Please! Lemme Help Ya. . . .

The title tells most of the story about my slender relationship with Tom Baird. He lives one house and a thicket of trees north of Skip and Ann on the east side of Maple Lane. I see him mostly when he's walking his dog or cutting his lawn. I rarely see his wife: a lovely and quiet person with whom I have never spoken except to exchange an occasional smile and greeting.

Tom's a typical Maple Laner. One difference is that he's an army retiree. I think he was an officer. But I'm not sure. He's a robust, strong-looking man. He reminds me of the tough, but fatherly Sergeant-Major and the older, hard-bellied, no-nonsense Major who ran my battalion right after the Korean Conflict. I was only a water-safety instructor at the Officer's Pool when I was in the army. But I know good leadership when I see and feel it. Some men, no matter their rank, are born leaders. That's Tom. Let me tell you what he once did for me.

I'm not certain: could be Tom saved my life. At least, he led and protected me safely through a critical part of the worst crisis of my life.

On November 2, 2006, my beloved wife Nancy died after a long and courageous battle with breast cancer that metasticized to her liver. You may know how that goes. Three weeks into her third chemo protocol, she sat me down on our glassed-in porch, knelt at my knees, and begged me to release her, permit her to give up her long struggle for life -- and die. My roles throughout her exhausting battle had been cheerleader and coach. So you may be able to imagine how that crushing conversation unfolded.

"Robby! Dear Robby: Please! Let me die!"

"But Nancy, you're only three weeks into this third protocol. Maybe two or three more infusions will reverse the direction of the disease. You've always loved your life. We've always loved each other and the life we've built. We've always had a knack for making happy times. . . ."

I said a little more. But Nancy was earnest. Her mind was made up. "You may be right, Robby. But what sort of life can I expect? This pattern's gonna go on. Recurrence, remission, recurrence, remission. . . I haven't had a pain-free day in over three years. I'm soooo tired, Robby!" Tears welled up in her eyes. In mine too. They rolled down our cheeks as we clung to each other.

There was a little more said on both sides. But I knew I couldn't claim to love Nancy, and deny her request. So I complied. The hardest thing I ever had to do in my entire life.

The very next morning, October 3oth, Nancy didn't wake up. When I couldn't rouse her, I called EMS.

Over the next two days, Nancy mostly slept. By noon, November 1st, she was transferred from the hospital to Bryan's House, our wonderful Hospice Facility very near our home. She awakened and enjoyed a brief brightening late that evening. She was able to say farewell to the few family and friends who could make it here in time. Near the end, I climbed into bed with her and held her. She died in my arms at 1:20am, November 2nd.



But it was the role Tom Baird played that cruel morning of October 30th that assured me the opportunity to be with Nancy when she died.

He apparently saw EMS pass his house and back up our long drive.

After they left with Nancy, I threw on my levi-sweatshirt-running-shoe uniform, rolled-up a clean pair of underwear shorts and t-shirt, stuck in a toothbrush, grabbed a light jacket, jumped into my car, and was soon sailing precariously out the driveway. At the last possible moment, Tom met me near my mailbox and flagged me down. I didn't see him at first. I was so distraught I nearly ran him over.

In retrospect, I now know that was a risk he felt he had to take.

I hit the button, rolled down my window, and he grabbed my arm firmly. I was anxious to get to the hospital, so I tugged at my arm, trying to get loose and on my way. But Tom held on tight.

"Tom-I'm-sorry. I-gotta-go. EMS-took-Nancy. . . ." What little reserve I could muster broke, and tears ran down my cheeks, adding humiliation to desperation.

Tom was quiet and earnest. He held onto my arm. "I know, Bob. I know. Why don't you let me take you? I'll stay close. . . ."

"But I'll be stranded, Tom. I'll surely need to come and go. Run errands. . . ." Truth is, I had no idea why I might need a car, what I might need to do. Or what the situation might demand of me. I only knew something unspeakably terrible was about to happen.

I was panicked, deep in shock. Tom later told me the pupils of my eyes were "big as dimes." So he hung onto me. He quietly talked me down, soothed me, let me talk until my words ran out. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes might've elapsed before he thought I was calm enough to make it safely to the hospital. All that time he held firmly onto my arm, locking it tightly pressed across the opening where the window-glass slides up and down.

Never mind the possibility I might just panic and drive away, dragging him with me until he fell off. Tom held onto me. And there was a strength about him, about his appearance, about his entire manner, that held my mind and drew me ever closer to him as those dreadful moments ticked away.

It certainly wasn't my good manners that finally overcame my panic, that permitted him to hold me there, when all I wanted to do was flee to the hospital and find Nancy.

It was the look of the man, the quiet persuasiveness of his entire being. It was his common-sense clarity, the soothing sound of his voice. It was everything about him, the entire man -- the whole of what his life had taught him -- that held me there with him that terrible morning, when all I wanted to do was tear off into crazy morning traffic.

Tom's firmness and caring manner spared me the accident I might certainly have had. That morning, he kept me from making a horrible situation worse.

In some place in my head, I absolutely knew what he was trying to do to me, trying to do for me. And while I didn't want to listen to him, didn't want to do what he asked me to do, I nevertheless did exactly as he asked. And that's how good leaders affect us.

I've held leadership positions. I've studied and taught leadership the past four decades of my life. I know what leadership looks like. I know leaders are strong and caring people who help others face down panic and confront the terror of impending loss. I know leaders calmly persuade others to do what is necessary and right.

But until that terrible morning, I didn't know Tom Baird was such a wonderful leader. I didn't know that, until he stepped up and took me by the arm.




Please share your own thoughts about leadership.