The Book I'm Struggling To Write
For the last year, I’ve been thinking about the story I want to tell. But, frankly, I’ve just been too angry. The story I want to tell isn’t one of anger - it’s one in which I honored my father through the work I did with young people. It’s one in which his teachings lived on through me.
I’m getting closer…
Prologue
Andrew Hecker was a good man – perhaps saintly, if you believe the stories I heard following his death. It’s not possible for me to consider my life as a leader and a learner without contextualizing it within the story of my father.
I had just finished sixth grade when my father told us he had Cancer. Melanoma. He loved the sun, having grown up working each summer in Ocean City, NJ. On my twelfth birthday, I went to the hospital with my mother to spend time with my father during his first of many chemotherapy treatments.
Upon entering the hospital, I noted a sign saying that you had to be at least thirteen years old to visit a patient. So, when the receptionist asked for my date of birth, I just adjusted the year, quietly aging myself. My mother didn’t blink, knowing it was what needed to be done – a reaction that would predict her response to my dad’s death.
For the entire year of his final illness – it was his second battle with Cancer – I was by my dad’s side. He was my hero. He appreciated something about my passion and sensitivity that didn’t seem appreciated everywhere. He loved me, clearly. And, despite the many demands of his job, he had shown up to support me whenever his presence would be appreciated – concerts, baseball games, swim meets…
So, I clearly owed him the same.
As a twelve year old, I woke up every morning at 5:30am. I showered and got ready for school, then, I went to my father’s bathroom. We had a pretty solid routine. I would arrive as he was shaving, having already showered. I would get out the gauze and begin packing the cavity that sat open where his armpit once was, where cancerous lymph nodes had been removed.
Once sufficiently packed, I would cover the open wound with a washcloth and tape that in place, running adhesive tape in circles over his shoulder. This would prevent him from bleeding through his shirt as he went to his job as a partner at a Philadelphia law firm.
Perhaps it’s appropriate for me to name here that my father’s illness was a secret. He felt such responsibility to his partners and employees, and he felt his illness could hurt business. So, no one could know.
So, this is how I spent each morning. Then, we would take off – usually to school, though sometimes I would accompany him to an early morning medical appointment. Sometimes, I would fall asleep in class. Often, I would arrive unprepared, but I could never explain why.
And, those rides…They all occurred in a used, gold Porsche 944 with a manual transmission. This car, clearly purchased by a man confronting his own mortality, was where we talked about everything and anything during the twenty-five minute drive to my school – one I had picked, and one different from where my mom would drop my brothers.
This time was special to me. Maybe most kids don’t want one-on-one conversational time with a parent, but I loved it. My dad was super interesting, and he was very interested in me when I felt like few were. I remember regularly being frustrated when our conversations would be interrupted by the car stalling daily at the same spot on the same Wissahickon Avenue hill.
Did I mention my dad never really learned to drive stick?
As seventh grade came to a close, things were bad. I remember many specific moments from that summer.
I remember doing laundry, standing next to my mom as I folded clothes – a chore I only later realized was not necessarily common for my peers. I stated my frustration about dad’s continued illness. “I just can’t wait until he gets better,” I said.
“Mark, he’s not going to get better,” my mom said bluntly. Honestly. Bravely.
I remember when he brought home a puppy. I later learned this happened shortly after he heard there was nothing else he could do to fight the Cancer. I was one of three sons, and he was concerned that my mother would soon face an empty house. So, he identified a clear and rational solution – a dog.
And, I remember the sound of my mother’s footsteps on the wooden stairs up to my third floor bedroom. It was July 27th. It was early in the morning. She didn’t have to say why she was up in my room that early. I knew. But, she said it anyway.
Honest. Brave.
“Your father died.” Such simple words for such a complicated moment.
My hero – and, at that point in my life, my best friend – was gone. During a time in which I felt so lonely, he was my favorite company. I stood over him, waiting for his chest to move or for his lips to stop looking so blue. Then, I overheard a rector from our church tell my mom it would be best for the kids not to see their father carried out in a body bag.
So, we went to swim practice.
I don’t know that I’ve ever recovered from the trauma of that day. I have never been able to get beyond a fundamental need to have my father tell me he is proud of me. And, as you might imagine, if you build your life around hearing four words – “I’m proud of you” - from a dead person, you’ll be left wanting.
But, I’ve tried.
I have wanted to live a life that made people speak about me in the ways that people spoke about my father after he died. He made them feel heard. He made them feel seen. He made them feel important.
I built a life and an organization to make him proud and to keep him present. And, when I named the organization, I ensured he would always be there.
My father was Andrew Carlyle Hecker. He died in 1994. I was 13.
In 2009, I founded Reach.
reACH.
We did amazing and impactful work.
And, after about 13 years with Reach, I lost that, too.