Time is precious, so don’t waste a minute

I SAID good-bye to my father today. Not just ‘see you later’; my dad is on his deathbed.

For some, death comes in an instant. Others go slowly and painfully. Max Gitomer, my dad, has been lying in a bed for three weeks on all kinds of life support. They’ve done every kind of test and biopsy. They put in a pacemaker and took out several pieces of lung. In the process they cut a hole in his throat to replace the breathing tube in his mouth.

Hospitals are not fun at the end of life.

I spoke with one of his doctors on the phone, who was as matter of fact as a tax agent at an audit. He said: “Due to the infection and scar tissue in his lungs, your dad will have to be on some kind of artificial breathing support for the rest of his life – or he can choose to go on his own without the life support and pass away. That’s about it.”

After being under sedation for three weeks, they intend to wake him up and give him a choice of artificial life or death. Which of these choices, I ask you, is worse?

I went to my dad’s bedside and told him what was about to happen. Even under sedation, I’m sure he heard me. He kept trying to move as though he was listening and wanting to say something, anything, a word, a final statement. But the machines and the tubes keeping him alive were also preventing him from speaking.

So, I began to say goodbye. I called his name and identified myself. He stirred and pinched my finger to tell me he was listening. I tried to be upbeat – no crying. “Hey, remember the time you and Arnie played touch football against me and Michael, and you ran around and I couldn’t catch you? That was the last time we raced. You always won.” I started to cry.

I reminded him of ‘visiting day’ in 1960 when parents came to summer camp for the weekend to visit their children. The camp counsellors played baseball against the fathers. My dad came up to the plate and hit a ball out of the field of play and over the tennis courts. The counsellors gave him an ovation. I was so proud. My dad was the best of all the other guys’ dads.

And fathers want the same for their sons. To be proud of them.

Now, in the hospital, I’m by his side at what may be the last time we communicate. I thanked him for his wit and his wisdom. I told him it was ok to choose to die.

I told him that he had once again triumphed – bringing the family closer, even when he was helpless – and I was helpless to do anything about it.

Max Gitomer was a master salesman. The kind that made friends, made people laugh, gave them confidence, and kept people as friends for years after the deal was done. He was the best kind of salesman. Max was a warrior. A never quit, never-stop-trying sales warrior. He knew what it took to make the deal happen, and had negotiating nerves of steel. He learned those lessons from his dad.

My dad never let me come to him with a problem unless I also had my version of a solution. He never actually said I was wrong in my thinking; he would just say, ‘You got it all figured out, son?’ That always meant there was more thinking to do.

‘Don’t offer anything you wouldn’t be willing to accept,’ Max would always say after he sealed a deal. I learned a lot from my dad. His ways, his philosophies, and his humour will forever be intertwined with mine.

I have grown up and become a salesman, like my dad. He got to watch me make some big sales. Over the past few years I have become a sales trainer and a speaker. Max got to watch a few of my talks. I always did my best when he was in the audience. And now, in his new position as guardian angel, he gets to come to all my speeches.

I am sure that he will be there – somewhere.

Like any 52-year relationship, there were good times and bad. Like any good student, I learned lessons from both. And in the end, I got a chance to tell him I love him and kiss him goodbye until the next time. I am sure there will be a next time.

And as for this time – my dad was proud of me. What else better can there be? What finer gift could you wish from your father?

(Please note: This column is a reprint of one I wrote 11 years ago when my father passed away.)