A Father's Advice: Dad & Life's Golden Ticket

Hi, my friends, this is Brendan and this is a special episode and shout out to all of you for your amazing support this weekend and just beautiful comments on social media. If you didn't see it, I'd done a post about having lost my dad seven years ago today. I still think of him and miss him every single day. And I thought I'd record this and just share some. Some of the lessons dad taught me and maybe a story that you didn't know behind my career, and just hope that it inspires you to be a good dad, a good mom, a good sibling, someone who cares deeply about the relationships around you. Because in the end, that's all we got. And those forge the ultimate and best memories of our lives. So I thought I'd share this post in this format here on the podcast. For those of you who might not have been able to be on social media hearing about this this weekend, but my dad was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia on Mother's Day, May 10, 2009. It was out of the blue the week before. He was golfing and playing racquetball, which he always loved. The doctors gave him a 5% chance of making it. They said it was the worst case they'd seen. You know, on Mother's Day, dad basically had woken up and had started walking down the hallway, and he was a little off kilter, and he kind of grabbed onto a wall, and my mom said, what's wrong with you? He says, I don't know. I got this pain in my side. And he didn't know what it was. And throughout the day, it kind of still hurt. So he said, let's go to the doctor. So he went, and pretty quickly they discovered, you know, wow, his spleen feels like it's enlarged. And then they did the tests, and sure enough, acute myeloid leukemia. There's two types of leukemia, and aml, as they call it, is the one that is the bad one. You get that diagnosis and everybody cries because it quickly takes over your body. Essentially, from what I understand, it kind of the stem cells that your body is producing start becoming not good, and your cells kind of take over your body in negative ways. And pretty quickly the cancer spreads and shuts down your organs. And it's all very quick from diagnosis to death. We just had 59 days with my dad, and dad, you know, he was an extraordinary man. Funny and. And supportive, strong, loving. His message to us kids throughout his life said everything you needed to know about the man. Be yourself, be honest, do your best, take care of your family. Treat people with respect. Be a good citizen. Follow your dreams. He shared those seven messages with me in an interview in his last few weeks. I called him and I interviewed him about his life, and I recorded it, and I'm glad I did. You know, I grew up in a generation, at least the time then we. We didn't have a lot of video from when we grew up. Matter of fact, I have just, you know, friends videos of my father. We didn't have it like a video camera when I was a kid. And most of the footage I even have from my dad was just at my own wedding, and he was just tearing it up on the dance floor with my mom, and some friends caught it on a phone. But those seven things he shared with me in my last interview with him, because I asked him, you know, what do you want us to know? What do you want us to remember? And again, he said, be yourself. Be honest. Do your best. Take care of your family. Treat people with respect. Be a good citizen. Follow your dreams. Dad's dedication to those messages was basically it. That's what he was always saying those things to us in one way or another. You know, one of my favorite books I ever got my entire life, my dad gave me, called Lend Me youe Great Speeches in History. And when I open it up, still to this day, there it is from my dad says, you know, be yourself. His dedication to others spoke for itself, too. 20 years in the United States Marine Corps with three tours in Vietnam, 25 years working with the state of Montana, 34 years with mom, 69 years as a fine man. The day after Father's Day, we learned that his second course of chemotherapy was ineffective. The cancer had taken his body. He understood the outcome, and he was at peace with it. He would have only had a few weeks to live at that point. And dad chose to be at home in hospice care, surrounded and cared for by his family. All the nurses I remember cried when we left the hospital because they'd all come to love his sense of humor and his stories about life. Everywhere he went, he respected others and shared a good joke and a story. He set roots of friendship everywhere. Everyone loved him. I lucked out. You know, in his short time at home in hospice care, dad left nothing unsaid and nothing undone. Our immediate family was there with him. My wife, my mom, my two brothers, Brian and David. My sister Helen, and her husband Adam. We were blessed to have that time with him. We got to tell him how proud we were of him that he had lived a Good life, that mom would always be taken care of, which was his chief concern, that his values and spirit would live on in each of us. These were things that were important to him until he lost his ability to speak in the final two days. He always asked that we take care of mom, and we will. You know, it's hard to see your dad fade away. To me, it was the worst thing ever to happen in my entire lifetime. And I hated that. I couldn't help it or control it. It reminded me in some ways of, you know, back when I used to go to work with my dad. You know, in those years he worked in Montana. He worked for the Department of Motor Vehicles, the dmv. If you're in the United States, you know what that means? That means you got to go in and get your driver's license. And nobody likes that process. And worse, because nobody likes that process, they go in immediately with a bad attitude and worse. It's a state regulated sort of office in which the people who work there are incredibly disempowered by regulation and paperwork and, you know, old equipment and technology and absurd red tape. And my dad ran the DMV in the town where I grew up in. And I remember going into work with him sometimes and just watching people treat this great man with such rude behavior. I mean, I would. People see people literally scream at him because, you know, they forgot some paperwork. I'd see people just, you know, cuss and curse and, you know, cut in line. And just the worst of human behavior happens when there is impatience. And when you go to the dmv, you see, you know, dozens and dozens of people who are impatient with the process because the state obviously doesn't pay a lot for it because it's not a revenue generating thing for them, really. And so I saw my dad treated poorly for a lot of my life. And yet he had this amazing positive attitude. He got up in the morning, he was excited to go to work. He got there. When he dealt with people, you know, for the most part, even though he was a Marine and was trained to kill, he never did it. He was kind to these people somehow. Even the ones screaming in his face as their daughter, you know, failed the test because she ran the car up on the curb. You know, he would stay cool and centered. Sometimes it got to him, but for the most part, he handled it well. And so I grew up watching people treat my father poorly. And that's why his advice to me, treat people with respect means so much to me. It's one reason I respected him so much, you know? But as he was fading away, he faced it with that same grace and strength, even as the side effects of chemo made him terribly sick. He was appreciative and loving as we each cared for him. He knew his time was short, and it was amazing to see him so loving with us, so at peace with what must be. Dad died just before midnight. By 12:30am on July 9, 2009, the nurse gave the official pronouncement. He went peacefully, without any pain at that point, with just a long series of labored breaths, spread further and further apart until he was gone. Dad died as I held his right hand. My brother Brian held his left. And mom and my sister were by his side at home with family all around him, exactly as he would have wanted. A few weekends before dad died, when he had discovered that his chemotherapy hadn't done the job, I was teaching a seminar. Around 400 people had traveled from all over the world to attend. I was in San Francisco and dad was in Nevada, where he and mom had a second home from, away from Montana, where they would go sort of like snowbirds when it got cold in Montana. They'd go down to this little house they got in Las Vegas where my brother lived. That's the house where he got sick. Well, anyway, the night before my seminar, dad called me and broke the news he had just a few weeks to live. They had said he didn't want me to overreact and cancel the seminar, something he knew I would quickly do to go be with him. So the next evening, after teaching for nine hours on stage, I picked up the phone and called dad. Like I said, we'd come up with the idea of my interviewing him, asking him a wide range of questions about his life and recording the conversations to share with my family later on. And I especially loved one particular message he shared. For all of us kids, he said, always love your mother and your brothers and sisters. Keep faith in yourself and help other people who are less fortunate than you guys are. And don't be afraid to ask for help and love. Just be good Samaritans and do the best you can. From that conversation, I learned so much about him. There was no surprising revelations about his life. It was just how he spoke and how he dealt with it all. He had such an openness and optimism about him, a willingness to meet the uncontrollable with a measure of choice and will. Dad fought the good fight against cancer during his last week, when it was clear that he would not live to see another. He accepted it and seemed to release any fears. He never complained about anything. Not about the pain, not about the bedpans, not about the consistent and constant nosebleeds, not about the injections or the rolling over to change the bed sheets. He simply accepted and chose to meet life's biggest and for most scariest transition with love and grace. In an uncontrollable situation, he still directed the strength of his character, the Marine, in him, defining the meaning of it all on his own terms until the very end. End. To say that death is generally unwelcome and uncontrollable is an understatement, but it happens nonetheless, as do many things we do not plan or wish for. Yet amid all our struggles, even our final battles should our wits and will allow, we have the ability to control the way we meet the world, define the meaning of our experiences, and leave an example of how remarkable we can be throughout it all if we choose to. I hope that if you still have family who you care about, who are aging, you take a note from this page here and you remember that you have an opportunity to interview them, maybe before they pass, just, you know, take them out to lunch or take them out for coffee and, you know, maybe record it on your phone or record it, you know, on some conference call. But just ask some questions about their childhood and how they grew up and what they remember of their parents and what lessons they learned from their parents so that you can pass on generational lessons to others. Ask them how they felt about life, how they decided what to do, how they overcame their biggest struggles, what their biggest struggles were, what they thought about life, what messages they want to pass on to you, what they're proud of about their family, their siblings, their life, what they wish they had done, what wish they still have. Just have a real conversation about life and record it. Because I can tell you when they're gone, that recording will be one of the most valued possessions of your life. Every year, including last night. I listened to my recording with my dad, and I always make sure I go on a walk before I do and try to get centered. And then I come home and I open up the big tissue box here, you know, and I know I'm going to burn through them all listening to what became about two hours of recordings with dad. And it's hard. When I recorded it, he was already in the hospital, already under multiple treatments of chemo, and there was times he fades off in his thought, and there's other times when he's just Right there with it, because I recorded over two different sessions. But I can share that. Man, having his voice in my ear means a lot to me. And, you know, I know it means a lot to some of you, too. To all of you who met my dad at my early events, my Friends first seminars, way back when I was just starting, before anybody really knew who I was, before anybody knew what I might become or lead or do or contribute in my life. To those who met my dad, thank you. Thank you for believing in me. Because of you, my dad got to see me do my thing. Because of your support, you know, recently, tens of thousands of you guys supported the new version of my book, Life's Golden Ticket. And you'll never know how much that meant to me and my family. Life's Golden Ticket was the last of my books my dad would get to read. He never got to read my next three books, each of which would finally become huge New York Times bestsellers. But I never got to give him a hug and high five and celebrate that New York Times bestseller status, because I didn't get that when we initially released Life's Golden Ticket. But those things are pretty unimportant in the scheme of things, as you know. I'd trade it all just for another walk around the neighborhood with Dad. I remember, though, when dad read that first draft of Life's Golden Ticket, he was the first reader besides me. It's still a vivid memory. It's like Yesterday. It was 2003, and I was home writing my book in my tiny childhood bedroom on the second story of our house in Montana. Great Falls, Montana. I was typing on a laptop on my mom's fold out sewing room table. I was surprised when I finished writing the book. I just didn't see the end coming as it did. Writing Life, School and Ticket was a lot, like I always say, kind of like watching a movie. And I was just faithfully transcribing it. I knew the character's psychological journey I wanted to take him on, but each of the chapters was a surprise to me. I didn't know exactly what the conversation would be or how it would turn out. It's just that great experience of flow that happens when you're writing fiction and you're in it, you're committed to it, you know you're there. So, spoiler alert, there's an end at. There's a surprising end at the end of Life's Golden Ticket. If you haven't read it, please do. But I remember when I finished it and I finally convinced myself that the book could actually end the way that it did. I printed the manuscript out on this crappy little printer I just bought from an office store. I think it was like an office Max or something like that. I printed out, I read it, and I cried at the end because it's emotional at the end, but also because the book was done. Then I went downstairs. My dad was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. He was always there reading the newspaper, watching TV or doing some project. I handed him the manuscript, this big obnoxious ream of paper, and I said I hoped that he liked it. He said he'd read it. I went into the basement of the house where we had a small home computer. I remember, you know, back then, this is 2003, you know, home computers weren't all that common yet, but it was connected to the Internet. And I started researching how to get a publisher. A few hours later, dad came down the stairs holding the manuscript. He didn't say a word. He was just sort of standing there nodding and had tears in his eyes. He was the kind of guy you could easily tell when he had a lump in his throat. He walked over and gave me a hug, a long one, and said, I'm proud of you, son. This was in 2003, six years before he had passed. It took from that moment in the basement, it took another three years for me just to get an agent. Then the. The book was rejected by over 15 publishers. Harper San Francisco, now called Harper One, ultimately got it, and they released the first hardcover edition in 2007. They believed in the book because they also published another fiction storybook that took some years to get some legs, called the Alchemist, by my main man and friend, Paulo Coelho, who I've been blessed to get to know and serve and help in these last few years. Of his book launches, he's now the longest running author on the New York Times bestseller list with The Alchemist. Over 400 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. The Alchemist, one of the great books of all time. And the editors and the publishers at Harper kind of understood the idea of an. A parable. And for whatever crazy reason, they believed in me. And when Life, School and Ticket came out, the first version, it did okay. But in retrospect, I had no idea what I was doing. And Harper was going through this major rebranding at the time from, you know, Harper San Francisco to Harper One. So, like a lot of the authors, I got lost in the shuffle and the mix. And despite strong sales, it debuted at Number one in its category. It just didn't have the legs. We had hoped it would take then nine more years before I would have the influence needed to, to get the publisher to re release it and finally put the envelope in the back of the book as I originally dreamed of. The character of the book at the very beginning is handed a ticket or handed an envelope. And she tells this character that inside that envelope is a ticket. But he can't open it. He just needs to take the envelope to this abandoned amusement park. And she says when he goes into that amusement park with that envelope, that a miracle will happen. And that sets the frame for the book because as her last wish to him, he agrees to do it. And when he steps through the amusement park, a miracle does happen and he learns all these things about his life. I don't want to ruin the book, but you get the idea. In the original book, we didn't include the envelope in the back like I wanted to with the golden ticket in it because I was a new author and it was too expensive and we just didn't do it. But I think it was important to the book and obviously based on sales. Now it certainly helped, it helped complete the story for a lot of people. But it took all these years of me building my brand and getting my message out there before I had that kind of sway to say, hey, go spend some more money to bring this book out and give it another chance. And I know my dad would have loved the envelope in the back because he liked that kind of, that something cool about something. And I also convinced the publisher to let me design the COVID If you didn't know. I've designed now all of the covers of my books personally, you know, multiple New York Times best selling books now and I designed most of them in a janky system on my, on my computer and, and then they cleaned it up a little bit. But anyway, maybe I didn't get enough arts and crafts when I was in school. Now all I can say is it's nice to see life's golden ticket getting its own second chance. You know, people always ask if the father figure in life's golden ticket was based on my dad and he was not the father character in the book, if you've read it, is pretty awful. And, but you know, as you know, there's always second chances. Personally, I lucked out with Amazing Dad. He could certainly be tough with us when we were growing up as kids. I mean, he was a Marine after all, with three tours in Vietnam and 20 years of service in the Corps. But all dads where I grew up, Butte, Montana. Conrad, Great Falls, Montana were tough. It was just the way it was back then. And you know, by the way, by the time I hit high school, my dad was becoming a big bellied Buddha. You know, this calm, thoughtful guy who could drop a one liner of wisdom that make you go what you know. By then he became my best friend. After dad died, I went to our old home in Montana to clean it out and ready it for sale. Mom had decided she didn't want to go back there. She wanted to stay at the house, the small little house in Vegas. And ultimately I bought her a different house and. But I had to go up to Montana and get the house ready for sale. In boxing up Dad's things, I found the first edition hardcover copy of Life's Golden Ticket with notes and highlights in it in dad's nightstand drawer next to their bed. I still have that copy with his notes. And I cherish it just like I do the audio recording that I did of Dad. I share all this because, you know, it's an emotional day and weekend for us. I miss my dad. All my family does. But I just wanted you to know something real about this strange guy talking to you over the airwaves. This strange guy maybe you see posting some quotes on the Internet. You know, maybe you watched my videos here or there or been in one of our courses or attended our seminars. I just wanted you to know something about that book, mine. Life's Golden Ticket that maybe you might be holding in your hands. You know, books have stories far beyond what's on the page. So I just wanted to send you this today and say thank you on behalf of my entire family for your support and for being part of this story.