Jettison & Survive

My oldest son is an aerospace engineer in college right now and I hope he never reads this letter, as it may ruin the degree for him. I have surgery tomorrow to remove a body part that was essential in making him, so that may make it even worse. But as I stood in the shower this morning I had so many thoughts running through my head. With my surgery at 5am tomorrow, my thoughts feel like they are all colliding into each other. But then one thought launched past the others and I started laughing. Susana, my amazing best friend and wife, asked what I was laughing at and I told her she was just going to have to wait to find out. I had to run downstairs and write it down.

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There is something amazing about rockets taking off with the goal of reaching space. We watch the countdown, the moment the engines fire, the massive plumes of smoke that erupt even before we can see the rocket begin to move, and we stare in awe as it takes flight and clears the tower. To clear that tower it needs every single piece working perfectly to reach the sky. But then something many of us probably wouldn’t have thought of happens. Pieces that helped it achieve heights thought unachievable literally just start to detach and jettison off it.

Why would this make me laugh? Well, mainly because I am a sick individual with a super weird sense of humor.

I’m in the shower and I think of my testicular cancer. I got it at 17 but wasn’t diagnosed until I was 20. I had to jettison that little guy so early in my flight path. But damn it, he got me through some nerve-wracking situations in my teens. We had made it through our first couple of girlfriends together. We had worn an uncountable number of Speedos together. In every way he could, he helped me feel normal and whole for as long as he could, during a time in my life when everything was new and awkward. I don’t know what would have happened to my confidence if he had jettisoned any sooner than he did. And even more amazing — as he detached and gave me his final salute, he taught me something incredible. He screamed as he fell back to earth, “Remember Me!”

While this may seem funny, I have always remembered that tough little bastard. The tumor inside him had grown and killed 90 percent of him before he left, and he just held on as long as he could. When he was gone there was no way not to feel sad. To feel like I was somehow less than whole. But about two weeks later I woke up feeling more healed, and I heard a faint call: “Remember Me!” I smiled to myself, thinking of the great times we’d had together. I mean — fuck yes I should remember him, right? He would want to live a full and whole life. He would want me to talk about him and his sacrifice.

So I did.

I talked about how getting cancer at 20 scared me and made me realize that we should cherish each day. I started Memento Mori Winery. I picked the name in honor of a life that — without my doctors — I wouldn’t be here to celebrate. I made five incredible children with only right-side firepower, but never forgetting that little guy would have loved to be there. It is no wonder three of them are left-handed. I failed so much in my 20s but never let it stop me. I built companies with a focus on people as the product, believing that people and connections are what make the world special — not things. I hope he is proud of how I have carried on without him.

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Right before Covid, I got a melanoma on my arm. My doctor was a badass and took great care of me. I tried to watch her cut it off and even filmed half of it, but at some point — even though you can’t feel it — you realize it is actually part of your body and you have to stop looking. When she packed it up to go get tested, my bicep and tricep gave it a little salute of thanks. That scar still aches every now and then when I lift weights, but I smile because if my doctor hadn’t found it early like she did, I wouldn’t be here.

It was right around this time that I started Vida Valiente with Susana and the Kaplans. It is a brand about the journey — honoring the fallen, showing yourself grace in the lows and humility in the highs, and most importantly lifting others. I had given a speech on stage in my tech CEO days about “Being vs. Becoming.” It was really a talk about trying to do something special with this borrowed time I have found, and encouraging others to strive for that as well.

To complete the wine trinity, I decided to raise money and purchase Edge Hill, one of the oldest wineries in Napa. I began raising the fund over the holidays and closed on the property in March. It was right around the closing of escrow that I received confirmation from my urologist that I had been diagnosed with prostate cancer at just 53 years old. The timing was odd, since I am starting a third brand to reside at Edge Hill called Ultra Mortem — Latin for “Beyond Death.” So the three brands together mean: Remember to live a valiant life worthy of remembering.

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While I was getting the diagnosis from my doctor — who has performed 7,000 robotic surgeries removing people’s prostates — a corner of my mind sounded off quietly: “Remember Me.” I felt two things simultaneously. First, the dread of leaving everyone too soon. That feeling of why does this keep happening to me. That want to be a victim in life’s long play. Then I got an image in my mind. I saw the rocket clearing the atmosphere and the second separation ring detach and float away.

Separation rings are defined as: “This heavy metal ring is located between the first and second stages of a rocket. Its purpose is to provide a structural link between the stages and protect the engine…”

My poor prostate has seen it all. Fifty-three years he has put up with my craziness. He has helped me make my kids. He has helped me not pee all over myself (except for those few times…). He has done nothing but given me his all. And damn it, he leaves me tomorrow — but I am going to honor that little fucker.

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I have gotten through two huge stages in my life. Both could be summed up by trying to become more than I thought possible — using my borrowed time to create special moments, help others, and build incredible things. I salute my jettisoned parts. I will remember you and all you have given me, always. I will live with a thankful heart and always fight the urge to be a victim. My doctors continue to save me. This time will be no different.

For this final stage I am going to shift from becoming… to being. I will focus on being there for those I love, honoring my commitments, and building three wineries in Napa that have come to truly represent so much of what I believe is important in this life.

I no longer fear the jettison of a piece of me. You don’t need every piece for every stage. You just give thanks that they helped you get to your current orbit.