Shock and Sadness

Last night it was Facebook that delivered the unbelievable news that Robin Williams had died.  I was stunned at his death, but not that it was considered suicide.  I knew he suffered from depression and that he had a very unhappy childhood; what I didn't know, what none of us could know, was how deeply he felt that pain.  I looked for confirmation from reliable news sources, I kept expecting a post suggesting it was a joke; finally, I acknowledged that the funniest person on the planet had left us.

Flabbergasted, I shared the news with Scotty and then, unfathomably, burst into deep gut-wrenching sobs. Yes, I was saddened, even devastated by the loss of this gifted comic, but it was not a personal loss.  I questioned my reaction; Why was the death of Robin Williams affecting me this way?  Had his work, his life, really had that much of an impact on me?  Or, was it simply that within moments of hearing the news there was an outpouring of love and admiration that would have humbled him, had he been alive to see it.  Was my grief simply a response of being too late to matter? Is it that I see a similarity between Robin Williams and someone I hold dear?  I still don't have the answer. For the next few hours I scoured Facebook for every mention, every picture, every quote; each one bringing fresh tears. I prayed endlessly that he would find peace and would make God laugh before finally crying myself to sleep.  And this morning I woke up still terribly saddened by his death.  Today I have read every obituary and every tribute that I could find.  I've watched countless clips that made me laugh and cry.  I've replayed lines in my head, thought about characters, and remembered the suspenders I had just like the ones he wore as Mork.

"Celebrity" deaths don't normally have this kind of affect on me.  Sure, I cried for hours when Elvis died.  I even shed a few tears when Paul Newman died.  But none affected me as deeply, or as profoundly, as the death of Robin Williams. Perhaps in the end all that is really important is this: his life and his death mattered.

I hope Robin Williams is at peace and I hope he finally knows, in every significant way, that he was loved, he was appreciated, he mattered, and he will be missed.  "Fly...be free Robin!"

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

For the last three years I have lamented my son’s choice to attend the neighborhood high school.  I thought then, and still do, that there were better choices for him both in the district and in non-traditional options.  Every year it was the same heated discussion, and every year my son’s mental well-being outweighed my maternal instinct and better knowledge.  But I always knew at the end of it there would be a high school graduation complete with senior pictures, invitations, yearbook and class ring.

I admit that I probably should have put my foot down hard and not given him any options, but I didn't for a handful of reasons including, bullying, isolation, depression, and happiness.  My son was miserable at the school, but he knew people there.  There are many shoulda, coulda, woulda moments; but no one else lived in my home and watched a happy, brilliant child crumble.  It was me who looked into those once-bright eyes to see desperation, fear, hurt and anger.  It was me who heard this child beg to stay in that school just so he didn’t have to start over – again.  It was me holding an emotionally battered and broken boy in my arms as he sobbed and beat himself up again and again.  Each and every time I did one of those things it broke my heart and my will; I could not knowingly subject my child to more of the same.  Moving him to a different school, while best in many ways, would have been the worst thing emotionally and psychologically.  So he stayed, and we moved mountains to make sure he could.

Earlier this week my son floated the idea that he leave school and not graduate with his class.  He still intended to get his diploma, just through alternative means.  You see he is feeling overwhelmed and, in his words, stupid; he is failing his junior year and he shouldn’t be.  He missed a bit of school this year due to injury, he got behind and has never been able to catch up.  A lot of that rests on his shoulders, and he accepts, and bears, the responsibility willingly.  As a parent I place some of that on the shoulders of the teachers; the ones who would not work with him.  The ones who, when approached for help because he missed the lesson, told him they taught it once he needed to get notes from someone.  The ones who told him to come for tutorials then didn’t show up – on five different occasions.  And the ones who, because he missed the classroom portion, moved him to the hallway for the activity portion of the lesson.  And to the one who saw the struggle and the effort and offered a hand, I am grateful.

So now that I have the opportunity to put my son in a different environment to finish high school, why does it bother me?  He doesn’t care about graduating in cap and gown with friends and family watching.  Why does it matter to me?  When he told me that all he was trying to do was finish school to make me happy, why did I cry?  Why is my heart broken that after buying a class ring, my son won’t be graduating from that very school?  Is it because we fought so hard to keep him in that school and now it’s for nothing?  Is it because of the inevitable comparisons to other kids’ high school happenings and college planning?  Or is it because I feel as though I have failed to do the right thing for my child and now feel like I don’t know what the right thing is?

I truly don’t have the answer.  What I do know is that I cried myself to sleep that night, mourning the loss of his dreams and my dreams for him.  I’m working on a new dream and although I’m not certain what our next step is or how we get there.

Twice in my working life I've been blessed to work for amazing businessmen.  The first time I was 18 and had a boss who recognized my ability, my intelligence and taught me many things, including how office politics can derail an career.

The second man who taught me much about business came many years later at 30.  He wasn't supposed to be my boss, but I campaigned him for the job, and eventually he gave in and coordinated the move from my current position to working as his assistant. 

He was, to most people in the office, intimidating.  For the first few weeks his gruff demeanor intimidated me.  We had a rocky start, but eventually found our groove and he taught me many things.  The business aspect was a given, but he taught me about management, managing office politics, how to pick your battles, and how to work with difficult people.  There was nothing I couldn't ask him, and I asked a lot.  I once brazenly asked him why he kept a certain manager.  He didn't like him, none of the staff liked him.  None of it made sense. He leaned back in his chair, tossed his glasses on his desk and said, "You know sometimes I ask myself that question.  Turns out I have an answer.  He does the XYZ report.  I hate the XYZ report.  If he weren't here I'd have to do it and I don't want to, nor do I have the time to work on it."  From that point on I understood the manager's purpose.  I didn't have to like him, but he had his uses; when others would complain and assume that the executives were blind, I could clarify without giving away details (and with permission) and soothe ruffled feathers.

That was one of the biggest lessons I learned as his assistant.  How to work with someone you didn't like without being a hypocrite.  He told me once I had to be civil, I didn't have to be nice and I didn't have to pretend. Just be civil and professional.  That lesson has served me well all these years later.  He taught me about management practices, and compassion in business.  I learned ethics and protocols.  I learned that loyalty and integrity were part of who I am and they were two things that I should never lose.  He showed me how being rewarded didn't always have to mean money and that sometimes money wasn't everything.

I learned to take my cues from him. Eventually people needing things from him would ask me first how to approach him or how to handle the situation.  I always gave guidance and if they listened, paid attention and followed my instruction the outcome was almost always what I predicted and what they wanted.  I knew his likes and dislikes, when to push and when to back off, how and when to ask to get what I needed.  I learned that when you ask is sometimes more important that what you're asking for. Long after I quit working for him I learned one final thing, that he valued what I did for him. 

Just before I left to move on to other things I told him why he never intimidated me.  He reminded me of someone equally gruff, my dad.  I always though of my dad as a toasted marshmallow.  When I told my boss that he was a toasted marshmallow, he smiled and I swear I saw a glint of a tear in his eye.  He made me promise not to tell anyone.  I couldn't keep the secret, so I told the office mafia, of which I was a part.  I think the four of us are still the only four that know.

I miss him, I'm grateful to him and I still think he is the best man and the best boss I ever worked for.  I can honestly say I wouldn't be where I am, with the success I've had without him and his guidance.  I don't think he knows the impact he had on me. I think I'll send this to him.  I'm sure it will get sent back full of red marks for all the errors and changes that need to be made.  And that's okay, just another lesson to be learned.