Openness

Two years ago this week, the owner of my company, Mark Benjamin, was killed when his plane veered off the runway into a hangar housing another plane at the Santa Monica airport. The plane that he hit had just been filled with fuel, and exploded immediately upon impact. Three others, including his son Luke, were also killed in the accident.

I had worked for Mark's company for more than thirteen years at the time of his death, and he was involved in every detail of its operations, right down to selecting the tile in the restrooms and the type of coffee in the kitchen. Since I had started working full time in our office, about a year before, I saw Mark almost every day. He always said hello, asked me how I was, wanted to know what I was working on and how it was going. We spoke dozens if not hundreds of times. But after his death I realized how little I knew him, and how little he knew me. In his obituaries and eulogies, I saw a man who was much warmer and deeper than the man I had known, a man of great kindness and generosity, who was passionate about things that I am passionate about, and yet we had never discussed them. As his employee, it never occurred to me to try to take our exchanges beyond "Hello, how are you?". But listening to those who were closer to him describe what he meant to them, I was saddened that I had missed the opportunity to truly connect with someone extraordinary.

I have been reflecting on how tragedy cracks you open, exposing you to the people around you. In Mark's case, I learned so much about him that I hadn't known before the accident, so much that I liked and respected, but it was too late - he was gone. But in the case of my own tragedy, I'm still here. Since my diagnosis, I have made a conscious effort to share my personal experiences in a way that I never have before except with my nearest and dearest. I have written this blog and made it publicly available, attended support group and shared my innermost feelings, met with other patients and told them everything I know about what we're going through. I've even spoken about my disease to people with whom I never in the past would have shared such personal information, like my co-workers and parents at Ike's daycare. Each time, I've had to overcome my natural inclination to keep myself to myself. "Open up," I think. "Now's the time."

Being this open is unfamiliar and at times uncomfortable to me. I've struggled to find the right words, the right amount of information, and the right tone. And people often don't know what to do or say when presented with more of a person than they are used to seeing. But the lesson I took away from Mark's death is that keeping people on the surface only means that you miss the opportunity to know them, and you miss the opportunity to have them know you. Opening up can make you vulnerable, awkward, embarrassed - but it also gives you a chance to connect in ways that you never could with "Hello, how are you?" I now try to no longer answer with "Fine." I try to tell the truth, which is that I had cancer and that was terrible - and I've never felt more alive.