A Colleague Dies, Suddenly, Tragically

What the Dead Can Teach us About Living

A few days ago, news of the tragic, too-early death of a colleague hit me unexpectedly hard. Through the sadness, I also felt grateful — that I knew him at all and that I took the time to experience — and learn from — the shock.

Why should you care about someone I lost — no less, a colleague I didn’t really know very well?

Because whether you’re 20 or 80, you, too, will “lose” people from your entourage — your social convoy.

Mourning is painful but not without insight and comfort.

Richard Simon: 1949–2020

I email my long-time collaborator, Ron Taffel, about another matter altogether. I check in with Ron every so often. We wrote three books together, and he’s one of my go-to guys when I need a sounding board.

In decades past, Ron and I sometimes talked daily. We regularly share stories of each others’ spouses, kids, and now grandkids. We have been significant in each other’s lives, but we’re often out of touch.

Has it been that long? I wonder when he’s not in my phone’s directory. Could it be two iPhones ago?

Googling “Ron Taffel” to find his office number, I come upon “Reflections on Rich: Friends Celebrate His Life and Legacy.”

My mind doesn’t want to comprehend the meaning of a phrase that includes reflections and Rich.

“Rich” is Rich Simon, PhD., founder and masterful editor of the Family Therapy Newsletter, which launched in 1981. Jay Lappin, a senior faculty member at the Minuchin Institute for Family, recalls a letter from Rich, describing the then-new venture as a “publication attempting to improve the links among family therapists throughout the mid-Atlantic region.”

At the time, family therapy was at the leading edge of a revolution in psychotherapy. Salvador Minuchin and other family systems leaders of the day were challenging the reigning orthodoxies of the dominant psychoanalytic model. And Rich — through his writing, persuasiveness, and limitless curiosity — reported this as if he were broadcasting from behind the therapy room’s one-way mirror, amplifying the voice of family therapy and sending it out into the larger world.

Rich did that and more. The Networker offered top-quality, engaging reads. You didn’t need a degree to be drawn in, just an open, curious mind. Rich gave the Wizards a place to explain their theories and show how they help people relate better and manage their suffering. He understood pulse and history and, above all, the telling of a good story.

Rich and I were certainly not close friends. Still, I was honored to know him and, certainly, to write for him. When I considered possible venues for my work, The Networker was right up there with New York. And that was because of Rich.

He was a visionary, as well as a student of history. He connected the dots. As an editor, he wrung from me some of my best writing.

“Mending Marriages: What’s Best for the Children, 1994, full article

“The Relationship Revolution,” 2010: shorter blog version, full article (behind paywall)

My eyes fill as I read through the “celebrations” of his life, work, and spirit, written by some of his closest colleagues. However, it is this sentence, written by Esther Perel, that delivers the most stunning blow:

And, as many now know, he struggled with bipolar disorder for much of his life. His suicide is a testament to the tenacious nature of mental illness and a reminder of the limitations of the mental health field.

I am not among the “many,” Dr. Perel. I did not know how much Rich suffered.

Losing a Colleague

I’m at that age. I’m “losing” people. That metaphor grates, especially for one prone to losing things. I have already “lost” my older sister and several very close female friends. It’s not like misplacing your wallet.

Recently, I also “lost” a cherished therapist.

That I’ll never see those beloved humans again — women who have shaped my heart — is an incomprehensible, painful fact of life.

Losing a colleague, is hard, too, but in a different way.

A colleague is a consequential stranger in a class of their own. We share ideas more than intimacies. Among mine — naturally — are others who traffic in trends, ideas, and words: editors, fellow journalists, researchers, and a boatload of shrinks (Salvador Minuchin preferred the term expander).

As Rich Simon might have put it, these far-flung colleagues are part of my “tribe.” They are connections forged by my professional self, the humans I count on for ideas, advice, encouragement, or just the joy of tramping on the same hallowed ground.

Colleagues are proof of your adulthood. I don’t keep in touch will all or all the time. But they’re there.

The Lessons of Losing Rich

To me and others writing deep-felt tributes in his honor, Rich Simon was a “one-of-a-kind,” his obituary reminds.

There was absolutely no one like him. And there never will be. One-of-a-kind, a force of nature, he will be missed by his Networker crew, his family, his friends and his tribe.

Rich and I saw each other in person once a year, if that, when I attended the exuberant Networker Symposiums he orchestrated. Our conversations were few and far between. Still, I always looked forward to moments with him, even on the phone.

Two New Yorkers talking at each other, his voice always the more insistent and persuasive (which might surprise those who know me well).

Those little doses of Rich made me a better thinker, pushed me to go farther. I suspect he might ask now, given news of his passing…

How does one travel beyond the death of someone so special and take meaning from it in a way that makes you live better?

Here are some answers:

Appreciate each of your living connections.

Death reminds us that every relationship has an end date. It is uniquely “of” the two of you — a container holding what each party pours in: your pasts, your personalities, your unique experiences. You will always “have” that container in your heart, but someday, one of you will be in it alone.

We know this. At funerals, we say, “Let's try to see each other more often.” We usually don’t follow up. So, instead, send that email. Mail a holiday card. Pick up the phone. Check-in and cherish the space between you while it’s still occupied by two. Say now what you need to say.

Muster the courage it takes to live.

We all have something difficult to contend with — something, obvious or hidden, that makes it hard to get out of bed. Past abuse. A dreaded diagnosis. A disability. The deterioration of a loved one. A lifelong struggle with depression.

We can use that something as an excuse or we can accept it and keep going. Throughout his too-short life, Rich continued to ask the best of his writers and collaborators and the best of himself. He embraced the good and raised his own spirits through music, dance, and the constant pursuit of new ideas. He brought people together; he raised them up. Rich’s mental illness attacked him time and again. He battled mightily until he couldn’t. And in between, he truly lived.

When you miss them in person, talk to them anyway.

We all have voices in our heads. The trick is calling on the good ones and listening to their answers.

I evoke Tracy Hogg’s memory when a desperate new parent emails me about a problem. If the real Baby Whisperer were here, she’d probably tell you to… It truly feels like I’m channeling Tracy.

When a piece of writing doesn’t flow, I hear my New York mentor, T. George Harris, bellowing, “Blau, you skip through life. Why are you lumbering on paper?”

Rich is gone, but I can still wonder, “What would Rich say?” and know the answer. If I tell him about my book-in-progress, he’ll push me. What it’s really about? If I complain about organizing the proposal, he’ll say just start writing and tell a good story.

Keep them alive by honoring them.

I hoped “someday” to work on another piece with Rich. Now I can’t. But I can hold Rich in my heart — his advice, his standards, his joy at a job well done. Like Networker editor and contributor Marian Sandmaier, who writes about her creative journey with Rich. I, too, remember the first time my venerable editor said, “Great job.” I can honor him by writing well and by caring as much about the craft as he did.

“You nailed it!” He sounded almost giddy with excitement. “This really works!” My heart did a cartwheel. And then Rich set about doing what he’d continue to do for the next 25 years of our editor–writer partnership, which was to read aloud various passages he particularly liked, and then describe to me, in great detail, exactly how he felt they enlivened and enhanced the piece. As he talked on, I wandered into my living room, thinking, You have to remember this moment.

Grieve with others who knew them.

I was on the edges of Rich’s community; I found out about his death more than a year later. And when I did, I followed up my email to Ron Taffel with a phone call. Ron was close to Rich and frequently in contact. Talking to him helped me make sense of the surge of emotion I felt.

I was also a comfort to read his close colleagues’ remembrances. I identify with so many of their sentiments and memories:

I, along with many other of Rich’s mentees, dearly miss the man who made us. A few months ago, as we congregated to grieve — on Zoom, of course — I quickly learned something new about Rich. With his undivided attention, encouragement, and big heart, he made each and every one of us feel like his favorite child. It’s the kind of posthumous revelation that cracks the sadness open, makes me smile. We all thought we were special — because that’s how he made each of us feel. That’s true charisma.

Rich was charismatic, but he was also generous and wise. The true power of example. Many called him “the great appreciator.”

Rest in Peace, Rich Simon. I take heart from your own words, written in 2016, to introduce an issue about “what it means to focus on strength rather than pathology.”

We’ve also seen a new appreciation for human resilience — people’s innate capacity to recover after great loss or hardship and even, in some cases, develop and flourish.

Rich Simon is a great loss to me and to the many who loved him and will miss him. But because of how he “made” us and touched our lives, how he uncovered our gifts and goodness, how he himself embraced change and welcomed the future, we are resilient enough to continue to live in his light.

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