My father-in-law was always reserved. The first two years I dated my then girlfriend and now wife, I don’t think he and I said more than a few sentences to each other. I could tell it wasn’t personal; he was just quiet. At family events, he would sit in the background listening and observing everyone from a distance. When we would talk, he would give me the bare minimum. When I asked him a question, he would always reply but the answers for me were “Hmm”, “uh huh" and “I don’t remember.” Needless to say, our first few conversations weren’t deeply philosophical by any means.

I gave Greg a lot of grace, because he had cancer. He had been in remission, but had lost the use of his legs and was wheelchair bound. My wife and brother in-law would tell me stories about the amazing father he was and all the wonderful things they did with him growing up. They told me how the cancer had slowly stripped away his confidence and how the disease turned their Super Dad into a shell of himself. 

Last year, the cancer came back with a vengeance. I had the most flexible schedule in the family, so I volunteered to help as much as I could. I went with him to chemotherapy appointments, spent hours with him in the hospital, and supported my mother-in-law as best I could. Greg slowly started opening up to me. We started talking about the Detroit Lions, his childhood in Mississippi, and moments of pride he had watching his kids grow up. We created our own inside jokes as I drove him around Detroit, Michigan. He would point out landmarks and tell me the history of his old stomping ground. We spent days laughing and laughing, not the little chuckles he had become accustomed too, but a big deep down in your belly laugh. I got to see glimpses of the Super Dad that my wife had grown up with.

And then in December, we got “the call”. He was in the hospital and it didn’t look good. The cancer had spread and chemotherapy was no longer working. As my wife and I rushed back to Michigan, we both talked about how this would most likely be the last time we saw him alive.

In my sadness and grief, I had the opportunity to chat with Greg in the hospital. We had some really tough conversations about the severity of his illness, arrangements for home hospice, and his end of life choices. I saw true courage as we navigated what we both knew would be our last moments together. These are the things I learned in those moments and tips I hope will help you as you navigate communicating in challenging moments.

Don’t wait until you have the ‘right words’ 

I have a thing about my spelling. I don't post a blog until I have looked over and over again. And then I send it to my friends and/or family  to proofread again (I wish I was joking, but shout out to all the people in my life who have to edit my work). 

When we were alone in his hospital room in December, I noticed his phone light up over and over again. I paid no attention, until the 4th time it lit up the room. It was an old friend calling him. Puzzled, I asked, “Why aren’t you answering your phone? It’s ringing.”

“I don't know what to say. I’m dying. It’s hard enough to talk to y’all about it. I don’t want to talk to everyone else.”

What do you say to that? This man that I had grown to love so much was choosing silence over saying his last goodbyes, because he was scared he would say the wrong thing. I had witnessed him go through multiple painful procedures with no medication and endure the strongest chemotherapy they had to offer, like it was just another Tuesday. But communicating his feelings, communicating finality was terrifying. 

Shocked into silence, I had to process his answer. That night, I went back home and mulled it over. Like a 90’s pop song I couldn’t get out of my head, I just kept saying to myself ”What should he say? What could he say? What is he supposed to say?” The next day, I went back to the hospital like usual. An hour or so after I arrived, his phone began to ring.

“Greg, they're calling you again.”

He ignored me and continued to watch the tv. With a lump in my throat and tears welling up, I realized how pointless words were. Right or wrong. Spelled correctly or incorrectly. Words weren’t the issue. It was the meaning behind them that mattered. I wanted to scream at him, “Damn it! Pick up the phone. You don’t have to say the right thing, just say anything.”

Instead of yelling that, I took a deep breath, or maybe 10, and with as much love and care as I could I said, “Greg. Sometimes goodbyes aren’t for you, it’s for them. Your words don't have to be perfect. They just want to talk to you.”

Without taking his eyes off the television he grunted, “mmhmm.” I knew that was the only acknowledgement I was going to receive, but I smiled weakly in reply. The next day, he answered his phone. And guess what, people weren’t calling for his wisdom or sage advice; they were calling to express gratitude for his acts of kindness and to say one last time how much they would miss him. Usually he wouldn't respond, but he would listen to them and begrudgingly receive their love. That was one of his final acts of love. Simply listening to us, not saying the right words or giving some great epiphany, but being willing to have a final conversation, that was his gift.

Being vulnerable is brave 

I love Greg dearly, but he was not the best at communicating his prognosis. He had a bad habit of updating us at the last minute or only sharing selective information. Looking back, I truly believe he was trying to protect our family from the pain of cancer. But the consequence of his choice to limit information was more  painful. When we got the call, the news about the cancer spreading wasn't shocking, but the feeling of being betrayed by Greg for not telling us sooner hurt to the core. My wife and I spoke at length about how his “macho man” mentality caused him to push through excruciating pain to his own detriment. 

It wasn’t until my wife had a heartfelt conversation with him that his mindset changed. He began to talk more and tell our family his wishes regarding end of life decisions. When he began communicating his final wishes, it helped us turn our anger into understanding. While he thought being strong meant keeping secrets, I saw the bravery and strength it took for him to keep his voice steady as he revealed his prognosis to his immediate family. I was there when he said his final “I love you’s” to his grandchildren and watched how fiercely he rubbed the tears away from his eyes when he put the phone down for the very last time. Before then, I thought bravery was found only on battlefields, but he showed me it happens everyday. When people choose to do something hard, something they absolutely don’t want to do, because of their love for others.

Change how you listen to others

Our relationship didn't have a traditional foundation. I don't have memories of sitting at a dinner table with him or going bowling on Saturday nights like my wife. My memories of Greg revolve around hospital waiting rooms and trips to city hall to pay his bills, but the basis was the same; communication and conversations. 

Greg had an amazing sense of humor. Behind that quiet veneer, was a true comedian. As we built our relationship, I found that taking up less space was the best gift I could give him. I got to hear his stories or delightful commentary on current events. I witnessed his last year of life with smiles and joy. My memories of him are truly unique because I didn’t know the old Greg, but to love and be loved by this version of him was the gift I cherish most.

So often when we are having conversations, we believe that sharing mutual stories will build connections. While sometimes that is the case, in some relationships taking up less space is a better route. Whether it's a survivor of domestic violence or a friend experiencing a difficult situation, building a foundation of support means that I took the backseat and allowed him to open up at his own pace without judgment or ridicule. With Greg, I practiced actively listening. The more questions I asked, the more I reflected his language, and the more validation I provided, the more he expressed to me and he let me into his world. Listening created space. Space he filled with corny dad jokes, cherished memories of the past, and moments of quiet contemplation and reflection together.

When he passed in January of this year, he left a huge hole in a lot of hearts. At his memorial, folks offered condolences and praised his character for how kind, strong, and generous he had been. I was tempted to take a turn at the podium and share my memories too, but I was selfish. My memories of Greg felt too precious, and I didn’t want to share them with the world. But his bravery, his fight to do the right thing until the very end, made me write this blog. It made me talk about Greg and the lessons he taught me. Because my memory isn't of the strong husband or wonderful father figure. My version is the witty, dark humored late stage cancer patient who chose to be vulnerable and bravely said goodbye, even when he didn’t know the right words to say. 

This blog is dedicated to my father-in-law, Greg. We miss you.