To say that Al Klein and I knew one another when we both
worked at a Fortune 50 company years ago would be misleading. More like we knew
of one another. Despite working in
the same department, the corporate culture never quite felt like it supported
authentic connections. Clever and pithy exchanges among co-workers took
precedence over sincere and heartfelt conversations. Bravado was king, and the
shark-infested halls were no place to show fear, doubt or vulnerability. Especially vulnerability.
Twenty years after leaving the company, I received an email
from Al. He was almost finished reading my book, and he felt the need to
connect with me. Six months earlier – and after years of headaches and
misdiagnoses – Al had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Following an
emergency brain surgery, he underwent chemo and radiation, and was now
adjusting to the reality of his post-cancer life, which included the strong
likelihood that the tumors would return.
Within a handful of e-mails, Al and I had formed a nice
friendship. No topic was off limits: spirituality, dream interpretation,
relationships, our fears, our hopes, and the many ways that our medical
challenges had changed us. Though we’d originally met through work, it was our
mutual experience with suffering that truly forged our bond. The details of our
respective illnesses were almost irrelevant. What we quickly discovered was
that we shared similar responses to life-threatening illness: the difficulty in
learning to sit (or more accurately, lie) still and allow others to care for
us, the need to embrace the vulnerability that goes hand in hand with serious
illness, and the desire to be better people and to help others, especially after
receiving all that love and support and help while we were each the ones in
need.
I believe Al put it best when he said, “I have a great
family and great friends, and I've been overwhelmed by the love and support
they’ve shown – that’s the silver lining though this ordeal. Actually, the love
is so much more important than the ordeal.”
A couple years ago I invited Al and his wife to join me in New York
City for a gala benefit I was chairing, but he told me he no longer enjoyed
attending large events with lots of strangers. Instead, he invited me to join
him for lunch after the benefit if I could stay in the area for another day. I
declined, feeling the need to return to Colorado shortly after the fundraiser,
but promising to get together during my next trip to New York.
The minute I received an email from Al’s wife months later,
I regretted not having stayed that extra day to have lunch with Al. The email’s
subject line read: A Note of Sorrow. The tumors had returned, this time more
aggressively. Al had passed away the previous evening.
This life, for every one of us, is filled with suffering.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in blood services. Every blood recipient is
suffering in some regard, be it with an acute medical challenge or a lifelong
transfusion-dependent illness. Every parent of a child who needs a blood
transfusion understands suffering – both their child’s and their own.
But amidst all this suffering is that undeniable silver
lining – the gift of authentic connection between people. Between a patient and
a nurse. Between a blood recipient and a donor. Even between two former
business colleagues who were once too clever to be vulnerable.
