End Of The Line
Today would have been my father’s 87th birthday.
It was the winter of 2016 when my sisters and I had noticed a few things starting to go not-so-well where our dad was concerned. He got a bit disoriented in the dark of the evening; he was forgetful at times, notable since he was someone who had always had the sharpest of memories.
My brother had heard my sisters and me mentioning these changes in phone calls, and on a springtime visit, Scott cooked Dad breakfast one morning and softly broached the idea of taking a trip to the emergency room. Our doctor father immediately agreed.
Once at the hospital, we learned that Dad had a major, inoperable brain tumor. His colleagues were stoic once my dad made it crystal clear that he was not planning to do any surgery or treatments of any kind. We understood it was a matter of months.
The next 8 weeks were actually kind of glorious. It was a beautiful spring that year. I settled into a rhythm of meeting my dad on his porch to drink some beer or wine most evenings. My sisters saw Dad every day. Our kids joined us sometimes. My brother came and went from the West Coast a couple of times. We laughed and had some meaningful conversations, but looking back I can’t recall anything specific we discussed that was profound or earth-shattering. We were just together. We let Dad smoke and drink freely, and he ate a ton of ice cream. He was unleashed and free, and none of us tried to stop him from indulging any bad habits.
Around 8 or 9 weeks after his diagnosis, Dad had a major seizure. He entered the hospital for a few days and then was released to us at his home, where he wanted to be. From that point forward he was bedridden, with round-the-clock care. He passed away just before Christmas.
Those six months that dad was in the bed were really the first time for me that I thought about death in any meaningful way. Our mom had passed away suddenly five years earlier. It had happened so quickly, and the wound of her death had been deep for a long time. I know now I lived it and re-lived it, but never actually processed it.
But those days which became weeks which became months of watching Dad move methodically to the end of his life were a revelation. Observing his full time caregivers was humbling. They kept Dad clean and fed, safe and in good humor. They tended to him with such love and generosity, enabling my siblings and me to have space to enjoy Dad in a way which felt new and liberating. As one caregiver, a longtime family friend, said to me, “your father lived in this world as a dignified man, and he will leave this world in a dignified way.”
When I look back on the fall of 2016 and think about my father’s caregiving team, I am convinced that I was in the presence of angels.
It was also enlightening to watch Dad himself mentally prepare for his own end. He was always a quiet man, and visits that fall — especially toward the end — often consisted of silently sitting next to him, with him concentrating hard on something invisible to us.
I’ll never know all that played through Dad’s mind, but I was occasionally privy to brief moments or impressions that would confirm that Dad was recalling something or someone that was important. He would sometimes say a name or a thought out loud, as if dropping a little breadcrumb to give us a clue of where his mind had gone in that instant.
My dad died in a very similar way to how he lived. Methodically, slowly, with patience. Zero drama. He did not seem fearful and in fact had told me on his porch one evening that he was not afraid to die, when I had mustered up the courage to ask him. My dad was never one for surprises, and the end for him came as no surprise to him or anyone else.
***
It was during that fall of 2016 that I started to experiment a bit with meditation. I also returned to reading some of the stoic philosophy I had enjoyed in college. I was drawn to the concept of Premeditatio Malorum, the idea of thinking ahead of time about things that could go wrong or be taken away from us. Sort of like Jack Reacher’s philosophy of hope for the best but prepare for the worst.
In a strange way, sitting with my dad and watching him slowly pass with such grace and dignity made me a much better version of myself. Less afraid of the future, much more focused on enjoying the present moment, more generous with my time, more appreciative of stillness.
I became more aware of how temporary everything is in this life. And especially aware of choices, how they guide everything.
And not only the choices some of us are lucky enough to be able to make which will shape portions of our lives — like who we marry or where we live or work — but especially the choices we make in how we react to externalities. Many of the big and small life events that shape us are not actually things we chose or can control. But we always have control or a choice in how we decide to respond to life’s circumstances.
***
I have an old friend who is today the CEO of a major organization. I was talking to him recently about his job and some of the stresses he faces in having such a high visibility role leading a large company. Our conversation had included a little bit about his leadership philosophy, how he sees himself as a steward of this “great role” he occupies for some fixed period of time. He knows there will be successes and failures he will encounter in this role, just like anyone.
He closed by saying something really interesting and memorable to me:
I recognize my job/title is fleeting. Whenever it ends, I’ll quickly be forgotten. All that will remain will be my relationships.
I read a related sentiment echoed by Doug Leone recently when he was stepping down from his leadership role at Sequoia, arguably the most successful venture capital fund ever. He said that he “finds the word legacy to be dangerous.” He went on:
I hope my epitaph is that I brought it every day and died a young man, in the sense that I was always open-minded to the next idea.
***
There have been other very highly visible endings lately. Coach K, Jay Wright — two coaches I adore. What they have said and how they have behaved at the end of legendary careers has been admirable and inspirational.
It’s worth considering some of the big “end of the line” questions. How will you behave at the end — of your career or your life or even your day today? If you’ve taken the time to envision how you’d like to behave, then it will likely be so.
What do you want to be remembered for? Who do you want to have with you at the end, drinking beers and laughing and eating ice cream on the porch?
I’ll never be as well-known or outwardly successful in my career as my friend running the big company, or Doug Leone, or Coach K or Jay Wright. But as I ponder these big questions and follow examples like them and my dad, I hope I can at least leave everything and everyone I touched along my journey a little better than I found them.
***
Those of you who know me well you know that I’m a proud member of GenX. We GenXers have grown up in the shadow of the Baby Boomers, but a lot of us are now stepping into positions of larger responsibility while continuing to learn from the Boomers and helping to clear the way for the Millenials and Zoomers.
I feel so fortunate to work in a business with four generations operating horizontally under one roof. It brings to light every day how interdependent on one another we are, and how much learning and changing is possible (and necessary) for us to move forward and get better.
I plan to keep focusing on forging the relationships that are going to matter at the end (of my day, my career, my life), like my friend said. I want to be known for openness to new ideas, as Mr. Leone said. Most of all, I want to be able to handle the end of anything in my life with the kind of calm courage exhibited by my dad at his end.
To do all of this well will no doubt require effort, love and generosity of spirit. And trust in others to believe similarly that we are all in this together, that we have important problems to solve and things to learn and do, as one large team of interconnected beings. My hope is that we can get there. I agree with Bryan Stevenson when he says that hope is our superpower.
***
I’ll close by saying that if you’ve never read anything by Anthony De Mello, I would highly recommend his writings, many of which are short meditations. He writes often about how love can only exist in freedom. So, in his words, “I leave you free to be yourself” and hope our paths cross again soon in some positive way.
Jeff Constable
4.23.2022
Song Recommendation
Of course it is the 1989 classic (released January 23 that year) by the Traveling Wilburys, End Of The Line. Enjoy!
