It’s been a tough couple of weeks for Fairfield, CT, my home of more than 25 years. On July 15th Bill Gerber, Fairfield’s First Selectman (the mayor, basically) passed away from brain cancer. He was 60 years old and left behind a wife, two grown children and a large extended network of family and friends.
Let me be clear, this is not a eulogy or tribute for a close friend. The fact is I didn’t know Bill well. Our kids are around the same age and went to the same schools, so over the years we would see each other at school functions, sporting events and neighborhood parties. We were acquaintances. (After listening to the moving tributes and stories at his memorial service last week, I realized how much I missed.)
All the same, I’ve been thinking about Bill a lot since his death. Maybe it’s because we were close in age or I’ve arrived at the stage of life where a greater awareness of one’s mortality is the norm. Whatever the reason, it’s been on my mind, and I felt compelled to write about it.
My predominant thought has been how good it is to be alive. Most of us wake up every day taking life for granted. On a certain level it’s understandable, life would be pretty damn depressing if we constantly dwelt upon our own mortality.
But it can all end in an instant. Bill went from diagnosis to death in less than 3 weeks. While it’s easier and more pleasant to assume that these things can’t or won’t happen to us, taking time each day to express gratitude for being here helps puts many of our daily concerns in the proper perspective.
Bill knew this better than most. In 2010 he and his wife Jessica lost their 9-year-old son Teddy to cancer. As every parent knows, the absolute worst thing that can happen to you in life is burying a child.
Experiencing such loss can destroy individuals and families. It speaks volumes to their character and fortitude that Bill and Jessica found a way, amidst unimaginable heartbreak, to keep going and turn Teddy’s death into something positive.
I don’t know this for certain, but perhaps Bill’s hard-earned appreciation for the fleeting nature of life inspired him to leave a successful corporate career and dedicate himself to public service. At the peak of his professional powers, he decided to take what must have been a significant step back financially and dedicate himself to making our town a better place.
It’s hard to conceive of such a choice in an age where so much of our political discourse has descended into crass attention-seeking conflict and cruel name-calling, but Bill’s sense of politics hearkened back to a better time when public service was considered a more noble, higher calling.
Whatever calculus he went through before making the leap, the best part is, Bill loved his job. The work invigorated and excited him. How many of us can say that today?
I’m sure Bill never anticipated his life would be cruelly cut short, but he was wise enough to know that tomorrow is promised to no one. He didn’t hesitate to follow his passion. He knew that the time to seize our dreams is now.
Bill also understood in ways most of us never will how much suffering, defeat and loss are an inevitable part of life. These aren’t the kind of things we like to talk about on LinkedIn, where the algorithm rewards finely staged selfies, postings about new jobs and promotions, and unsolicited advice for maximizing our follower counts. But dealing with serious loss and adversity, whether professional or personal, is the ultimate life skill. On a deeper level, it’s the only path to attaining wisdom and enduring joy in life.
At Bill’s memorial service they handed out wallet-sized remembrance cards. On the back the family included a moving quote from Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, the author who originated the five stages of grief, which beautifully captures this idea.
“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths.
These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern.
Beautiful people do not just happen.”
Rest in peace, Bill. The world is a more beautiful place because you were in it.