The Parting Words of a Mentor and Friend: Why Do I Have to Leave?

There is a hollow place inside me as I write this latest essay — a feeling created by the passing of a mentor and friend who died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 97 years.

Pause right there.

You ask, “How can you not have been prepared for this news? How does someone who is 97 years old die suddenly?”

The answer lies in knowing the person. Despite the physical impairments of aging, and while his mental capacities had slowed a bit, he was not wanton to admit to those limitations and his appetite for optimism fed an expressed desire to live until 105 years.

He was well educated (two doctorates); well travelled (dozens of countries); and well regarded at times in his life for innovation and achievement.

He also experienced failure and loss, some of which disappointed those who looked up to him. In the end he withdrew to a small lake in rural Oklahoma where I can only imagine that he shed a few tears in private and then set about to create a somewhat secluded life for himself and his wife, driven more by creativity than commiseration.

He was one of a half dozen mentors who added to my life. I lost track of him for a few years and then one day I decided to re-connect as I made my own peace with the dichotomy of a man who could inspire and disappoint; a dreamer who could never appreciate the risk that accompanies most ideas.