Years ago, I worked at an agency which shall go nameless. Y&R. There was an art director I worked with there who I never clicked with, nor she with me. Her creative sensibilities were completely different from mine, and it made for a lot of disagreement. Nonetheless, during the occasional times we worked together, we managed to forge ahead and get it done.
I'd never describe us as friends, even though she did ask me to write her wedding invitation because she thought I was talented and funny (some truths can't be denied). I wouldn't say I was glad to do it for her, but I was pleased she liked what I came up with.
It was a cool relationship at best, and only got cooler when I was assigned another art director—one of my favorites to work with and a great friend to this day—and she was going to supervise the project.
Here's where my memory gets a bit like an oil company executive at a senate hearing. I can't recall the exact circumstances, but for some reason she didn't like what my art director partner was doing and decided she wanted to get him fired.
I would have none of it.
After several attempts by her to get rid of my partner, I unloaded and read her the riot act. I did it loudly, in the middle of the department, and at length. It was not my finest hour, but in the heat of the moment, lines clearly drawn, loyalties clearly defined, I was unable to stop. I was a bully in the worst, most unprofessional way. To her credit, she kept her cool and listened to my angry ranting until I was done.
Needless to say we didn't work together after that, and my partner never got fired. Surprisingly, neither did I.
Years later, after I'd left the agency, I heard she was battling cancer. A few years ago, she lost her battle.
I was invited to her memorial service by several people, but I didn't go. It wouldn't have been right or honest given the nature of our relationship.
As I think back on it, she didn't deserve any of my angry antics. Not because she became ill, but because she was a human being.
I believe so much in the golden rule, and I'm embarrassed and shamed by my complete abandonment of it during that encounter. If I could go back and do it differently, I would in a heartbeat. If she were around, I'd tell her I'm sorry, and I had no right to treat her like I did.
But she's not.
What I can do now is pray her two children grow up healthy, with their loving father and nothing but beautiful memories of their mother who was taken too soon.
Sadly, I'm in a position now where I do get to have the last word. So here it is. I'm sorry I treated you that way. You didn't deserve it. And if it's any small consolation, I'm a better person as a result of it and it's a lesson I'll always carry with me.
Rest in peace.
2 comments:
You should write un-funny more often. Well done, my friend. Two examples of how truly un-funny you are: After George's quadruple bypass surgery, you walked me into his recovery room, holding my hand so hard, I can still feel it. You were worried for your dear friend, I, for my boyfriend. But in my memory, you were there for me; that's how you made me feel. Although we had been told he would be paler than spackle, neither of us were prepared for how drained of life he looked. You so got me through that. Next example of un-funny guy: A few years later, after George and I were married and had two children, he passed away. I was struggling to put together a funeral, and specifically a program. Shuffling through picture after picture after picture of George--none was right. Tired of the exercise, I checked my email. Right there, from you: not sure if you need these, but here are some pictures I thought might be nice for the program. Score, home run. Your photo, taken at just the right moment when George was probably saying, take it already! A sparkle in his eyes, a small smile. Perfectly George. The art director you write about surely saw something in un-funny you. We all do. (And, yes, I do laugh out loud at your posts!!) I love you both ways is all I'm saying. xoxo
No one NO ONE did more to console my broken heart than you, dear Jeff, after Paul passed away. You are kind. You are human. I know there were people at Paul's party who were not your favorites. But you were cordial and lovely. None of us are perfect.
But you're damned close.
With love from your unfiltered friend Kitty.
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