Leadership: What You Say May Be More Important Than What You Think

I have a pretty good memory now (I say this with the confidence of a man who is certain his wife will not read this particular article.), but there was a time when things that happened to me are essentially blank to this day. As a senior leader with over 20 years of success, I understand that the impact you have as a person on people may be more significant than you perceive at the time. Leaders must respect this fact as they relay information to there flock because they may not appreciate the gravity their words and actions have at the time they are said. Below is a story that illustrates this theory. I was stricken with wander lust at birth. I loved to go to new places, experience new cultures, and be on my own. After college I left my home in Central New York State and fell down the East coast and stumbled to the Gulf in Mississippi. I married a Cajun girl from New Orleans and established myself in the South. Limited funds and even lesser vacation days limited my return trips to once every other year or so. My wife and I tried to time our returns around Thanksgiving and Christmas.
As was usual for the holidays, some old friends from high school came by and we told lies of our youth around our kitchen table till late in the evening. Most I had not spoken to in a number of years, but the time elapsed was erased and we behaved as if we were a decade younger. The evening past, friends left, my wife went to bed, and my family also had disappeared into their bedrooms for the evening. Only Jim remained.
As I have said before, having a conversation with Jim is like waking from a very deep and detailed dream. Fact and fiction blend into an odd reality marked by stories that I believe to be true, but to absolutely verify them, I think Jim would have to kill me.
Alone for the first time all evening, I felt a change in room pressure as Jim and I sat nursing our beers. I felt a our kinship renewed, but felt a bit odd in revealing this to Jim as we sat silently across the table from one another. I tried in vain to build the courage to tell Jim of how much our friendship had meant to me in high school and earlier. I mindlessly ran my finger around the top of my beer can.
Jim broke the silence, “I’m glad I got to get over here and see you tonight, J.” Jim took another sip of beer. “You were one of my closest friends in high school. I don’t think I ever told you how much I appreciated your friendship.”
I felt lame. How could he articulate my feelings before me? I swallowed some more courage and nodded.
“I mean it. I don’t think I would be here today without your friendship and support,” Jim added.
I fought to keep from curling my brow. He said it without slur or stutter. My mind raced its corners searching for an event in our lives that would have had that much impact. It came up empty.
“I am not sure I understand what you mean,” I said apologetically.
When I was 15 I had a pretty bad accident and I suffered a major head trauma. Many of my memories before the accident were erased and there are several years after where they are spotty at best. The accident accelerated my personality and I was probably difficult to be around at best following my return from the hospital and rehabilitation. Jim was one of the few who stuck by me and my new personality styling’s characterized by erratic behavior, compulsion, and an inability to hold my tongue.
“Do you remember our senior year?” Jim asked obviously referring to a particular event rather than each day bundled together.
I weight of his delivery had me stumped to identify any particular moment. “Yeah, Jim,” I responded. “I do, but I am not sure I am recalling the event that you are referring to.”
Jim took a large swallow of beer, finishing the can. He shook it to ensure its emptiness, set it on the table and grabbed another unopened can left on the table by my Mother for our consumption. I waited patiently as he opened it. “Do you remember in the spring when I was hospitalized?”
This was during my brain healing process, but images of a very weak and emaciated Jim popped into my mind. “Yes. What was that about?” I blushed. “I guess it’s late, I am tired, and my memory is not so good around that period.”
Jim’s head swayed more than nodded, “I was in the hospital for six weeks.”
I recalled him in the hospital, but the time frame seemed excessively long. “Was it that long?”
“Six-and-a-half weeks, really. Remember? I was bed bound for most of it. I just got weak and I was admitted to the hospital. They had to move me to intensive care because at one point, I was so weak I needed a respirator to breath.”
An image of Jim in a bed with his sunken face covered with an oxygen mask leapt to my consciousness. “I do remember that,” I spoke to myself.
“You were the only person that came to see me while I was there.” Jim placed heavy emphasis on each word.
“Just a payback for when you came to see me, Jim”
“I never got over to see you, J.” Jim’s voice scratched.
“Well, if I had known that…” I let my smile finish the sentence.
“I wanted to come, J., but I didn’t have my driver’s license,” Jim pleaded. “My parents worked split shifts…”
I cut him off with the wave of my hand. “Jim, I am sorry. I was just kidding. I did not mean to put you on the defensive.” I had to swallow the bubble that nearly burst in the back of my throat. I tried diversion, “I couldn’t have been the only person that came to see you.”
“A couple of others came when I was just in the regular hospital, but you were the only one that came when I was in the ICU.” Jim’s voice was raw.
Images of Jim were limited in my mind. I could recall one visit, two maybe, but no more. “Jim, I only came a couple of times, at best.”
“You came six times, once a week. When I was nearing what I thought was the end of my life, I was too weak to speak. You would sit there and talk to me.”
One image came to mind of me speaking to Jim in his hospital bed. I was sitting at the edge and I spoke to him. His eyes were closed. “Jim, I think you were asleep.”
“No.” he said firmly. “I was awake every time. I was just too weak to keep my eyes open.” Jim’s eyes were welling as he spoke.
My eyes darted around the corners of the room. “Jim, I remember seeing you in the hospital. I can even remember how you looked, but I can’t remember why.” I said.
“Don’t you remember? They thought I had AIDS.”
My memory was rushed with images and video of my visits. It was in the very early days of the disease when only needle using drug users or homosexual males had been identified as carriers. Audio loops of my pubescent humor played in my head. I shook my head and let a laugh escape. “But it wasn’t AIDS, Jim.” As if he needed reminding.
“Of course we know that now, but we did not then. Everyone was afraid to come and see me. They thought they would get it if they touched me. No one really knew much about it then. But you came anyway. You spoke to me. You made me laugh. You were so funny.”
Now, I can be funny, but I did not recall Jim laughing. I shook my head searching for more, “I just don’t remember you laughing, Jim. I am sorry. I honestly don’t even remember what you had. I’m sorry.”
“They told me that I was probably bitten by a tick with Rocky Mountain Fever.”
Did the alarm just go off? “I just don’t remember that much about it, Jim. That was my gray years.”
“I don’t care if you don’t remember it,” he forced. “It may not have meant anything to you, but it really meant something to me. I remember being in that bed, too weak to breath, and asking why I should go on. I really believe that I could have given up and just slipped away right then, but I didn’t. And I didn’t because of you, J.”
I am not an emotional person. I am not sure I am wired like everybody else. I have always felt a bit deadened inside, but tears flowed from my eyes, and my nose dripped. I shook with. Words melted with my shudders.
“I have waited 10 years to tell you that, J. I am glad you came back.” Jim pushed back from the table and stood. “Well, I guess I should go now.”
I see every moment of his goodbye in my head. Our hug, his goodbye, him walking out the door, climbing in his car and driving away. I see that moment whenever I care to because it is etched in my mind. Jim may have forgotten, but I will not. I now think of how much impact we may have on others that we never get to appreciate. I am not saying that each of our words and interactions saves a life, but it could and you should remember that.
Thanks for reading.