I was having breakfast with Jodi this morning, when out of the blue, I recalled one of the most absurd encounters I've ever had with a client.
My father had just died from complications following surgery. Dad, a survivor of the December 7, 1941 Pearl Harbor attack, was supposed to be home telling his five sons about his return to Hawaii's Hickam Field, exactly 50 years after the "day that will live in infamy."
The old man, who was never so excited about an impending trip, had a heart attack two weeks before his big day. The ambulance took him to a small hospital near my parents' home. It wasn't our first or fiftieth choice of medical facility. They said he needed bypass surgery and couldn't be moved.
I flew down from Boston and was with Dad before they wheeled him into the O.R. Actually, he kicked me out of his room. Said I was pacing too much. I told him I'd see him as soon as they brought him back. I should have said, "I love you."
At around 7:00 the next morning, we received one of those awful calls from the hospital. My father had had a stroke. On December 7, 1991, when Dad was supposed to be reminiscing with his Air Force buddies about how they had saved the world, he was on his back, paralyzed and in a coma.
My father woke up about three weeks later, but couldn't talk. A couple of his vital organs were seriously damaged. A short time later Dad's heart stopped. One of the guys from the old neighborhood who happened to be a physician on duty at the hospital that night tried like hell to revive him. It was no use. Dad was gone.
At the time I told someone that you prepare your whole life for your father's death, and when it comes you aren't ready. After the funeral, when we got back to my mother's place, I did something really dumb. I checked in with the office. A colleague told me a client was antsy about something that sounded fairly trivial.
That's when I did a second dumb thing. I called the client, figuring I'd remedy the situation in under three minutes. I tried reassuring her that she had nothing to worry about, but she barked back a wholly disproportionate response. I said I was at my mother's house and had just returned from my father's funeral. Then she said something amazing: "Robert, don't give me that."
At that moment of grief, my verbal editing function wasn't working. Tact went right out the window. I simply replied, very slowly and quietly, that we were going to finish off their project like pros, and after that, we'd never work with them again.
Less than two years later, this woman's company was out of business.
Can any of you top that one?
Recent Comments