Stories about Eric

When I was eight or nine, I was watching Shark Week on the Discovery Channel with my dad, and we learned that sharks were immune to cancer (*disclaimer: the shark cancer immunity theory has since been debunked). When the program ended, I was annoyed that the show did not explore the next logical question: “If we get some shark cells and inject them into a human, could that human also become immune to cancer?”

 

Grownups. They never connect the dots :).

 

I needed to get my hands on some “shark immunity.” But how? My dad printed all the shark information available on Microsoft Encarta. He filled floppy discs with shark data. I had charts. I had graphs. I had the audacity to believe a small child could cure cancer. Armed with little more than my Encyclopedia Britannica, my dad made me believe I could outsmart our nation's top scientists. 

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It goes without saying that my dad was my biggest cheerleader. He had a love/hate relationship with my job, which sometimes brought me to tough places. Despite his fear for my safety, he never discouraged me. He was always terrified of the travel I did, but he was proud. Over the course of my career his one stipulation was, “No Afghanistan.” Once during an interview I was given a piece of paper and asked to write down my “no fly zones.” I wrote, “No Afghanistan." When asked about this by my employer, I told them I promised my dad.” When I would return from a work trip my dad would ask me a million questions. What did you see? What did you eat? What did you smell?  How did you feel? What did you do? What did you say? What did THEY say? …Were you scared? I can picture him, head in hand,  listening. This man could just LISTEN for hours. In fact, I blame him for my talking problems.

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My dad tracked me all over the world, often setting google alerts for countries I visited. There were times when he understood the geopolitical situation of a given region better than I did. He sent me articles, ideas, commentary, and questions. Years after my work in South Sudan I received a text from him. “I just read about the attack on the Terrain Hotel. What happened? Did you know the people who were there? Are you okay?” He was always along for the journey.  He would still be on the journey long after my journey had ended.

 

My dad was the smartest person I know, and not just because he was a crazy math/finance/business ninja. My dad’s brain smarts + emotional intelligence + ability to communicate made him a triple threat. When I think about the smartest people I know, a common trait emerges. The smartest people I know are acutely aware of what they don’t know; of how much they have left to learn.  This was my dad: wicked smart, but so intellectually humble. We both loved the infamous Rumsfeldism, "There are known knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns." Intellectual humility served my dad in business, and it served him in life.  And if we (his kids) cared about an issue, he cared about the issue, and he made it a point to learn about it. My husband recently commented that my dad knew more about Lime's sustainability efforts than he did (the person responsible for managing that aspect of the business).

 

My dad was also one of the most thoughtful people I know. He loved to pour a glass of wine, turn on classic rock, and workshop a problem.  My dad could sit and talk to you for hours. At the end he would be as engaged in the conversation as he was at the beginning. My dad was the only truly politically independent person that I have ever known. While he became increasingly liberal in recent years, my dad spent the majority of his life untied to dogma or ideology. The only thing my dad felt tied to was people. My dad once shared a story about a dinner party he attended where a battle broke out between the Black Lives Matter and the “All Lives Matter” folks, with some color commentary on Me Too and trickledown economics sprinkled throughout. At one point someone called on my dad, “Eric, you've been quiet. What are your thoughts on all this?” Dad said, “I’m not black. I’m not poor. I’m not a woman. We should ask black people, poor people, and women.” My dad was a learned social justice advocate and a brilliant economist. He served as an expert witness before Congress on economic matters during the Great Recession; he had earned his chops enough to weigh-in. But he knew what he didn't know. 

 

My dad loved kids, and kids loved dad. I think it was his ability to be present; to get down on the floor and play with the train. He understood kids and made space for them, and he was patient with them. One night when it was dinnertime at my house, things started coming off the rails. Kids were hungry, I was wrapping a call, and I didn’t have a dinner plan. My son found an old broom handle and, walking down the hallway, began to hit and bang it against everything in sight. I looked at my dad like, "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy????"

 

“Morgan Elizabeth," he said. "Kids just have to do that." 

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Like all humans Dad stumbled over the course of his life, and his inability to forgive his stumbles created shame. If anyone reading this is struggling with shame, you know that unchecked shame gives birth to demons, and those demons can be difficult to quiet. At the end of his life, my dad was fighting his demons with fire, and it was getting hot. When I think of my dad and I visualize him now—wherever he is—I picture him immersed in water; hydrated and healthy. He has color in his face, and he is calm. No burns, no wounds. He is healed and contented.

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I was able to have a long FaceTime with my dad before he was intubated; the last conversation we would ever have. In the months before my dad got sick, we had adopted a motto from the spiritual teacher, Michael Beckwith: “Pain pushes until vision pulls.” Before my dad died he was beginning to set a new vision for himself; starting to believe in a new path. During our FaceTime in the ICU, I told him we were done letting the pain push him around, and we did a visualization exercise over the phone. “Visualize pink, healthy lungs," I said. "Visualize a healthy recovery. Visualize a new and healthy life. Visualize me waiting for you on the other side.” He had a mask over his face, his eyes were closed, and he was listening. During that last call, my dad didn't have the breath and capacity for much conversation. The last thing my dad said to me was, “Morgan Elizabeth, we’re not done yet.”

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I sometimes imagine what my dad would have said to me if he knew he wasn't going to make it and if he had enough air in his lungs to speak. I think his parting, earthly words would have sounded something like: 

 

"It’s okay if you’re having a bad day, but don’t you ever go ruining someone else’s. Be kind to everyone you meet; they’re fighting in a Fight Club you know nothing about. Know what you don’t know, and seek to understand the other side. You can have boundaries, but don’t you ever give up on anybody. We all deserve the opportunity for a comeback. Remember that people are inherently good. Be patient with your kids and hug them all the time. I’ll be here and I love you. Forever and ever." 

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My bedtime routine as a child was always the same. My dad would read me a book in the rocking chair, sing me the song "If I Only had a Brain" from the Wizard of Oz, and tell me he'd love me "forever and ever." Most nights he'd have me complete the phrase. Leaving the room he'd say "I love you forever and...", then peaking his head back through the doorway, he'd wait for me to say "...ever." 

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Those small, consistent acts of love you learn to count on as a child. They mean everything.

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To the ICU staff: I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop picturing your faces as you held up my dad's phone for him, watching my family (and other families) have these difficult moments and conversations. You have been exposed to so much trauma, and it was heartbreaking to watch you work through our heartbreak. I am so sorry for what you have endured. Watching you work in the trenches in the current political climate with few resources and no end in sight has been the most humbling experience of my life. I have learned from your resilience; your ability to pull yourself out of bed and keep fighting. You are some of the most heroic people I have ever met.

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Dad: Thank you for everything you did for me. Rest easy. I'll think of you as I sing the kids to sleep at night (If I Only had a Brain for Isabelle; Space Oddity for Jack...because, Bowie.) I hope there is a fireplace, good music, and a nice steak wherever you are. We love you. Forever and ever.

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-Morgan Elizabeth