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Chasing Daylight, by Eugene O'Kelly
Dying
CEO made most of his short time left on Earth
Eugene O'Kelly, author of Chasing Daylight, had barely
100 days to live when his doctor told him he an inoperable brain tumor.
Once the news sank in, he recalls, "I was motivated to 'succeed' at
death — that is, to try to be constructive about it ... to embrace
it." O'Kelly, 53, chairman and CEO from 2002
to 2005 of tax and advisory firm KPMG, died Sept. 10 at his home in New York City.
A 30-year-veteran of
the firm, O'Kelly had stepped out of his
leadership role at KPMG in June 2005, after disclosing his diagnosis of
advanced-stage cancer.
This memoir, written
in the little more than three months between his diagnosis and his death,
is conversational and cut-to-the-chase in tone.
O'Kelly is a "straight-ahead" kind of guy. He
reveals he's driven to make these final days his best on Earth. He focuses
hard on what matters — family and friends and saying goodbye. He
doesn't allow himself to bog down in the frustrations, fears and tears. O'Kelly writes that he long ago learned that "when
something in my life no longer worked, I could abandon it with little
sentiment. I did not look back, nor did I digress from my new path. The
quicker one got on with it, the better. It was a particularly useful skill
in business."
Passionate golfers, O'Kelly and his wife, Corrine, loved to play together
late in the day. It allowed them time together as the course emptied and
the shadows of the trees grew longer, he writes. "It was as if we weren't
just playing golf, but chasing daylight, grabbing as much time as we
could."
Mortality is a fearful
subject, particularly one's own, but the author confronts it as a business
problem. "It sounds pretty weird to try to be CEO of one's own
death," he admits.
But he does.
"My sensibilities
about work and accomplishment, about consistency and continuity and
commitment, were so ingrained in me from my professional life, and had
served me so well in that life, that I couldn't imagine not applying them to
my final task."
One of his tasks is to
unwind, or close, personal relationships with colleagues, lifetime friends
and family members. He diligently writes down a list of people to contact
and plan a final encounter with. He stops at each name and tries to recall
all the moments they had enjoyed together. How they met. The lessons he
learned from them — ways in which having met that person had made him
a better person. There were nearly 1,000 people on his list.
O'Kelly's mission is somewhat compulsive, but he wanted
the kind of closure a businessman gives a big project or a fiscal year.
"Not only did
these unwindings spur me to recall happy
memories, but they kept my focus on life, not death." They
"guaranteed that I was almost always thinking about what mattered."
Some people try to
prolong the final encounter and schedule another. He declines. "I'd
like this to be it, I would say," he writes. "Not a popular
answer. Too final. Kind of cold, actually. The other person would often get
emotional." But, he notes: "I got to make the rules."
Live in the moment is O'Kelly's mantra. That concept is not novel, but it is
honest. "Life had to be enjoyed as explicitly and as often as
possible, right now," he writes. "I felt that if I could learn to
stay in the present moment, to be fully conscious of my surroundings, I
would buy myself lots of time."
He strives for perfect
moments, perfect days. "I felt like I was living a week in a day, a
month in a week, a year in a month." He learns to simplify and
meditate. Gradually he lets go and lives spontaneously, which is foreign to
him.
"Accounting is
about predictability, about avoiding surprises," he writes. He begins
to appreciate unplanned time that unfolds with his wife and young daughter.
He struggles with acceptance. One of his first lessons comes in the
radiation clinic when things don't go according to plan. O'Kelly was accustomed to people operating at a very
high level in his business world. If they didn't, he was quick to tell them
so.
But his daily
experience at the radiation clinic makes him realize that people and, more
often, machines, screw up. A 20-minute procedure often takes twice that
long. He has no choice — he learns to let go. "I could not
control time."
The heartfelt closing
pages of this slender volume, narrated by his wife, stick to you.
"By late summer, the unwindings were taking
their toll on Gene," she recalls.
And from there, she
guides you gently though his final days in a calm, loving voice that gives
a sober, softer perspective to his brave, methodical account.
At times, it's hard to
read. Her restrained emotion is so close to the surface.
And then as August
draws to a close, he tells her: "You're going to have to take over
now. I've done all I can do."
"It took my
breath away," she writes.
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