In 1983 I wrote an essay titled, "Flower Child, Your Time Has Come." In it I drew an analogy between cancer in a person and the state of our organizational world, and predicted that we were about to face major surgery, and there was no easy way out of it. I am pleased that I was accurate in the prognostication. At the same time I am sad that I and you had to suffer through this ugly period. As the recipients of major surgery we who have endured stand facing the turn of the millennium with a mixture of optimism and fear.

We are both the beneficiaries and the victims of the last decade. Surgically leaner organizations are better prepared for whatever comes next. At the same time, we who have experienced the surgery are irrevocably scarred.

Our confidence in life is shaken. There was a time when we were certain that nothing really harmful would happen to us. Our body has let us down. Something terribly traumatic has occurred and can occur again. There was a time when we had extra resource lying in ambush for marauding problems. Now we are extended to the fullest, staffing the ramparts for the daily task. There was a time when five p.m. and sometimes four signaled feet up and dream about possibilities time. Now five is simply the hour before six which may itself mark the time we can think of slipping away. Unless things are really tense, in which case.... Walking the halls of today’s corporation be careful not to knock over the I.V. bottles. While visiting the Government organization avoid the word that will provoke tears. You are visiting post-op.

Surgery was needed. Some was cosmetic, framed for Wall street’s benefit. Some was stupid, the result of handing a fool the cleaver. But much was necessary, which is not to say it doesn’t hurt like hell.

So what do we do?

First, this is the way it is. The Buddhists recommend looking straight at pain without flinching. That way pain becomes simply pain and nothing more. Don’t try to ignore it, for that just makes it worse. If your corporation has not publicly admitted to itself that this has hurt, you are either lucky or surrounded by liars. (When entering the living room it is not a lie to ignore the sofa, but it is a lie not to speak of the elephant.) It hurts to be laid off. It hurts to have your friends laid off. It hurts to lay people off. Let’s say it out loud. But don’t make it into more than it is. Pain is just pain, anxiety is just anxiety, and hamburger is not steak, but it is hamburger.

Second, count your blessings. Cancer patients react in various ways, but it amazes me to discover how many of them express gratitude for what has been left for them, rather than regret about what has been taken away. Despite what I hear about how terrible I have it, I still have it twice as good as my dad did. I don’t have the secure pension Minnegasco gave him, but then I’m not bored to death either.

Third, be kind to yourself today. You have been through a difficult decade. If there is one thing it should have taught you it is the lesson taught by terminal disease barely avoided: Enjoy today, tomorrow is not guaranteed. Have you learned yet that the various magical rites of organizational life such as giving up everything, family, friends and ice fishing, for the corporation will not insure your future?

Fourth, don’t make the same mistake that got us into this trouble in the first place. Don’t put on blinders and hope the world will remain the same. The last decade was predictable, and if we had moved sooner, avoidable, or at least, easable. We didn’t see the rest of the world coming. But now, in a desperate attempt to stave off their attack we risk running so hard we have no time to look around and see either new threats or new opportunities. For those who were not there when it happened, or who have forgotten, we were running hard the last time we were blindsided. Feet don’t have eyes.

Fifth,try to get well. Wellness is no longer what it was before the knife. Many of my friends who have endured this course seem to have gained in their souls what they have lost in their bodies. There is an opportunity in pain to become more than we were as human beings. More courage, more empathy, more wisdom. It’s not the same as having paid up health insurance, but what the heck. You gotta take what’s given.

The author of this essay is John Cowan. He has written two books of similar essays: Small Decencies and The Common Table Each is approximately 160 pages in paperback. To purchase either book by mail send a check for $10 per book to him at 1498 Goodrich, St. Paul, MN 55105. Price will be negotiated for any order over 20 books. If you wish to discuss consulting or speaking engagements or attendance at a workshop he may be reached by e-mail. His address is Johnedie@aol.com

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