed myself to look at Jai. She sat in her front-row seat, wiping away tears with this surprised smile on her face, looking so lovely—bashful and beautiful, pleased and overwhelmed….
There are so many things Jai and I are discussing as we work to come to terms with what her life will be like after I’m gone. “Lucky” is a strange word to use to describe my situation, but a part of me does feel fortunate that I didn’t get hit by the proverbial bus. Cancer has given me the time to have these vital conversations with Jai that wouldn’t be possible if my fate were a heart attack or a car accident.
What are we talking about?
For starters, we both try to remember that some of the best caregiving advice we’ve ever heard comes from flight attendants: “Put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others.” Jai is such a giver that she often forgets to take care of herself. When we become physically or emotionally run down, we can’t help anybody else, least of all small children. So there’s nothing weak or selfish about taking some fraction of your day to be alone, recharging your batteries. In my experience as a parent, I’ve found it hard to recharge in the presence of small children. Jai knows that she’ll have to give herself permission to make herself a priority.
I’ve also reminded her that she’s going to make mistakes, and to just accept that. If I were able to live, we’d be making those mistakes together. Mistakes are part of the process of parenting, and she shouldn’t attribute them all to the fact that she’ll be raising the kids herself.
Some single parents fall into the trap of trying to compensate by giving the kids material things. Jai knows: No material possessions can make up for a missing parent, and they can actually do harm in establishing a kid’s values.
It’s possible that Jai, like many parents, will find the most challenging years to be when the kids become teenagers. Having been around students all my life, I’d like to think I would come into my own as a father of teens. I’d be tough, but I’d understand the mind-set. So I’m sorry I won’t be there to help Jai when the time comes.
The good news, though, is that other people—friends and family—will also want to help, and Jai plans to let them. All children need a fabric of people in their lives who love them, and that’s especially true for kids who’ve lost a parent. I think back to my own parents. They knew they couldn’t be the only crucial influences in my life. That’s why my dad signed me up to play football with Jim Graham. Jai will be on the lookout for some Coach Grahams for our kids.
As for the obvious question, well, here’s my answer:
Most of all, I want Jai to be happy in the years ahead. So if she finds happiness through remarriage, that will be great. If she finds happiness without remarrying, that also will be great.
Jai and I work hard at our marriage. We’ve gotten so much better at communicating, at sensing each other’s needs and strengths, and at finding more things to love about each other. So it saddens us that we won’t get to experience this richness in our marriage for the next thirty or forty years. We won’t get to amortize the hard efforts we’ve put in so far. Still, we wouldn’t trade our eight years of marriage for anything.
I know that so far, I’ve been handling my diagnosis pretty well. Jai has, too. As she says: “No one needs to cry for me.” She means it. But we want to be honest, too. Though counseling has helped tremendously, we’ve had some tough times. We’ve cried together in bed, fallen back asleep, woken up and cried some more. We’ve gotten through in part by focusing on the tasks at hand. We can’t fall to pieces. We’ve got to get some sleep, because one of us has to get up in the morning and give the kids breakfast. That person, for the record, is almost always Jai.
I recently celebrated my forty-seventh birthday, and Jai had to wrestle with the question: “What do you get the man you love for his last birthday?” She opted for a watch and a big-screen TV. Though I’m not a fan of TV—it’s mankind’s greatest time-waster—the gift was completely appropriate, since I’ll be in bed so much at the end. TV will be one of my last links to the outside world.
There are days when Jai tells me things and there’s little I can say in response. She has told me: “I can’t imagine rolling over in bed and you’re not there.” And: “I can’t picture myself taking the kids on vacation and you not being with us.” And: “Randy, you’re always the planner. Who’s going to make the plans?”
I’m not worried. Jai will make the plans just fine.
I really had no idea what I would do or say after the audience sang “Happy Birthday” to Jai. But as I urged her onto the stage, and she came toward me, a natural impulse overtook me. Her, too, I guess. We embraced and we kissed, first on the lips, and then I kissed her cheek. The crowd kept applauding. We heard them, but it was like they were miles away.
As we held each other, Jai whispered something in my ear.
“Please don’t die.”
It sounds like Hollywood dialogue. But that’s what she said. I just hugged her more tightly.
61
The Dreams Will Come to You
F OR DAYS, I had worried that I’d be unable to get through the final lines of my lecture without choking up. So I had a contingency plan. I placed the last few sentences of the talk on four slides. If, in the moment on stage, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words, my plan was to click silently through the slides, and then simply say “Thank you for co
ming today.”
I had been on stage for just over an hour. Given the chemo side effects, the long stretch on my feet, and the emotions involved, I was truly feeling spent.
At the same time, I felt at peace and fulfilled. My life had come full circle. I had first made the list of my childhood dreams when I was eight years old. Now, thirty-eight years later, that very list had helped me say what I needed to say and carried me through.
Many cancer patients say their illness gives them a new and deeper appreciation for life. Some even say they are grateful for their disease. I have no such gratitude for my cancer, although I’m certainly grateful for having advance notice of my death. In addition to allowing me to prepare my family for the future, that time gave me the chance to go to Carnegie Mellon and give my last lecture. In a sense, it allowed me to “leave the field under my own power.”
And my list of childhood dreams had continued to serve so many purposes. Without it, who knows if I would have been able to thank all the people who deserved my thanks. Ultimately, that little list had allowed me to say goodbye to those who meant so much to me.
There’s something else. As a high-tech guy, I never fully understood the artists and actors I’ve known and taught over the years. They would sometimes talk about the things inside them that “needed to come out.” I thought that sounded self-indulgent. I should have been more empathetic. My hour on stage had taught me something. (At least I was still learning!) I did have things inside me that desperately needed to come out. I didn’t give the lecture just because I wanted to. I gave the lecture because I had to.
The last lecture Page 13
