The story is here.
0 Comments on In the Inky: The Red Pants Project—Celebrating the People In Our Lives (In honor of Mike and Chris Yasick and on behalf of VEDS) as of 3/4/2016 2:45:00 PM
Add a Comment
new posts in all blogs
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/4/2016
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Philadelphia Inquirer, Mike Yasick, Chris Yasick, Red Pants Project, VEDS, Add a tag
In honor of our friend Mike Yasick, his son Chris, their entire family, and those who have been diagnosed with a rare and crushing disease known as VEDS, I write today in the Philadelphia Inquirer of the launch of Red Pants Project, which asks each of to take a moment to celebrate the people in our lives.
The story is here.
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 10/20/2014
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Shire plc, Mike Yasick, Christopher Yasick, Add a tag
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.
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/13/2013
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Mike Yasick, Add a tag
I was this young once. So was he.
He grew up. He went to the school of his dreams. He fell in love with a certain discipline, a subset of advertising I have yet to understand (statistics are involved, creative research, analysis and ideas), and traveled to Europe to learn more, earned three internships, kept his finger on the pulse of this thing.
Sent out resume after resume, as one does. Had nearly two dozen interviews.
Today he received an offer to do precisely what he wants to do.
There is so much dance in his voice. So much joy.
Mike Yasick, you who cared so much about this kid. Are you up there, pulling strings?
What a very bitter and very sweet week this is.
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/10/2013
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Shire, St. John's Presbyterian Church, Mike Yasick, Miyuki Hoshimoto, Add a tag
I sat in church remembering my friend Mike Yasick. I thought about the thousands of people searching for one last conversation with him, for a moment with him, for a chance to say goodbye. Thousands of people because Mike was that kind of guy. He brought sun into a room. He demonstrated, repeatedly, why it is far more rewarding, in this life, to be a force of good. Negativity is all sharp edges. Unprovoked cruelty solves no problems. Unkindness is unkarma. Why throw spears when there's a bowl of chocolate near? Why not slice the thorns off roses? Why not laugh? Why not make somebody happy?
Are you superb?
As I sat there thinking about Mike, Miyuki Hoshimoto, a gorgeous soprano, sang "Agnus Dei." I watched her, but mostly I watched the other members of the choir, their faces tilted at angles, their heads rising and lowering with the notes. That, I thought, is what unburdened generosity looks like. It is the shape of appreciation, when envy will not float. There was the beauty of the song; there was the beauty of those who listened.
It was a necessary appeasement on a day when so many mourn the loss of a significant good.
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/9/2013
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Shire Pharmaceuticals, Mike Yasick, Add a tag
March 6, 2013, 8:25 AM, the email zings in: "Are you superb?"
It was from Mike Yasick, of course, head of Specialty Pharma at Shire—one of the only people on this planet who regularly addressed me with that kind of jazz. He was like that, Mike Yasick. He was light. He was a serious guy, sure, a well-read guy, a guy who loved his family and a guy who loved his job. But he was also a guy who made us laugh.
"Hey," he said, last time we were talking on the phone. "You want to see how dumb I look in bright red pants?"
"Sure, Yasick," I said.
"Check your in-box," he said.
And that, above, was the picture he sent.
Mike Yasick knew what it was to live a life. He knew that the clock was ticking on his own—that he had inherited a difficult disease, that it could flare at any time, that his own father and brother had been taken too soon. He wanted to live fully—and he so absolutely did. Taking his wife around the world to celebrate her birthday in style. Sending colorful notes to friends during his Vietnam travels. Watching one daughter dance, another daughter take her first huge job, a son prepare a favorite meal with chef-like precision. Not just watching. Watching is the wrong word. Mike Yasick appreciated every single second of those he loved. He appreciated his life, and when you were with him, when you thought of him, when he showed up at your birthday party and said, "I love your Dad, he reminds me of my own," you appreciated your own life even more.
I talked to Mike because I wrote stories for Mike—that's what I do for Shire. He'd joke that I never gave him enough ink. "Don't you want to use my picture?" he'd say, stopping me in the halls. "Don't you want to quote me on something? Aren't I important? Don't you think I am?" I'd indulge him when I could. But mostly I'd just stop to talk, or he'd email me, or he, on occasion, would call. "You in?" he'd write, and I'd say, "Sure, Yasick, I'm in." And then the phone would ring and he'd make me laugh, but he'd make me think as well.
Not long ago—maybe nine months ago—the conversation grew serious. He was worrying about work things. He was pondering this condition of his. He was saying how much he loved his wife and family, how much he wanted to beat the odds of his genetic inheritance and stick around a long time. "Don't you go anywhere on us, Yasick," I said. And he said, "I think you're going have to deal with me for at least a while more."
I wanted a lot more while. We all wanted a lot more. I mourn the loss of Mike deeply. I mourn for his wife and children and family and fishing friends and thousands of colleagues at Shire. He left an impression. He made a difference. I'll hear his laugh in my head a long time on, will miss him asking what books I'm reading, will miss him saying, "You've become someone, haven't you?"
Am I superb? Not today, Mike. Not with this news. But I know the sun is shining out there right now because you're up there in the skies.
Viewing: Blog Posts Tagged with: Mike Yasick, Most Recent at Top [Help]
Results 1 - 5 of 5
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/4/2016
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Philadelphia Inquirer, Mike Yasick, Chris Yasick, Red Pants Project, VEDS, Add a tag
The story is here.
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 10/20/2014
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Shire plc, Mike Yasick, Christopher Yasick, Add a tag
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.
0 Comments on Christopher Yasick: a son leaves the world too soon, a father reaches out from his distance as of 10/19/2014 2:02:00 PM
Add a Comment
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/13/2013
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Mike Yasick, Add a tag
He grew up. He went to the school of his dreams. He fell in love with a certain discipline, a subset of advertising I have yet to understand (statistics are involved, creative research, analysis and ideas), and traveled to Europe to learn more, earned three internships, kept his finger on the pulse of this thing.
Sent out resume after resume, as one does. Had nearly two dozen interviews.
Today he received an offer to do precisely what he wants to do.
There is so much dance in his voice. So much joy.
Mike Yasick, you who cared so much about this kid. Are you up there, pulling strings?
What a very bitter and very sweet week this is.
11 Comments on that boy I have always loved so much has a full-time offer in his field, last added: 3/15/2013
Display Comments
Add a Comment
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/10/2013
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Shire, St. John's Presbyterian Church, Mike Yasick, Miyuki Hoshimoto, Add a tag
Are you superb?
As I sat there thinking about Mike, Miyuki Hoshimoto, a gorgeous soprano, sang "Agnus Dei." I watched her, but mostly I watched the other members of the choir, their faces tilted at angles, their heads rising and lowering with the notes. That, I thought, is what unburdened generosity looks like. It is the shape of appreciation, when envy will not float. There was the beauty of the song; there was the beauty of those who listened.
It was a necessary appeasement on a day when so many mourn the loss of a significant good.
7 Comments on why not be kind?, last added: 3/12/2013
Display Comments
Add a Comment
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 3/9/2013
Blog: Beth Kephart Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Shire Pharmaceuticals, Mike Yasick, Add a tag
It was from Mike Yasick, of course, head of Specialty Pharma at Shire—one of the only people on this planet who regularly addressed me with that kind of jazz. He was like that, Mike Yasick. He was light. He was a serious guy, sure, a well-read guy, a guy who loved his family and a guy who loved his job. But he was also a guy who made us laugh.
"Hey," he said, last time we were talking on the phone. "You want to see how dumb I look in bright red pants?"
"Sure, Yasick," I said.
"Check your in-box," he said.
And that, above, was the picture he sent.
Mike Yasick knew what it was to live a life. He knew that the clock was ticking on his own—that he had inherited a difficult disease, that it could flare at any time, that his own father and brother had been taken too soon. He wanted to live fully—and he so absolutely did. Taking his wife around the world to celebrate her birthday in style. Sending colorful notes to friends during his Vietnam travels. Watching one daughter dance, another daughter take her first huge job, a son prepare a favorite meal with chef-like precision. Not just watching. Watching is the wrong word. Mike Yasick appreciated every single second of those he loved. He appreciated his life, and when you were with him, when you thought of him, when he showed up at your birthday party and said, "I love your Dad, he reminds me of my own," you appreciated your own life even more.
I talked to Mike because I wrote stories for Mike—that's what I do for Shire. He'd joke that I never gave him enough ink. "Don't you want to use my picture?" he'd say, stopping me in the halls. "Don't you want to quote me on something? Aren't I important? Don't you think I am?" I'd indulge him when I could. But mostly I'd just stop to talk, or he'd email me, or he, on occasion, would call. "You in?" he'd write, and I'd say, "Sure, Yasick, I'm in." And then the phone would ring and he'd make me laugh, but he'd make me think as well.
Not long ago—maybe nine months ago—the conversation grew serious. He was worrying about work things. He was pondering this condition of his. He was saying how much he loved his wife and family, how much he wanted to beat the odds of his genetic inheritance and stick around a long time. "Don't you go anywhere on us, Yasick," I said. And he said, "I think you're going have to deal with me for at least a while more."
I wanted a lot more while. We all wanted a lot more. I mourn the loss of Mike deeply. I mourn for his wife and children and family and fishing friends and thousands of colleagues at Shire. He left an impression. He made a difference. I'll hear his laugh in my head a long time on, will miss him asking what books I'm reading, will miss him saying, "You've become someone, haven't you?"
Am I superb? Not today, Mike. Not with this news. But I know the sun is shining out there right now because you're up there in the skies.
39 Comments on mourning the loss of the truly great Mike Yasick, the head of Shire Specialty Pharma, and a friend, last added: 4/7/2013
Display Comments
Add a Comment
Oh, oh. Perhaps it takes another mother on the path to know exactly what this means. I do. Hats off to you, to your dear boy, to the magic and wonder of this life and growth, and all the energies at work supporting and guiding us as we travel onward. Hooray!!
That's wonderful! It's so great to be able to earn a living doing what you love. Congratulations to him!
Great news! No wonder the sun is shining today!
Isn't it a wonderful feeling to see them making their wonderful way in the world? So happy for him...and you.
Isn't it a wonderful feeling to see them making their wonderful way in the world? So happy for him...and you.
Wonderful news, Beth! Congratulations to him, to you! I'm so pleased to know that he has found a job that feeds his passion!
Congratulations on your son's great news, Beth! It's hard to get jobs these days, let alone a job one loves. I wish him and you continued happiness.
Oh, that is just so wonderful. Your heart must be so very happy for him. And, that picture ... it made me smile just looking at it. So beautiful and such a happy memory. Time does pass so quickly, doesn't it?!
Dear friend, I am thrilled for Hs success and most of all for his ability to train for and hold on for his dream. That bodes well for later years when other interests/passions may arise. He knows how to maximize his self. May I congratulate 2 appropriately involved, unconditionally loving parents as well! XO Kathleen Malone
You both are absolutely beautiful! And congrats to your son. That's wonderful!
Congratulations to you both. And I bet Mike is doing his best up there for you.