To say you were discreet is a bit of an understatement. The world was on a need to know basis, as far as you were concerned -- regarding everything.
"Dad, how much money do you make?" we would ask as little kids. "A small percentage of a million dollars" was the inevitable answer.
A few times, nearing adulthood, I tried to approach this topic more seriously. I explained that I had no idea how much money it took to live in the actual world (unfortunately, this seems to still be the case), and would really appreciate some information to go off of, for example just a range of what it took to live like we'd lived, send three kids to college without debt, etc. i.e. how much money do you make? The answer remained the same, a small percentage of a million dollars. You never adjusted for inflation, and a million dollars seemed a lot less impressive a number in the early 2000's than it had in the early 80's.
On the third or fourth day you were in the hospital, the doctor came in to report absolutely no news, and at the end of his content less briefing, you said thank you. You were so polite throughout your time in the hospital, so gracious. I interjected -- could you at least tell us what his white blood cell count is today? Up until that point, the white blood cell count was really the only indication of trouble, and I wanted to know if it had gone up or down. I just wanted to know anything at all, really, already wildly sick of hearing "we don't know what's going on."
The doctor said he didn't know offhand but that he could check. That'd be great, I said. Then you interjected -- that won't be necessary.
"But I'd like to know," I said. "You don't have to know if you don't want to hear." I thought maybe it was stressing you out to think about it.
To me: "You don't need to know." Then, to the doctor: "She's not authorized to know."
The doctor laughed heartily, assuming this was a joke. He probably wasn't used to bedridden patients denying authorization of non-sensitive information to their closest relatives, the ones camped out in the hospital with them.
I rolled my eyes. Dad.
The doctor waited for you to say you were joking, but of course he would have been waiting a long time. He looked at us both hesitantly, then to me: "I'm actually not able to give you the information if he tells me not to, soooo...." Still waiting for you to laugh and say you were joking.
But I knew you weren't, and it wasn't worth fighting over. It's not as if I were prepared to do anything with the knowledge of your white blood cell count. It's fine, I mumbled, and stared straight ahead. I couldn't believe you were being so controlling and treating me like a child in these circumstances. But then, of course I could believe it, and I knew your reluctance to cede control to anyone wasn't about me personally. I let it go. Add white blood cell count to the list of need to know items, along with salary and a host of other information.
I like to think of myself as discreet, and I am, largely. I don't gossip much, I keep people's secrets, and there's tons of things that I know about that I never let on that I know about. On the other hand, I'm not as much of a need to know person as you were, and have a compulsion to tell the truth even when I could just as easily evade saying anything at all.
On The Good Wife the other day there was a conversation that reminded me so much of you and me. Alicia's campaign advisor was giving her guidance on how to answer a tough question they both knew would come up in an interview she was prepping for. She kept insisting she had to tell the truth. He kept saying, you're not going to lie, but you're certainly not going to say the whole truth. You're a lawyer, he said, listen to what's actually be asked and answer that question. You can easily say "no" and not be lying if you think of it that way, they are asking you if it happened to your knowledge. Since you don't have definitive knowledge of it you say no. But it did happen! Alicia argues. Not to your knowledge, he says. She squirms in her seat.
Maybe it was all your years of practicing law that made you act like this in a lot of ways too. You did not reveal more than you had to, ever. To a degree, I think this is about power. He who holds the information holds the reigns. But it was more than that, it was your training and it was also just who you were. Tony and Jim seem to be like that too. In the weeks after your death when they were helping sort out all the initial finance stuff, I kept asking "so, should I call so and so company and tell them my Dad passed away?" Every time, Tony said no. And he would leave it at that. I was like Alicia, squirming in my seat, itching to tell the absolute whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if no one was asking me. FInally I said to Tony, I don't understand, why wouldn't I make these calls and tell them this happened? And he said, well why would you make them? You don't have to volunteer that information right now. More squirming.
Sitting with my accountant a few days ago, we kept having conversations that reminded me of this, of the Alicia moments. And, as my boss reminded me the other day when I told a freelancer more than he needed to know, "there is a difference between honesty and transparency." Mmmm, I said, not really. But, I know there was to you. You were the king of discretion, through and through.
love a
"Dad, how much money do you make?" we would ask as little kids. "A small percentage of a million dollars" was the inevitable answer.
A few times, nearing adulthood, I tried to approach this topic more seriously. I explained that I had no idea how much money it took to live in the actual world (unfortunately, this seems to still be the case), and would really appreciate some information to go off of, for example just a range of what it took to live like we'd lived, send three kids to college without debt, etc. i.e. how much money do you make? The answer remained the same, a small percentage of a million dollars. You never adjusted for inflation, and a million dollars seemed a lot less impressive a number in the early 2000's than it had in the early 80's.
On the third or fourth day you were in the hospital, the doctor came in to report absolutely no news, and at the end of his content less briefing, you said thank you. You were so polite throughout your time in the hospital, so gracious. I interjected -- could you at least tell us what his white blood cell count is today? Up until that point, the white blood cell count was really the only indication of trouble, and I wanted to know if it had gone up or down. I just wanted to know anything at all, really, already wildly sick of hearing "we don't know what's going on."
The doctor said he didn't know offhand but that he could check. That'd be great, I said. Then you interjected -- that won't be necessary.
"But I'd like to know," I said. "You don't have to know if you don't want to hear." I thought maybe it was stressing you out to think about it.
To me: "You don't need to know." Then, to the doctor: "She's not authorized to know."
The doctor laughed heartily, assuming this was a joke. He probably wasn't used to bedridden patients denying authorization of non-sensitive information to their closest relatives, the ones camped out in the hospital with them.
I rolled my eyes. Dad.
The doctor waited for you to say you were joking, but of course he would have been waiting a long time. He looked at us both hesitantly, then to me: "I'm actually not able to give you the information if he tells me not to, soooo...." Still waiting for you to laugh and say you were joking.
But I knew you weren't, and it wasn't worth fighting over. It's not as if I were prepared to do anything with the knowledge of your white blood cell count. It's fine, I mumbled, and stared straight ahead. I couldn't believe you were being so controlling and treating me like a child in these circumstances. But then, of course I could believe it, and I knew your reluctance to cede control to anyone wasn't about me personally. I let it go. Add white blood cell count to the list of need to know items, along with salary and a host of other information.
I like to think of myself as discreet, and I am, largely. I don't gossip much, I keep people's secrets, and there's tons of things that I know about that I never let on that I know about. On the other hand, I'm not as much of a need to know person as you were, and have a compulsion to tell the truth even when I could just as easily evade saying anything at all.
On The Good Wife the other day there was a conversation that reminded me so much of you and me. Alicia's campaign advisor was giving her guidance on how to answer a tough question they both knew would come up in an interview she was prepping for. She kept insisting she had to tell the truth. He kept saying, you're not going to lie, but you're certainly not going to say the whole truth. You're a lawyer, he said, listen to what's actually be asked and answer that question. You can easily say "no" and not be lying if you think of it that way, they are asking you if it happened to your knowledge. Since you don't have definitive knowledge of it you say no. But it did happen! Alicia argues. Not to your knowledge, he says. She squirms in her seat.
Maybe it was all your years of practicing law that made you act like this in a lot of ways too. You did not reveal more than you had to, ever. To a degree, I think this is about power. He who holds the information holds the reigns. But it was more than that, it was your training and it was also just who you were. Tony and Jim seem to be like that too. In the weeks after your death when they were helping sort out all the initial finance stuff, I kept asking "so, should I call so and so company and tell them my Dad passed away?" Every time, Tony said no. And he would leave it at that. I was like Alicia, squirming in my seat, itching to tell the absolute whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if no one was asking me. FInally I said to Tony, I don't understand, why wouldn't I make these calls and tell them this happened? And he said, well why would you make them? You don't have to volunteer that information right now. More squirming.
Sitting with my accountant a few days ago, we kept having conversations that reminded me of this, of the Alicia moments. And, as my boss reminded me the other day when I told a freelancer more than he needed to know, "there is a difference between honesty and transparency." Mmmm, I said, not really. But, I know there was to you. You were the king of discretion, through and through.
love a
The most top-secret information was a the amount of a bill in a restaurant. If any of us tried to look at the amount of the bill, Dad would say "whoever sees the bill pays the bill." I remember this happening at both local "fine dining" establishments like The Elks and casual places like the restaurant uptown that had popcorn for kids (Ground Round?).
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