Free The last lecture by Randy Pausch Page B

1945, when my father was in the army. The citation for “heroic achievement” came from the commanding general of the 75th Infantry Division.
    On April 11, 1945, my father’s infantry company was attacked by German forces, and in the early stages of battle, heavy artillery fire led to eight casualties. According to the citation: “With complete disregard for his own safety, Private Pausch leaped from a covered position and commenced treating the wounded men while shells continued to fall in the immediate vicinity. So successfully did this soldier administer medical attention that all the wounded were evacuated successfully.”
    In recognition of this, my dad, then twenty-two years old, was issued the Bronze Star for valor.
    In the fifty years my parents were married, in the thousands of conversations my dad had with me, it had just never come up. And so there I was, weeks after his death, getting another lesson from him about the meaning of sacrifice—and about the power of humility.

21
Jai
    I ’VE ASKED Jai what she has learned since my diagnosis. Turns out, she could write a book titled Forget the Last Lecture; Here’s the Real Story .
    She’s a strong woman, my wife. I admire her directness, her honesty, her willingness to tell it to me straight. Even now, with just months to go, we try to interact with each other as if everything is normal and our marriage has decades to go. We discuss, we get frustrated, we get mad, we make up.
    Jai says she’s still figuring out how to deal with me, but she’s making headway.
    “You’re always the scientist, Randy,” she says. “You want science? I’ll give you science.” She used to tell me she had “a gut feeling” about something. Now, instead, she brings me data.
    For instance, we were going to visit my side of the family over this past Christmas, but they all had the flu. Jai didn’t want to expose me or our kids to the chance of infection. I thought we should take the trip. After all, I won’t have many more opportunities to see my family.
    “We’ll all keep our distance,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”
    Jai knew she’d need data. She called a friend who is a nurse. She called two doctors who lived up the street. She got their medical opinions. They said it wouldn’t be smart to take the kids. “I’ve got unbiased third-party medical authorities, Randy,” she said. “Here’s their input.” Presented with the data, I relented. I went for a quick trip to see my family and Jai stayed home with the kids. (I didn’t get the flu.)
    I know what you’re thinking. Scientists like me probably aren’t always easy to live with.
    Jai handles me by being frank. When I’ve gone off course, she lets me know. Or she gives me a warning: “Something is bugging me. I don’t know what it is. When I figure it out, I’ll tell you.”
    At the same time, given my prognosis, Jai says she’s learning to let some of the little stuff slide. That’s a suggestion from our counselor. Dr. Reiss has a gift for helping people recalibrate their home lives when one spouse has a terminal illness. Marriages like ours have to find their way to “a new normal.”
    I’m a spreader. My clothes, clean and dirty, are spread around the bedroom, and my bathroom sink is cluttered. It drives Jai crazy. Before I got sick, she’d say something. But Dr. Reiss has advised her not to let small things trip us up.
    Obviously, I ought to be neater. I owe Jai many apologies. But she has stopped telling me about the minor stuff that bugs her. Do we really want to spend our last months together arguing that I haven’t hung up my khakis? We do not. So now Jai kicks my clothes into a corner and moves on.
    A friend of ours suggested that Jai keep a daily journal, and Jai says it helps. She writes in there the things that get on her nerves about me. “Randy didn’t put his plate in the dishwasher tonight,” she wrote one night. “He just left it there on the table, and went to his computer.”