A Ticket Straight to Hell

In March of 2012, just over a year after my dad had died after being treated with Avastin, it was reported in the news that the company that sells the drug in the U.S. was being investigated for possible distribution of counterfeit product.

I knew it didn't matter for my family, really, for a couple of reasons, not the least of which was that Dad was gone and nothing could ever bring him back.  The other reason - and the one thing that kept me from going completely ape-shit about the possibility of my dad having been given a fake drug as part of the treatment regiment he received after his brain cancer diagnosis - because the MRI he had when he was admitted the second time to the hospital had shown good early results of the treatment (decreased vascularization to the tumor site) which could not have been the case had he gotten the fake stuff.  

A combination of what I guess was curiosity and grief and empathy for anyone else who might have gotten a bad dose of the drug still got to me after I read the reports; all I could think about what what a TICKET STRAIGHT TO HELL that kind of deception must be, if indeed the claims were true.

After a couple of days, I decided to call the Avastin manufacturer Genetech, and in doing so I ended up being connected to a very nice representative who said that - so far - the fake "lots of product" had only turned up in California, Texas, and Illinois and that all of those "were acquired through unapproved means."  When I asked what that meant, he said that the patients who'd gotten the counterfeit Avastin had either acquired it through an unapproved source like through mail-order or for unauthorized treatments, possibly off-label uses, again none of which apply to Dad's case.  

When I told him why I was interested in finding out about the validity of the claims, the rep asked about Dad's case, which, as you can tell, I find therapeutic to discuss - and he took an obvious interest in the medical and in the personal details of Dad's story.  He sprinkled in a few kind comments like "Your dad sounds like an amazing man" [I caught the present-tense verb in that statement and really appreciated it] and "I bet that was really hard" to the conversation, but mostly over the course of our half-hour conversation he just asked open-ended questions and listened as I talked.  When I told him that I was concerned that Dad's case would not be included in the statistics provided to his company by Duke University (where Dad was put on the protocol from the clinical trial) on the outcome of patients with brain cancer who were treated with Avastin (more on that later ... ), the rep said that he was taking notes as we talked about Dad's case and that he would cross-reference them to the statistics provided by Duke for comparison.

The rep was nice, and, while of course that didn't solve any of my problems or bring my dad back, it helped just having him listen and seem to take an interest in what had happened.  As we ended the conversation and I hung up the phone, I thought about how big pharma companies and even just phone reps in general usually get a bad rep - and oftentimes they deserve it, but - just like I saw my dad do countless times - this particular rep had taken the time to show kindness to a stranger for no particular reason at all, and I really appreciated the gesture.

Because You Can (Gift-giving and Perspective)

I saw a comment posted on Facebook today about whether or not a parent is obligated to give an end-of-the-school-year gift to a "bad" teacher.

That got me started thinking about - shocker, I know - perspective.

While the majority of the teachers my kids have had over the years have been good, my kids have had their fair share of crappy teachers over the years, a few of whom didn’t deserve a gift other than a dog turd and/or a swift kick in the behind.  I will admit that I didn't feel any sense of obligation at all to give those teachers a gift - and sometimes I haven't given an end-of-the-year gift for other reasons, ranging from my own manic year-end schedule to not being able to think of anything I considered to be "a good gift" to caving in to pressure from my kids not to "embarrass" them by giving their teachers a gift because they thought it would seem like - to put it kindly - obsequiousness.

Obviously, though, my perspective on LOTS of things has changed over the past few years, and I’d like to offer this perspective for consideration: we may never know what battle another person is fighting.  And sometimes it may be better to fight fire (or incompetence/rudeness or whatever the issue may be) with kindness.

//

Not that someone has to spend a bunch of money or time on a gift for every teacher, especially one who has been less than ideal for a child, but maybe giving a teacher just a little something and/or a card saying thanks could make a difference for her – which may, in turn, improve her outlook and have a rippling effect on others around her – her future students or even other teachers who may have some sort of interaction with the child of that parent and other kids in the future. 

When I was growing up, my mom didn't like for my sisters or me to say that we hated something or someone.  At some point, I argued that I really did hate something - but she insisted that it was better for me to say I disliked or didn't prefer it instead.  My mom, my sisters, and I still sometimes half-jokingly say that we "don't prefer" something or someone, even today as adults.  It's a good point that choosing to use words that are less harsh may be a better idea, a point that intertwines with perspective and kindness.  (Maybe a parent who hasn't liked her child's teacher could send that teacher a thank-you note ... and could just think secretly to herself that the thing she's thankful for is that the school year is over - or that the child will surely appreciate having a good teacher after her experience with one that was not preferred.)

Parallel to the bad-teacher situation is a bad-boss scenario.  I've help a few positions in my lifetime that have unfortunately been under the supervision of someone that let's just say I did not prefer.  My distaste for these people has been for a variety of different reasons, ranging from a simple personality conflict to ethical considerations (more on the latter topic is coming up in a future blog post).  In the midst of each of those situations, I have not had the perspective that I do in retrospect; I now feel an ironic sense of gratitude towards those bosses because my experience with each of them has certainly made me value an effective supervisor - and because having those experiences has served to teach me how not to do things whenever I am in a position of leadership.

I'm not advocating giving a gift to get something in return, and I'm not pretending to be overly nice or forgiving or anything like that.  I'm just seeing this as one way to react to such a situation.  From the way I see it, not giving the teacher (or the boss) a gift probably won't be noticed by that person, but taking the "high road," erring on the side of kindness, giving just because you can - that's something that can have an impact.

Grief and Ice Chewing

I recently met a woman - someone I'll call Tina* - though a mutual friend.  In the course of conversation, it came to light that Tina's mother had been my boss for many years before her retirement.  I was particularly happy to meet Tina because her mom, about whom I will always think very highly, passed away tragically very soon after she retired, and I had never before had the opportunity to tell anyone in her family how much I appreciated the impact she had had on my life.

I told her how her mom had guided me professionally over the years, and then I told her what I admired about her mom the most, which was her mom's effort and ability to keep track of the details of things going on in the personal lives of her many employees and coworkers.  In a word, it was her kindness that touched me the most over the many years that I knew her - and it was that quality that I remembered and admired about her the most.

Tina told me about the day five years ago when her mom died, the specifics of which I hadn't heard before.  She talked about how hard it was to lose her mom and how she, as an only child, and her dad had grieved the loss differently.  She asked about my parents, and after I told her about my dad's death, we talked more about grief and loss.  As someone who is twice as far ahead as I am on the road of grief, she told me a few things she had come to know, like how the sadness and the pain never go away - but that things do get more tolerable in some ways over time.  

It was comforting to hear what she had to say about the grief process from her perspective and based on her time frame; it reminded me of once many years ago when I went to have my teeth cleaned at the dentist's office and saw a dentist in the practice whom I hadn't met before.  They had gotten a gadget to use during exams that was essentially a tiny camera that allowed them to film what was going on in a patient's mouth and then project the image onto a TV screen for the patient to view.  (Stick with me; I'm getting to the part where this ties in to the conversation detailed above.) The dentist used the camera to show me that I have some tiny cracks in some of my teeth; likely, she told me, the result of crunching ice.  Although she presented that information to me more in the form of a scolding than anything else, for some reason I felt the need to explain to her why I had started the obviously bad habit of ice crunching: to combat the severe heartburn I experienced during my second pregnancy.  "How old is that child now?" she asked me.  I thought she was just making conversation, and I told her my daughter was five.  "Well, that excuse got used up a long time ago," she snarkily informed me.

Needless to say, I did not bond with that particular dentist, and I chose not to be seen by her again.  I felt there were several important pieces of information involved in patient care that she was missing, ranging from general courtesy and compassion to motivation and perspective.  She didn't ask me if I still had issues with heartburn or if I thought the ice-chewing had just become a habit over the years; actually she didn't ask me anything except for the age of my child, which she obviously asked only as a lead-in to the judgment she was all too eager to issue out.  

And that leads me to what I think is my point, and, you'll be glad to know, to how this story ties in to the first one: grief, like ice chewing and lots of other things in life, has its own time frame in every situation, and that's ok.  Each person has his or her own story; each of us has traveled a different road to get to where we are today.  Without having traveled that same exact road, or, at the very least, without having worked to try to understand that person's perspective, another person cannot possibly have the insight or the knowledge - and possibly the right - to stand in judgment of another person.

That's one thing that I've certainly learned over the past couple of years; that, and the lasting impact of kindness.

*Her real name isn't Tina - and her identity probably really isn't a secret if you know me and my work history, but I prefer to use that instead of her actual name to protect her privacy - and since knowing her identity isn't the point of this story.

Go, Dodger!

Here's an inspiring story about a professional athlete showing kindness to a fan with terminal cancer:

CLICK HERE TO READ THE STORY

I doubt Matt has any idea of the impact of his act, quite remarkable in my opinion especially considering it seems like he didn't intend for what happened to be publicized.  

Now that's what I call a Random Act of Kindness.

Kindness and a "Beef"

I can't remember when I first started hearing about "random acts of kindness," but it was many years ago.  As the story goes, a woman named Anne Herbert is said to have written the words "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty" on a placemat in a restaurant back in 1982, which reportedly started the movement as her words were seen by a fellow diner and then began to be shared, the momentum of which eventually gave rise to a book called Random Acts of Kindness, which was published in 1993.  The book quickly became an international bestseller and has inspired many conversations as well as the writing of numerous articles, posts on social media, and other books, all based on the simple concept of demonstrating kindness to strangers.  

The original book gives examples of random acts of kindness and provides many quotes about kindness, all of which are generally inspiring, thought-provoking, and uplifting.

It's impossible, I think, to imagine that there is a person alive who wouldn't agree that the concept of performing acts of kindness as the book describes is anything other than a good thing to do.  However, after years of hearing people talk about the random acts of kindness they have done, I have a beef about the way this idea is often being put into practice.

I think it stems from the fact that I work with a group of behavior specialists who talk a lot about the fact that every behavior has a motivator; in other words, everything a person does is done because he is motivated by something to do it.  Of course, that motivation - the dangling carrot, if you will - varies from person to person and from situation to situation.  Sometimes it's money, sometimes it's power, sometimes it's recognition, sometimes it's just plain fun, but the reason people do things is that they hope to get something they want in return.  

In my estimation, what Anne Herbert meant when she scribbled those words on that placemat was that she believed in altruism; she believed that people in general could be motivated just by the idea that they could influence the well-being of others and that knowing that would generate a desire to reach out in some way to do something kind.  I think she intended for people who carried out random acts of kindness to be satisfied just by feeling like they'd done something good for someone else.

Martin Luther King talked about the concept of selfless love and said that people should "create redemptive goodwill toward all men ... an overflowing love which seeks nothing in return." 

Of course I agree; of course I recognize that the world would be a better place if we all practiced more kindness.  My concern comes from the way that I've witnessed random acts of kindness being put into practice, with the person or persons performing the kind act telling others about what they have done. 

In my opinion, talking about the fact that one did a good deed turns that act into something of a boast; telling others about the kindness starts to seem more like an opportunity to proclaim one's own goodness and, from the way I see it, the generosity of the act is tainted by such a declaration.

I understand the intended chain reaction, the rippling effect that can come from hearing about a way that someone has helped someone else. I have often said that peer pressure can sometimes be a good thing, and I can see how one could be inspired or could even just glean an idea for a way to try to help another person from hearing about someone else's act of kindness. 

But I think that what the originator of this concept actually meant to inspire is not only the performance of random acts of kindness but also anonymous ones. I think a true act of kindness or generosity bears no witness and has no strings attached.  I think that if any information is to be given out about the exchange of kindness after a random act from a stranger it should actually come from the recipient, not from the giver.  That, to me, preserves the purity of the altruism; that makes an act of kindness what it is really supposed to be: a deed of benevolence that sets up an opportunity for the spread of more of the same, which protects the basis of the original idea and extends the hope that all of mankind may someday, somehow be touched and inspired by kindness, just for the sake of being kind.

So here's the challenge of the second Exercise in Perspective that I want to share:  Do something kind for someone else and don't tell anyone about it.  Don't do it because you think you should and don't expect anything at all in return - not recognition, not thanks, not good karma, not gratitude.  Just enjoy the feeling it gives you - that's really more than enough reward.

Just in case you need help or inspiration to think of an idea for a Random (and Anonmyous) Act of Kindness, here is a link to the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation:

                                        CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE LINK.

One More Conversation

I recently read about how sometimes people who are going through the grief process think about what it would be like to have one more conversation with their loved one.

Thinking about that is complex for me, because, as far as I knew, my dad didn't think that he wasn’t going to survive his cancer diagnosis, and so the things that I'm guessing typically come up in those one-more-conversation type of exchanges weren't on the table for us to talk about when he was sick.  We didn't talk about end-of-life kinds of things during the ten weeks we had after his diagnosis; honestly, I don't know that any of us could have withstood that type of emotional wrenching, including my dad.  He knew that we loved him, and we knew that he loved us, and I think we thought there was still time to talk about everything else.

Part of me wonders now if we should have been straight up with him about what was going on medically; after all, he was an adult and maybe it was underestimating him or overprotecting him to keep that information from him.  He knew his diagnosis, but he didn't know the prognosis.  The bottom line, though, is that my family and I did what we truly believed was in Dad's best interests at the time, given what we knew and the resources we had.  We didn't LIE to him, but we did skirt around the truth about his prognosis and the severity of his illness on the few occasions he asked us about it, when he said things like "What if the chemo doesn't work?" and then we said things like, "It will, Dad! We just have to get through it."  He asked one of his doctors a few times about the usual prognosis of someone with his same diagnosis, and they told him the truth, but all of us, Dad included, discounted what they said because Dad wasn't "usual" - he was extraordinary.  Towards the end, he asked me a few questions like, "What's it like to die?" and "Do you think it’s cold in heaven?" (he hated to be cold), and I am so very glad that I answered him truthfully then.  Most of the things I said to him though, when I realized how very limited our time together was going to be were part of a one-sided conversation - when he couldn't talk back, and when I'm wasn't sure he heard me.  Looking back, I think it would have been so hard for us to say goodbye to him and then to have him say it back; the pain and sorrow that I see on his face when I picture this scene in my mind are heartbreaking, sending a stream of tears down my face, and that's when the vision is only in my imagination.  I think Dad might have viewed his own farewell message as quitting, and I am glad he was spared that, at least.  

So when I think about what our conversation would be like had he gotten an extra few minutes tacked on at the end of his life, it’s hard for me to picture anything other that what we did talk about when he was so sick.  Given that, I want to respond to the question of what would I say to him now - not as if he is still alive but as though he and I are able to communicate now, with him being wherever he is in the afterlife and with me being here on earth:

Dad,

There are a few things that I want to be sure you know, and if I can be assured that you realize and understand these things it will help me to better deal with my grief:

I miss you so much, every day.  You had such a big impact on my life and on making me into the person I am today, and the things you taught me and the lessons I learned as a result of having you for a dad are carrying forwards, still affecting me every day.  So much bigger than that, though, was your impact on the hundreds of other people you knew and even on the thousands of other people you came into contact with over the course of your life.  What you left all of us with – and all of the people with whom WE will come into contact with in the time to come – is your perspective, your view on kindness, and your joy and gratitude in all kinds of situations.  Because of you, I know that I am lucky, no matter what is happening around me.  Because of you, I know that I can decide to be happy, if I choose.  And because of you, I know that family comes first but that every person is important and that being kind and giving to others is a privilege, not a duty.   I wish you could realize how many people admired and loved you; I think while you were sick that you might have gotten confused on just how many friends you had because we discouraged people from visiting you then because we were so worried about you catching their germs.  I’m sorry that we didn’t find a way for you to see how cherished you were by so many.  Finally, I want you to know that we will be forever grateful to you for the way you fought so hard to hang in there through so much over those last ten weeks, I want you to understand how we are so appreciative of every bit of light you brought to us over the years, and I want you to know that I will think about you and try to make you proud every single day, for the rest of my life.  

Not Knowing: Grandmom's Story, Part 3

Continued from Not Knowing, Grandmom's Story Part 2

In reading the book "Final Gifts: Understanding the Special Awareness, Needs, and Communications of the Dying," by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelly, I came across many things that spoke to me in regards to what my family and I had experienced during the end of Dad's illness.  I read the book with a goal of gaining some insight and perhaps even some perspective about my dad's death, and, in the process, I began to see that there might be another reason for the recent changes in my grandmother's emotional state besides the cognitive decline associated with her medical condition.

One section of the book is about things that may be needed in order for a person to die peacefully:

"Some people realize a need for reconciliation.  Some request the removal of a barrier standing in the way of a peaceful death. Still others need particular circumstances to die peacefully - perhaps choosing the time of their death or the people who will be there.

Realizing what they need, dying people often become concerned; some communicate a tremendous urgency.  Coherent requests usually bring action.  But requests that are vague or indirect may be missed or ignored, leading to frustration, anxiety, and sometimes agitation.  If the awareness of an important need comes late - when death seems to be imminent - the person may delay or prolong the process of dying in an attempt to settle an issue or effect a final reconciliatory meeting.

A person's anxiety, agitation, or prolonged dying can be upsetting for everyone ... Often, the response to agitation is to sedate the patient ... Sedatives may help relieve agitation, but medicines alone are not the answer."

Reading these passages caused me to see some things in a new light, not just about my dad's passing but about Grandmom in her terminal condition, including the fact that our decision not to tell her about Dad's illness or his death might not be the best choice.  According to the authors, "Sometimes a family decides to withhold info about the death of someone the dying person knows.  While this is typically done out of kindness and concern, the truth often brings peace instead of discomfort or upset to the dying person."

I shared that insight with my mom and my sisters, and we decided that Grandmom needed to be told about Dad.  None of us wanted to do it, but we believed it was in her best interest and we hoped the information would help to ease her mind.  As my sister Jennifer recounts, "We were so worried that she would get the idea that he abandoned her, that he didn't want to visit her again, or maybe even that he didn't love her anymore, and of course we wanted to do anything we could to prevent her from those thoughts, which of course were absolutely untrue."  We resolved to tell her the next time one of us could go with Mom to visit her. 

Shortly after that, on the Tuesday before Dad's burial was scheduled on Saturday, Jennifer arrived at our parents' house, and she and Mom went together to see Grandmom.  Here is Jennifer's recollection of what happened when they got to the nursing home:

We rounded the corner and saw that Grandmom was sitting up in her wheelchair, which was parked just outside her bedroom door.  We greeted her, and then I kneeled down right in front of her and held both of her fragile hands in mine.  I said something like this:

"Grandmom, I want to tell you something that might make you sad, but I feel like you need to know, and  I don't want you to worry.  Bill was sick and had cancer.  He went to the best doctors and the best hospitals, but, even as strong as he was, he was not able to fight off the cancer.  He passed away and is in heaven now with God and with Roy [our grandfather, Grandmom's late husband].  He is not in any pain.  You should not worry.  Vicki and Stephanie and Nancy and I were all with him while he was sick, and we took good care of him.  He always asked about you and tried so hard to come back to see you again, but he was too sick.  You were so important to him, and he loved you so much.  We promised him that we will take care of you no matter what. Then, when God decides it is your time, you will get to go to heaven and be with Bill and Roy again."

Somehow I did it without crying -- I just felt really focused on giving Grandmom some relief and definitely did not want to cause her any additional sadness or worry about why I was sad, and so I just talked clearly and slowly and looked right into her eyes and told her.  She wasn't really able to talk much, but she definitely seemed to be listening to me, and I truly think had a look of relief and understanding on her face after she heard the news.  She did not cry.  A little while later, when we left, I hugged her again and told her I loved her and that Dad loved her and that we did not want her to worry. 

In the days that followed and over the course of the next two months, the nurses reported that she was sleeping better and was much less anxious.  She required fewer medications and wasn't crying anymore.  We like to think it was because she understood that her son loved her until he took his last breath and that, given the information about what had happened to Dad, she was able to hold onto the belief that he had gone on ahead but was waiting for her in heaven. 

To Be Continued - Part 4 of Grandmom's Story, Coming Soon

What I Miss the Most, Today

I recently signed up for an online class that looks at dealing with grief through writing.  This week's assignment is to write about what we miss the most about the person for whom we are grieving.  This is my entry, which is kind of a follow-up to the original What I Miss The Most post from last October ...


I guess the thing I miss the most about my dad is his enthusiasm.  He was without a doubt the most gung-ho (he loved that term) person I've ever known, always motivated and always looking at the glass as half full, and his contagious energy was something that affected everyone in his presence.  That ties into what I have come to realize was the best thing he left to those of us who were lucky enough to have known him: his perspective.  During my life, I observed him so many times in the role of the life of the party, a great conversationalist, and a friend to so many; I always thought he was so popular because he was so much fun to be around.  But after he went on ahead I realized from things that people (some of whom I didn't know even though they knew my dad) told us that it was actually his kindness and his positivity that attracted so many people to him, and I saw how far reaching his genuineness and his perspective truly were.  

     What I wear on my wrist every day to remind myself to try to be positive,
just like my dad 

I am trying hard to emulate that benevolence in my daily life these days, but, in the midst of my grief, I am finding it to be very hard to do so.  I miss my dad and his zeal for life so much that it often makes me angry and/or sad; I know that's just part of the grief process, but it makes me feel like I am not honoring him or carrying on in his footsteps when I can't be as excited and cheerful as he always was.

The Art of Sportsmanship

One of the things I love about the Olympics is that through watching the Games, we occasionally get to see little glimpses of good sportsmanship that are unlike anything seen in mainstream sports.  Good sportsmanship, to me, comes from having a genuine love of one's sport and can only really be experienced when one has the right perspective; it's about being grateful for having the chance to compete, no matter what the outcome.  

I think perhaps everybody's favorite competitor based on sportsmanship this summer was South African Oscar Pistorius, who advanced to compete in the 400-meter finals despite having two prosthetic legs.  

Another example of an athlete who was a good sport in the face of competition was Sam Mikulak, the U.S. gymnast who was in third place in the men's vaulting event as he openly cheered on the competitors who performed after him and ultimately bumped him out of medal position.

But my favorite moment of sportsmanship was in the mens' 10,000 meter run during track and field; skip ahead to 2:40 on this video clip and you'll see Mo Farah, the British distance runner, cross the finish line first to take the gold, followed by his training buddy and my pick for Best Sport of the 2012 Games, Galen Rupp of the U.S.:

In my years of competitive running while I was growing up, my dad always encouraged me before every race to gut it out and to give it my all, to do the homework (and by that he meant to put in the miles and the training beforehand AND to learn whatever I could about both my competition and the course ahead of time), but to leave it all on the track.  He taught me that when the race was over, my competitors were my friends, that our mutual love of running made us allies in a sense.  Through advice that my dad gave me about running, I learned that how one behaves before, during, and after the event is every bit if not more important that who stands on the awards podium at the finish and that sometimes it's your day to have a good race and sometimes it's someone else's day.  That's how I came to value Sportmanship and all it embodies - respect, fairness, kindness, and honesty.  

A Gift Received

"The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade you do not expect to sit." ~Nelson Henderson

GENEROSITY is central to the practice of many religions and cultures and manifests in many ways.   It is a practice - and a concept - that we continue to learn about and to consider as individuals and as groups of people.

Before my dad got sick, I viewed generosity mainly in terms of giving money, material goods, time, and/or attention to those in need; honestly, donating was something I did because I felt it was something that I should do.  Maybe, in some ways, I even thought that being charitable would bring about some good karma to me, give me a pass on hardships, and other things in this vein.

Growing up in a church, I’d heard all about giving and was very familiar with lessons from Sunday School about how it’s better to give than to receive, laboring to support the weak, and refreshing others through generosity so that we ourselves may prosper.  I’d done some reading about the idea of giving in general and knew that Buddhist principals of generosity, Jewish beliefs about the way of giving, and philanthropic views of Hinduism and other religions as well as various cultures like the Native Americans who believe in the circle of life - all seem to be based on similar ideas, mainly that meritorious effects come from being generous. All in all, from my viewpoint at the time, I generally considered myself to be a person who gave to others in a generous, unselfish manner.

I’m not sure exactly when or where, but somewhere along the line as part of what my family went through with my dad’s illness and subsequent death, I have come to have a different perspective about having a charitable spirit.

I no longer think it’s right just to use The Golden Rule (interestingly also sometimes referred to as “the rule of reciprocity”), to do unto others as you would have them do onto you, as a guide.  From my perspective, people should show kindness and generosity to other living beings just because we can, and that’s what we should be teaching younger generations.  Not because we want others to help us when we are in need, not because we think that will be our ticket into heaven, not to make someone proud or to impress somebody, and not because doing something for someone else may get us a mention in the newspaper or even as having been "a good person” in our obituaries.

Our spectrum of motivation should not be linked to a reward for doing what we know should be done, nor should it be done to avoid a consequence for not.  Self-interest should in no way enter the equation, only the interests of others and of humanity in general.  Regard for others is ingrained in the majority of us (or it should be), and thus benevolence should also be part of our nature and should not require a burden of guilt, a threat of exile, or a reward of attention, power, popularity, or anything else.  There should be no cost-benefit analysis in doing what we know is right.  In short, we should help others because we can, not because we feel we should.

A few years ago, before my dad got sick, I had a friend who became very sick.  Those of us who knew her felt terrible about what she was going through, and we desperately wanted to be able to do something to help her as she struggled through treatment and relapse. The woman was very humble and really did not like attention, and she said it embarrassed her when other people gave her things or did things for her.  Each time I saw her, she thanked me profusely for whatever relatively small thing I had done for her or her family last, and many times she blushed and stammered around in an effort to convey her appreciation.  In turn, when she would do this, it would make me feel uncomfortable, and I often left feeling guilty and sad that she felt that she had to shower me with thanks.  It felt as if I had burdened her instead of giving her a gift.  No matter how hard I tried to stop her from lavishing me with praise and gratitude, she insisted on carrying on, and a couple of times she even said that she didn’t feel worthy of the support being given to her and her family.  It became kind of a struggle between us over time, which was obviously not at all the way I intended for our interaction to be.  Unfortunately, her health continued to decline, and the last conversation I had with her before she went to the hospital for the last time was a back-and-forth exchange just like the ones we’d been having the whole time she was sick.  We didn’t express our feelings for one another or talk about anything meaningful because we were too busy thanking each other, and I think the talk left each of us feeling as if we weren’t really able to get our point across to the other one.  Here's what I learned from that experience, though: For someone to feel the gift of giving, one must be willing to receive.  And that lesson has fed into my thinking on the whole subject as my personal experience has broadened over the past couple of years.

As I’ve mentioned before, there was much kindness poured onto my dad and my family while he was sick, not just in actions and in materials goods but in messages and thoughts.  Throughout my life, I’ve heard much talk about the kindness of close friends and sometimes (I suppose because it’s even more surprising to us when it happens) even about the kindness of strangers. But what about the kindness of those people who exist in between? Those people who we know and see, but not very well or very often. What about these people we call acquaintances?  To me, during my dad’s illness and after his death, those are the interactions that surprised and affected me the most because it was obvious to me that those people didn’t help because they felt they should or because of what they were likely to be rewarded for doing but because they could.

Here’s something else that I realized when my dad was sick: to be able  to do for others is a true blessing.  One who does so out of inner joy instead of outward compulsion or obligation is truly blessed.  If I give to someone else for any reason other than simply for the sake of being able to be generous, I am worse off than the person in need, by my own choice.  If I choose to take joy in the tasks I am fortunate enough to be able to do and to embrace the opportunity with devotion and gratitude, it is I who is being served and who is receiving a gift.

This new perspective, one that has come partially from being on the receiving end of generosity and partly from looking at things in a different way, as I have done since my dad’s passing, doesn’t necessarily make me want to be more philanthropic than I was before, because I think I was already charitable whenever I could be.  However, it makes me look at the opportunities that I have in my life to give to others as a blessing, and, perhaps more importantly, it has helped me to find the words to explain to people whom I have been fortunate enough to be in a position to help in a way that works better to facilitate their understanding of the exchange that goes on between us; it is I that owe them the gratitude for allowing me to help, not the reverse, and denying me the opportunity to do so denies me the chance to receive the blessing of giving.  And I know without a doubt that the benefit of the philanthropy is much more to the giver than to the receiver, thus placing the receiver in the position of being a giver himself.  It has become clear to me that I am receiving a gift whenever I am in a position to support another living being, and I am completely clear on why I am providing that help and on why I am so grateful to have to chance to do it: because I can.

One person can make a difference, and every person should try.  ~John F. Kennedy

Being Present

One thing that I think I got better at during my dad’s illness was being present.  When I think back to when my children were very young and there was a lot of just being there to be done, I don’t see myself as having been good at it; so often when I should have been completely focused on the joy of motherhood, I remember feeling like I needed be taking care of something else – work, household duties, or whatever – instead of basking in the good fortune that had come to me because I was able to spend time with them.  I don’t think I was in the moment often enough back then, and, to be honest, it’s something with which I’ve often found myself struggling in many contexts over the years.

But when I was told of Dad’s diagnosis, even though I didn’t (couldn’t) believe the prognosis, I realized the preciousness of spending time with him, just in case.  When my family was told the grim statistics that were so caustically presented to us, immediately we were all reeling over the extreme vulnerability of the man we loved so much, and maybe even that of life in general.  From the time Dad was initially taken to the hospital by ambulance, in some distinct ways he seemed so different from the man he really was, but in other ways he was, well, just himself.  What Cancer didn’t take from him was his sense of humor, his kindness, his tenacity, his love for his family and friends, and maybe even his belief that things would turn out all right.

Throughout his battle with Cancer, at least some confusion was there for Dad, at times a good bit of it, but his brilliance was still there too.  As much as we wanted to protect him and to have as much time as possible with him, he worked even harder to protect us and to have as much time as possible with us, and I will always remember and respect the grand effort I am certain that took on his part.  

Over the many years that Dad was in peak physical condition, especially when he was marathon-ready, he was thin-statured.  His son-in-laws and some of his friends used to jokingly call him Skeletor and say that he looked like a POW.   (Dad took that as a compliment: “Less weight to carry on my run!” he said enthusiastically.)  But at the end of his life, Cancer actually made him a Prisoner of War – literally overnight, he couldn’t go where he wanted to go or do what he wanted to do.  Hell, he couldn’t even be left alone for one minute for fear that his “I can do it myself” attitude and the impulsiveness and disregard for safety that were handed down by the disease would land him in the floor.  Obviously, nothing and no one had been able to keep him safe from Cancer, and, the way we saw it, we’d be damned if we weren’t going to try our absolute best to keep him safe from everything else.

And that’s where being present became necessary, right from Day 1 of his illness.  That’s also were being present became a privilege for those of us who loved him so much; it was a crash course for me in priorities and in time management.  At first, as I sat with Dad and even while I helped him with the many things with which he needed help, my mind raced ahead and then behind and then ahead again.  If not for the fatigue that became so extreme and so pervasive for my mom, my sisters, and me during the ten weeks we cared for Dad, we would surely have not been able to fall asleep at all for the whirling and racing our minds were doing.  As it was, though, by the time Dad entered rehab just a few days after his brain surgery, being present was all I could do, and, as well, it was all I wanted to do.

Along the way, Dad seemed like he still had plenty of fight left in him, until he didn’t.  The world, in Dad’s eyes before Cancer, was a great place, full of fun things to do and people to interact with, full of adventure and dreams and things to look forward to.  We watched as Cancer and the four walls of the hospital, the rehab center, his house, and then the hospital again changed that over time, though, and as the light and the happiness started to leave his eyes.

People going through the kind of traumatic experience that my family was while Dad was sick are not always the easiest people with whom to interact, we knew that, and we did what we could to follow Dad’s lead and to be appreciative and patient.  Some of the nurses and techs we clicked with, and some of them we tolerated while we counted down the minutes until their shifts were over.  We weren’t ourselves; we were busy being present and taking care of Dad with every bit of intensity that we could muster, 24 hours a day.  Fear and anger and helplessness and sorrow and fatigue changed who we were; I think most of the people we knew were aware of that and realized that our world had been turned upside down and we were just muddling through.  

In the months since Dad went on ahead, I think I have lost a lot of the ability I had gained in being present.  My mind so often flashes back to scenes of Dad struggling or the faces of the people who didn’t help us and didn’t seem to care that we were failing in our efforts to save him.  It’s like a remote control gone haywire with a life of its own that's controlling my thoughts sometimes when I should be controlling them, so that I can pay attention and be present, especially when I am lucky enough to have time to spend with my family and friends; I cannot control those flashes or the distractibility and the emotions that come with them.  I am very appreciative of the times when I can focus, whether it is to concentrate on doing something that needs to be done or to take a breath and feel some positive emotions.  Oddly, sometimes when I catch myself feeling happy, I’m happy that I can be happy in that moment, but, as in a sky without a cloud in sight, it also makes me anxious and sad to know that there is a black cloud that out there that will inevitably come near again at some point in the future.

Being present more consistently has gone back on the list of goals that I have for myself, and I hope to achieve it one day soon so that I can more often bask in the good that is all around me, despite the fact that one of the best people in my life is no longer able to be present to enjoy it with me.

Outpouring

Some people make New Year’s resolutions or set personal goals about trying to be practice kindness.  But not my dad.  He didn’t have to set a goal or even really think about being kind; it was so innate for him that he never considered acting otherwise, and he couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t be kind to someone else.

It has always been apparent to me that my dad was grateful for everything he had; he had goals and dreams, to be sure, but he was the most contented person I ever knew.  This trait held true for him in the best of times and in the worst of them, and having had the opportunity to gain that perspective from him has in large part made me the person I am and the person whom I strive to be.

During the memorial service for my dad and afterwards, the outpouring of love and respect for Dad that my family and I witnessed was our greatest source of comfort.  It was as if the kindness he had bestowed upon so many came back to me and to the rest of my family, yet another gift from Dad to us that he didn’t even realize he was giving.

When Dad came home from the hospital on hospice, his swim team coach Ashley set up a schedule so that Dad’s teammates on the swim team and others who were so inclined could deliver meals to my parents’ house.  At the memorial service, Ashley told me that Dad’s friends on the team still wanted to send the meals for Mom as a tribute to Dad.  We were so touched by the generosity of the offer, and again we agreed that Dad probably never realized how many friends he had.  One of the guys on the swim team called my parents’ house the day after Dad got home from the hospital and offered to help if we needed anything.  The really remarkable thing about the call was that neither my mom nor my sisters or I knew him, but he told Mom on the phone that Dad was one of his best friends.  

So many kind words were spoken about Dad at the memorial celebration, and lots of memorable stories were told involving him, some of which we heard that day for the first time.  

On the day after the service, a man who had recently moved into the house next door to my parents saw me in the driveway and came over to ask about Dad.  He had heard that Dad was sick but hadn’t gotten an update in a couple of weeks.  Tears sprang to his eyes when I told him about Dad; he said that when he and his family had first moved in Dad came right over to welcome them to the neighborhood, and, when he learned that they were first-time homeowners, he gave them a hearty congratulations.  “What he said to us that day made us feel proud and brave instead of anxious about buying our first house,” he told me, “and we will never forget it.” 

A couple of weeks later, a man that my dad knew through work mailed a handwritten letter and a CD of photos to my mom; he said that Dad had impacted his career and his life in a way that he would always appreciate and remember.  The photos he sent of Dad were wonderful; several of them told a story of their own and have since become some of my favorite pictures of my dad.

My mom, both of my sisters, and I also each received a handwritten letter in the mail from a man with whom my dad used to be good friends but with whom we hadn’t had much contact in many years.  His words and even just the gesture of jotting down some fond memories about my dad were of great comfort to all of us; we really appreciated the time and love that went into such a thoughtful act.

The messages we received during the celebration of Dad’s life and in the days that followed were heartfelt, tender, and very touching, and they helped ease some of our pain; we were moved by the genuineness of the emotions we saw in everyone who had ever known my kindhearted father, and I hoped that Dad could see or somehow sense the outpouring of love, respect, and admiration that came from so many.