What my 7 year old son and a friend with a terminal illness said about happiness
I wrote this post one year ago. It remains one of my favorites. And one that, in the feverish throes of holiday shopping and gift giving, stands as an important reminder.
My son Chase is now 8. He has less teeth then he did last year and wants an Xbox for Christmas this year.
My friend Deb passed away on April 4, 2018.
I often read her blog to gain perspective, reflect on the ruthless brevity of life, and hear her voice again.
I’d like to thank the Lexus “December to Remember” commercial for fueling my recent obsession with happiness.
You know the commercial: On a perfect snow sparked morning a well groomed man finds a new Lexus topped with a big red bow trophied in his sprawling driveway. The man smiles then hugs and kisses the hood of his new toy as his tall, attractive wife and their beautiful blue-eyed children stand nearby and smile and dote and radiate with plastic happiness as a voice tells you how easy and affordable it is for you to own a sleek, well-equipped Lexus.
The message is simple and clear — If you buy or lease a Lexus this holiday season you can buy or lease happiness.
The commercial then gives way to the football game my 7 year old son and I are watching.
We’re curled together on the couch, sharing a blanket. It’s a rare scene, especially for December. My son, the Energizer Bunny, is almost always moving, always playing. And with the promise of Christmas so close, his energy seems even more boundless. But at this moment, he is still, as if someone removed his batteries, and I know this might just be my only time to ask him.
“Hey Chase can I ask you something?”
The quarterback drops back to pass. Chase delays his response long enough where I think he’s ignoring me. The quarterback completes a 12 yard pass to a receiver who’s shoved out of bounds by a streaking defender. First down.
The teams huddle and the referee sets the football at the line of scrimmage and without unlocking his eyes from the television looking Chase says, “Okay.”
A little surprised he was even listening, I nod and smile and ask, “What makes you happy?”
The quarterback drops back to pass again and Chase turns and looks thoughtfully at me, as thoughtfully as a 7 year old can look, smiles and says “ I guess…spending time with you and mom.”
“Yeah like when we all went to the movies last week. That was fun.”
I didn’t want to text my friend. She’s dying.
My friend Deb Dauer was diagnosed with ALS in September of 2013. Before her diagnosis, she was an elementary school teacher in the district where I teach and an early supporter of Write on Fight on. Now she’s chronicling her inspiring fight with ALS on her blog Not Gonna Be a Debbie Downer.
Though my interactions with Deb have been mostly through email and Facebook, I feel a kinship with her. We are parents and teachers and writers who, for better or worse, wear our hearts on our sleeve.
I felt like an asshole bothering Deb with my pretentious existential crisis. I mean, she’s warring with one of the most hellacious diseases we’ve never cured.
Clearly, she’s busy.
But the question lingered then gnawed. What would someone with a terminal illness say about happiness?
It took me almost an hour editing and revising and second-guessing and ego-checking before I finally braved up and sent the following text…
“What makes you happy? Lately I’ve been obsessing over natural vs. plastic happiness and would value your sentiments. But please, no obligations. Be well.”
True to her awesomeness, Deb responded with…
“What I’ve found that it is connections with other people that really make me happy. And in turn, time and experiences with them.”
In the heart of the Lexus “December to Remember “ sales event Chase and Deb confirmed what I already knew, what most of us know — that relationships are the fruits of happiness.
A 7 year old boy, a dying woman cemented such truth — we are fragile and finite but in relationships we find strength. We experience forever.
Why is such simplicity so hard to understand? Why do we foolishly think that one more material possession will sprout the happiness we so desperately desire?
And so if growing up is a just matter of perspective, it’s curious to think that we’ll spend so much energy. pain, and money trying to realize what we knew all along.