The day before I met Greg, he had received a blood transfusion to replenish his failing white blood cells. We met at his front door. He offered a firm handshake and he spoke in a clear voice. Though he looked pale, his stride was sure and strong. He’d planned an ambitious day for us and he was anxious to begin. With camera crew in tow, we fished for trout at a stream not far from his home, had a beer at his favorite bar, and then sat in his backyard for the interview.
He told me he had never finished college, had worked a variety of jobs around the country, and had been married twice. He was now living with his girlfriend, Missy. The two had met ten years before, when he was working in California. They had moved together to Oregon, where they both had the “freedom to roam.”
Greg had been traveling on business when he felt pain while walking through the airport. Arthritis, maybe, he thought. Then one day he got dizzy just walking to the store. His head felt like it would explode. He went to the doctor, who ordered tests. They came back with the deadly diagnosis. Intensive chemo wasn’t enough; he would also need a stem cell transplant. Greg’s doctor’s conducted an exhaustive search for a compatible donor, which included his brother, without success. Between the chemo and the waiting, it was a rough ride. Greg finally made a decision. “Gang, here’s what I’m thinking,” he told the doctors. “The anxiety is getting a little rough on me. Sitting by the phone waiting and waiting and waiting and getting my hopes up. I really thank you so much for searching the world, but let’s just move on and let’s look at having a good quality of life.” He wanted the freedom to roam. That’s how he lived and it’s how he wanted to die.
Greg signed up for a drug cocktail that would end his life on his own terms, if he chose. It wasn’t about pain or hastening the end, he told me. It was about having control.
What are the high points of your life?
Greg talked about the jobs he’d had, the places he’d been, and the people he knew. Meeting Missy was a high point. And despite the divorces, he was close to his extended family. “I’m a brand-new grandpa, so I’m passing the torch,” he said.
What do you want to say to that grandson of yours?
“Seize life,” Yaden responded instantly. “Just go get her. Have fun. Be good. Be a good human being and go have fun. Don’t hurt anybody else. Be good. If you want to do something, just go do it.” He told me he had narrowed down and written his rules to live by: “Don’t be afraid of failure. Be a kind human being.”
I will never forget this ordinary man who was so thoughtful, courageous, and composed. He had never been in politics and wasn’t an advocate, but he was devoting his waning energy, and some of his precious remaining time, to advocate for this law and share this story with me. He needed to make a point, he said. He wanted people to know about control and dignity. And about the journey. “I am a great advocate of choice,” Greg told me. “Oregon and the voters have given me the opportunity to end my life with some control and dignity. I’m in good company because death is inevitable for all of us. That’s pretty comforting.” This last mission—standing up for a belief—helped lend his life greater meaning. Greg wanted to talk. He had a lot to say. All I had to do was ask.
Greg died two months after I visited. He didn’t need the medicine.
Asking for Life
We do not need not wait for the deathbed moment to ask about the meaning of our lives. Legacy questions travel with us. If we have the courage to ask them, they help us get our bearings and write our story. If we listen closely to our answers—even if they are not clear or uncomplicated—we gain perspective. As I was working on this book, my daughter shared an email she’d received from her friend, Jen. At twenty-five, Jen had led a pretty darn interesting life. She had traveled the world, gotten a terrific education, and had more options in life than most. But she had paused to ask about the meaning and the priorities of her options, where they would take her, and what she would get out of them. Her questions would have made Gary Fink, Ken Doka, and Greg Yaden proud.
What are we supposed to do?
Should we all have jobs that mean everything to us?
That consume us?
There are wonderful occupations and careers out there that offer rewarding and fascinating experiences. But is that the dream?
What else is there to devote one’s life to?
What do we give most to and receive most from?
Relationships?
Is a relationship supposed to be your whole life?
What do you escape to when you’re not at work?
A cause or a mission?
Try to save the world?
Call it the indulgence of youth, but I know a lot of forty- and fifty- and sixty-year-olds who ask—or should ask—variations on these questions. Jen just started early. Even if she never comes up with definitive answers, she will appreciate and consider her choices more thoughtfully for continuing to ask.
Legacy questions serve as signposts.
What are you proudest of?
What is the most important life lesson you have learned?
What is your unfinished business?
What is your story?
I never got a chance to ask my mother these questions. Not that her feelings were much of a secret. She was never short of opinions. But I should have asked; she would have answered. She would have said she wanted to be remembered not for being nice but for having principles. She believed the world needs more fierce advocates who fight for what’s right. Mom was proudest of Lora, who despite her Down syndrome defied the odds and just about everyone’s expectations. Mom spoke often about the moment, soon after Lora’s birth, when she threw the doctor out of the room. He had said he was sorry she had given birth to a “mongoloid” child and offered to contact an institution that would put her away.
My sister Lora has lived semi-independently for nearly forty years. She has traveled on her own, participated in the Special Olympics, and become adept at caning chairs and making pottery. Her work adorns our home. She talks to her dad every week. She still misses her mother.
Lora will read this story, and she will ask me a whole lot of questions.
CHAPTER 13
I’M GLAD I ASKED
I EMBARKED ON THIS project to discover a better and more disciplined way to ask questions. I wanted to find out if questioning could be organized around specific objectives and how the types of questions we ask affect how we listen. Though I had asked questions all my life as a journalist and interviewer, I never thought of them as “strategic” or “creative” or “empathetic.” I didn’t build inquiry around outcomes. But as I talked to close to 100 people for this book, curious souls skilled at turning questions into discovery and results, I became convinced that a “taxonomy” of questions, each with its own approach and compelling benefits, could serve as a useful way to think about what and how we ask. I don’t pretend that my way of approaching questions is definitive; some of the best inquiry is generated by random curiosity. But by understanding what we’re asking, how we listen, and when we should ask more, we can become better questioners with tangible results to show for it.