Steady Eddie

During my career, I always dreaded my annual performance review. I never worried that my employer would find my performance substandard. A career in sales always came with a built-in barometer. If your sales were down month-over-month or year-over-year, you probably were not going to be employed much longer. It was a straightforward equation I always appreciated.

I grew up with a father who owned his own insurance agency. He would always tell me that any business would lose 10 to 15 percent of their customers annually regardless of how good the service you provided or the price you quoted. His goal was to constantly replace that each year and then, if he wanted to grow his business, he would need to add an additional 15 to 25 percent. To accomplish this goal, my father made a lot of sacrifices in his life. Most of those centered around time with his family.

I greatly appreciated his drive and ultimate success in providing for his family. His work ethic was a shining example to me and my siblings, but as I grew older, I often wondered at what cost. He rarely, if ever, attended any of my sporting events or ceremonies acknowledging other accomplishments. The same applied to his grandchildren. In addition, he held onto a portion of his business well after the traditional retirement age and missed out on a portion of the coveted go-go years of retirement.

When I married Amy and had kids of my own, I vowed to make them the top priority in my life. I was accepted to the MBA program at the University of Michigan but chose instead to focus on my relationship with Amy.

My career choices tended to be less ambitious because I wanted to be present when Amy and I started our family. I know I could have accomplished more in my career if I had been willing to make more sacrifices, but I have never regretted putting my family first.

During numerous performance reviews throughout my career, my bosses could see my potential and would always try to motivate me to sell more. I was never moved by their arguments. I would always communicate my unwillingness to make the personal sacrifices (at the expense of my family) to achieve those levels. I always told them. “I’m never going to be a star, but I’ll always be Steady Eddie for you.”

In hindsight, I absolutely made the right decision and have no regrets.

Since losing Amy, however, I have wondered about my performance as a father. Early in her cancer journey, we were driving home from a pleasant night out with friends before her chemotherapy treatment began. I was feeling a bit morose and overwhelmed at the journey confronting us. Amy was hearing none of it. She told me very pointedly to take off my pity party dress. “You better get your shit together. You need to tune into the kids, they’re going to need you more than ever when I’m gone.”

During her illness I had to pull it together. She wouldn’t settle for anything less. But after losing her, I feel less sure that I have been the strong supportive father of whom she would have been proud. I have depended on my kids much more than I would like to admit.

I’ve striven to be a role model for them by finding positive ways to deal with my grief like hiking and writing, but I have had little to offer them on their own journeys. Honest forthright conversations with them have been few and far between. On the few occasions that I have had the opportunity for one, I typically break down into tears and feel I do more harm than good. I simply don’t have any answers for them.

When they come to me for advice, I find myself stumbling and bumbling to communicate perspectives that Amy was able to present so simply and effectively.

And always with such love. . .

I guess that is the key, isn’t it? Always with such love. I don’t need to be a star father if I love them with my entire heart and soul. Fortunately, love for them is one thing I have in abundance. Sharing that love with them is easy. If I can do that, I know she would be proud of Steady Eddie.