A conversation with one of his employees, Suzanne Henry, led him to change his mind. Suzanne's mother had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 1995. Although she had initially put her life on hold, a bevy of experimental treatments had allowed her to remain active and to continue working. Seven years later, she was still going strong. John was inspired by Suzanne's story. Fighting to overcome long odds was more his style anyway. He resolved to keep his business going as long as he could. "John needed to work," said one of his architects, Roberta Woelfling. "He would have been miserable and probably died sooner. That was what motivated him."
But how do you run a business when you are terminally ill? How do your employees deal with your good and your bad days? How do you get new clients and financing? And how do you plan, at the same time, for your inevitable demise?
Obviously, everyone responds differently to adversity. Our responses are shaped by our personalities, our experiences, our philosophies of life. John's approach was to face his illness head-on, and, as trite as it sounds, to make the best of it. It was how he had always dealt with other, less critical disasters: construction plans that went awry, clients enraged by over-budget renovations, cash-flow crises. He was always unflappable, seemingly unperturbed whenever he found himself on the knife edge of defeat. It was no different with his health.
Instead of letting it depress or isolate him, he engaged with the disease, systematically researching it so he came to know his enemy, and then reveling every time he deprived it of further advancement. As an architect, he had always seen technology as his ally, insisting on incorporating all the latest products, materials, or construction techniques into his projects. When his doctors recommended cutting-edge treatments, he couldn't wait to comply, regaling anyone who would listen with his macabre tales.
Taking him for stereotactic brain surgery, for instance, filled me with dread. The contraption that was literally screwed into his head seemed barbaric; it was all I could do not to throw up. He, however, loved seeing all the sci-fi-like equipment, the doctors plotting three-dimensional pathways of 201 beams of radiation on their computers, beams that would fry his tumors into oblivion. It was all great fodder for stories.
You might think this would be the last thing an employee would want to hear about, but John's staffers tell me that his openness was actually reassuring. "He shared the whole process with us," says Roberta. "The communication made it easier for us. There wasn't any secrecy." I asked them recently how they survived those difficult days and their answers were pretty uniform. They loved working with John. They thought he was one of the more interesting, talented bosses they could hope to have, and no matter how trying the circumstances, they figured the time working with him was well spent. John Dooley came under heavy pressure from his then-girlfriend to look for a job at a firm with a more promising future. "We had horrible arguments at the time," he recalls. "She was adamant about me leaving as soon as possible." Dooley decided to stay; an employee who received an attractive job offer did leave.
My husband was even able to attract a new employee, despite disclosing his illness in what must surely have been a bizarre job interview. "I remember trying to maintain my composure, trying to process what it meant for me and for John without reacting," says Jae Lee, who subsequently became John's assistant for legal, marketing, and administrative matters. "I certainly wasn't going to ask, 'Well, how long have you got?"
As odd as it may sound, his employees say that working for John after he learned he was ill was actually better than working for him before. "He started joking around more," says one.
As odd as it may sound, his employees say that working for John after he learned he was ill was actually better than working for him before. "John changed," says Roberta. "He got softer, more sympathetic." John Dooley says his boss went from being somewhat stern and reserved to being quite talkative. "He started joking around more, became more involved in chatting with people. He had a totally different perspective on life," he says.
My husband also learned to relinquish some control over his work, something he, like many entrepreneurs, had had trouble doing. Once he began to get chemotherapy three weeks out of four, he had no choice but to lean more heavily on his staff. While some were occasionally frustrated by his lack of direction, they also seemed to relish the additional responsibility.
John's relationship with the outside world was more complicated. Clients with whom he had had close personal ties stood by him. When real estate developer Robert A. Levine of RAL Companies first learned of John's illness, he begged John not to do anything rash like close the office and assured him of his continued support. The decision, he acknowledges, cost him time and money because John was sometimes inaccessible and didn't always follow through well on everything. Still, says Levine, "it was worth the risk, to have whatever part of that relationship I could have."
With those he knew less well, John made calculated decisions about how much to reveal. He occasionally used his disease as a club, writing plaintive collection letters, for instance, to wayward clients or seeking an excuse for a delayed payment to a creditor. With others, he strove to portray a vibrant picture of health. "He had a little fear about not letting the bank know," Jae recalls. "If they knew how sick he was, they wouldn't provide financing." He was convinced that his physical appearance was critical to how the outside world perceived him and was delighted when the doctors' predictions that he would lose his hair to chemo proved unfounded.
