Hello I Must Be Going

The Goodbye Letter I Didn’t Want to Write

A week before open-heart surgery, I made the mistake of Googling: What percentage of people die during open-heart surgery?

Two to three percent, it turns out.

Is that good or bad? A 97% chance of winning the lottery would be terrific. A 3% chance of being mauled by a bear would be terrible. But I didn’t have a choice. A congenital heart condition woke up and tried to kill me. I needed surgery right away.

“How’s next Tuesday look?” the scheduler asked cheerfully.

Next Tuesday looked a hell of a lot better before he asked me that. I opened my calendar, and Tuesday was like, “What the fuck man, don’t lay that shit on me—give it to Wednesday.”

“Tuesday’s good,” I said, wondering what might preempt heart surgery for someone else. “Sorry, I have pickleball Tuesday; how’s Friday?”

The weekend before surgery, my wife Trish and I flew to New York for the Frieze Art Fair. I figured I wouldn’t die on Tuesday if I bought art on Sunday.

The weekend was surreal. I woke up Saturday, swabbed my nose with a sticky pre-surgery antibiotic ointment, then had espresso at the Mandarin Oriental with my nostrils glued shut. Trish and I held hands as we walked through Central Park, stopping every so often so I could catch my breath. A week earlier I was working out daily; now I shuffled through Central Park like an old man. We watched the ducks in the pond for fifteen minutes. The fucking ducks!

How do you even prepare for a three percent chance of death on Tuesday? We all know we can die at any time, but we don’t know when. Thinking it might be Tuesday messes with your head. There’s a difference between knowing something abstractly and being forced to schedule it.

Not knowing what else to do, I wrote a letter to my family. It would be rude to leave without saying goodbye.

I stared at the blank screen for a long time. If I started typing, would I be more likely to die? Or would writing the letter ensure that I didn’t die, the way carrying an umbrella guarantees a sunny day. And what’s the right tone?

I realized I wasn’t afraid of dying as much as I was afraid of saying something final out loud.

Other than worrying that I might die in a few days, the weekend in New York was fun. I drank Manhattans every night and ate at the best restaurants. We saw Sarah Snook in The Picture of Dorian Gray which was about trying to escape the consequences of a failing, aging body. It wasn’t especially comforting but kept my mind from drifting to the small logistical issue of someone cracking open my chest the next week. That, and the Manhattans, helped.

When we returned to Chicago, I finished my goodbye letter and put it in a family heirloom called “the schrahnk,” where I figured the kids would look for money after I died. The schrahnk is an old wooden credenza that my grandparents brought to America when they escaped Nazi Germany in 1938. They bought the expensive schrahnk because Jews weren’t allowed to leave the country with money. Before they left, my seven-year-old father took a house key and scratched the whole thing up because Jews couldn’t leave the country with new purchases. My dad said his mom was crying the whole time he was defacing it. “Keep scratching,” she said through tears. “Keep scratching.”

It seems fitting that my goodbye letter should sit in a family heirloom that has gone through so much itself. The letter is still there, unopened.

Dear Family,

If you’re reading this, things didn’t go as planned.

Shit.

I am so, so sorry.

I’ve lived an incredible life and am fulfilled with what I’ve achieved. I’ve been blessed with a family who fills me with pride, happiness, and love. If there is a luckier person alive, I haven’t met them. I may have lost my status as the luckiest guy alive, but you get the point.

I assume you’re sad, I would be too. Loss is hard, and moving on is harder. You don’t need to mourn for my sake, though. I’ve loved this life and hold a strong (if nuanced) view of what comes next. While I don’t want to leave, I am excited for the adventures ahead. I won’t haunt you, but I’ll be around as part of the larger cosmic consciousness.

Say hi occasionally, and I’ll try to send some good vibes back.

Live fully. Take risks. Have fun. Love each other.

I love you, always.

Decades ago, my father scratched up the schrahnk so we could all survive. Months ago, a surgeon scratched me up for the same reason.

We’re both marked now.

The schrahnk sits behind me as I write, scratched and sturdy. The letter is still inside, unopened. I hope it stays that way for a very long time.

I’m grateful I didn’t die.

I’m also glad I wrote the letter.

It wasn’t about dying. It was about not leaving things unsaid.