Remembering an extraordinary young man, lost too soon, a year ago today.With deepest love and affection for his family.Sometimes I'd be sitting in Mike Yasick's office at Shire, a client company, and he'd get to talking about his family.
The phone would ring, and he'd lift one finger, check the number, and discover his son, Chris, on the line.
"Hold on," Mike would say to me.
"Hey," he'd say to his son, his face lighting up two additional degrees of bright, which was really something for a man already so fully illuminated. Maybe Chris had some news. Maybe Chris was hoping Mike would pick up some ingredient on the way home to complete the meal Chris was cooking. Whatever it was, Mike glowed. Whatever it was, afterward, Mike would sit, talking about Chris and the rest of his family. It was a favorite topic for a famous raconteur, because Mike may have been a super star in the pharma world, but more to the point, and through and through, he was a purely devoted family man.
The world lost Mike Yasick eight months ago to a rare genetic condition. He was with us, laughing one day, parading his bright red pants, and then—suddenly—he was gone. Imagine the largest Catholic church you've ever seen. Then imagine it filled, wall to wall, with friends and family—mourners—most of them wearing Mike's trademark red. Imagine a small blog tribute—
mine—read by 15,000 people. That's how loved Mike was.
Yesterday, Chris, just twenty-five years old, was taken by the same terrible disease that took his father. Another sudden passing. Another terrible loss in the world, an unimaginable heartbreak for a beautiful family. I got the news in the dark hours of the morning that Chris was in the hospital. I got the news several hours later that he was gone. In between, I prayed—so many of us prayed—for some kind of miracle.
Chris was a civil engineer, a graduate of The University of Texas at Austin. He was a young man on his way up in a job with Skyline Steel. At his father's funeral he was dignified, one of those people you really hoped you'd get a chance to personally know—his face so much like his dad's, that Yasick sparkle in his eyes. So
this is Chris, I kept thinking. This is Chris.
Miracles are so hard to come by. Miracles aren't every day. The disease took Chris. But here are two things that all of us who loved Mike, who mourn with and for his family, will always see as
miraculous. On the day that Chris grew so suddenly and terribly ill, Mike's best friends were in town. They had come to town specifically to see Chris, to take him out to dinner, to tell him some stories about his dad. They were there when it happened. They were there for Chris—all night in that hospital, they were there for Chris. They were present.
Just as another friend
just so happened to land in Chicago, on his way to somewhere else. He checked his phone. He saw a text from Chris's sister, Katy, he changed his plans, he hurried to the hospital, he was there, too. There.
"I haven't connected on a flight in years," this friend, Matt Pauls, wrote to me. "Why last night? In Chicago? Why were his buddies in town? Because Mike made sure Chris was covered."
Mike made sure his son was covered. As other family rushed to town, as Chris's mom got there as fast as the plane could fly, as the doctors did all they could do, Mike, through his friends, was there for his son. A beautiful thing in a most tragic time, and the thing we will hold onto as we honor Chris.
I don't often bring my business life onto this literary blog, but today has to be different. Today I wish to honor Mike Cola, with whom I have had the pleasure of working at various corporations for the past two decades. Since 2005, Mike has been at Shire, a company that has grown from one primarily dependent on a single product to one now serving patients all over the world with a wide range of central nervous system, gastrointestinal, and renal treatments—and a company (most importantly) with a burgeoning Specialty development pipeline, thanks in large part to Mike's innovative, questing, and (quite frankly) brilliant mind. Thanks, too, to the team Mike built.
When
Shire announced Mike's resignation as president of the Specialty Pharma business yesterday, I thought back on the many conversations I have been privileged to have with this man. We had a formal excuse—the internal Shire publication that I write—and we would (with the guidance and impetus provided by Charlene McGrady) get the job done.
But when there was time to spare, there would be so much more—conversations about history (personal and global); conversations about science; conversations about the kids Mike would meet along the way in his capacity as basketball coach and quiet giver; conversations about the beach and birds; conversations about the wife and children he deeply cherishes; conversations about chickens, eggs, the resurrection of barns; conversations about books; conversations about
his dad. I have consulted since I was twenty-five years old. I have met some special people. Mike Cola will always be, to me, one of those very special people. He cares about big things. He is prophetic. He changes companies and lives in ways both sweeping and small. He looks out across his desk and asks you how you're doing. He remembers (his memory is startling) every last thing you ever told him. He asks how your family is. He asks about the kids you teach and the books you want to write. He comes to your birthday party and he arrives at your house when (almost paralyzed by anxiety) you have invited him for a
Dine In/Help Out meal.
Mike Cola is one of the great minds out there—a scientist, a leader, a deep reader and complex thinker, a farmer, a philanthropist, a father, a husband. He could be intimidating, if he wanted to be, but he's too interested in learning and doing more to crowd another out.
I will miss Mike greatly as I continue my travels throughout Shire. But most of all, I wish him happiness—more time with his beautiful wife and kids, with those eggs in that barn, with the birds along the shore, and with whatever great thing he will do next.
Things change. The world opens itself newly.
As many of you know, we at Fusion Communications launched
our brand new website over the weekend—a labor of love, as they say. A big thank you to all of you who have taken the time to visit the site and to let me know. Some of you have asked about that home page photo. The answer to that question is: I snapped the shot while sitting in a tiny plane headed toward Chicago from Appleton, Wisconsin.
One of the companies that is featured on the Fusion Communications site is Shire plc, a global specialty biopharmaceutical company that is led by people who continue to look for ways to make a real and meaningful contribution to the many communities in which it has a presence. I have worked with Shire for many years; I have been grateful for the honor.
One of the newest Shire initiatives is the BRAVE Awards, designed "to acknowledge ordinary people who give of themselves by caring for others in a meaningful, dedicated and selfless manner." Each recipient of a Brave Award will be given $10,000 USD.
Essentially, Shire is seeking stories about real caregivers. I post this here because I read your stories, learn from your convictions, marvel at your courage, and know first-hand that selflessness pervades the readership of this blog. There are, no doubt, deserving caregivers among you.
I present the BRAVE Awards to you here, then. Find out more by visiting
this site.
Well wishes for him on his next journey. It's funny how close you can become to people you work for/with