Christopher Yasick: a son leaves the world too soon, a father reaches out from his distance

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.

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celebrating a good man in corporate America: Tom Spann

I've been in this consulting business for a long time now, and I've seen plenty of things. I've seen brilliant leaders be stripped of their influence by the envy of their peers. I've seen power abused, colleagues humiliated, inconsistency masquerade as strategy, a pale hand sweep impetuously across a desk, knocking considered work to the ground. I've seen absolute assurances vanish and ego dressed up in a suit. I've seen grown men and women make grown men and women cry.

But I've seen the good guys (and women), too. I've known them, worked with them, valued them deeply. One of those good guys is a man named Tom Spann, whom I met at a company called Astra Merck. He was an Andersen/Accenture consultant with a full-time desk at the pharma company. I was a sixty-hour a week freelancer who wrote the company's news magazines, launch meeting scripts, best-practice reports, executive speeches, history book, value propositions, and most anything else that required letters, commas, question marks. When I was lucky I got to collaborate with Tom. He was a first-class sort. He asked questions; he listened. I never heard him raise his voice. Like every executive I've truly respected, his breadth of knowledge and his range of curiosity went far beyond the immediate matters at hand. He'd put forth an idea and in his quiet way ask, And if we were to move that idea forward, what would you do?

In the years since Astra Merck, Tom has gone on to build a company with his friend John Rollins. It's called Accolade, its focus is on both reducing health care costs and improving the health care experience for employees of large companies, and it has morphed from an idea discussed over coffee to a thriving mid-size company. The success of this company is no surprise to anyone who knows Tom (or John, which I also luckily do). Also ranking in the no surprise category (except that I had to find this out on my own since Tom Spann is incapable of boasting) is that, for the last two years, Tom has been named a top leader in the Philadelphia region—first in the small workplaces category and then in the midsize workplace company.

The survey asked employees to respond to this simple but overwhelmingly telling prompt: I have confidence in the leader of this organization. Then it gave the employees room to expound. Tom was reported to be accessible, caring, approachable, transparent, a man who doesn't hide in the corner office. He was known by his employees, in other words, as he is known to his friends. Think about how beautiful that is. And how frustratingly rare.

Several books ago I collaborated with Matthew Emmens, another truly decent guy, on a corporate fairytale called Zenobia: The Curious Book of Business (with illustrations by William Sulit). We created a character (named after my first Penn student, Moira) and led her through a maze of broken corporate things. She'd only survive the Alice in Wonderland madness of Zenobia if she could remain uncorrupted—if she could assert her intelligence, morality, curiosity, and perseverance, and, by example, change all that had gone wrong at this lurching, gossip-driven, demoralizing, and unnecessarily complicated company. She had (spoiler alert!) what it takes, in the end. She opened the windows, let in the light.

Tom Spann has been letting the light in his entire career long. His success is an object lesson in all that good can do.

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celebrating Mike Cola, Shire President, as he steps toward a new future

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.

   

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Zenobia: The Curious Book of Business

This morning I'm returning to a book I wrote with Matthew Emmens, a long-time friend and much-loved executive who was the CEO of Shire Plc when we launched this project and is now the CEO of Vertex Pharmaceuticals (and chair of Shire).  We called the book Zenobia: The Curious Book of Business, and we sub-titled it A Tale of Triumph over Yes-Men, Cynics, Hedgers, and other Corporate Killjoys (Berrett-Koehler Publishers).  We asked William Sulit to illustrate it.  We were delighted when the book was translated into Portuguese (Brazil), Portuguese (Portugal), Chinese Complex, Chinese Simplified, Dutch, Arabic, Korean, Spanish, and Italian, and created as an English Reprint in India.

We continue to hear from readers of Zenobia—continue to be told stories about real-live corporate misadventures that might have been used as grist for this book (enough so that I sometimes fantasize about writing a Volume 2).  The other day I happened upon this Zenobia review, and because the reviewer—an unnamed reader for Soundview Executive Book Summaries—so thoroughly understood our purpose, I share it in total here. 

down the corporate rabbit hole
Teaming a CEO with a poet to collaborate on a business book might sound like an “Alice in Wonderland” proposition. But the result, Zenobia: The Curious Book of Business by Matthew Emmens, CEO of the $14 billion Shire Pharmaceuticals, and award-winning poet and author Beth Kephart, is a business fable that is as inspiring as it is curious.

Zenobia is the tale of job applicant Moira. Bored with her current position, she decides to answer an intriguing want ad. The ad brings Moira to Zenobia, a once-mighty company, now fallen into neglect and disrepair and bogged down in its way of doing business. To fulfill her mission, Moira must find Room 133A by 9 a.m. –– not an easy task, considering Zenobia’s current state: “There was, to begin, no apparent way up. The doors of the elevators had been sealed long ago. The stairs zinged this way and that, crossed over and through, circled back and endlessly in.”

Zenobians
Moira’s quest to find Room 133A brings her into contact with the denizens of Zenobia. Along the way, Moira meets several archetypical characters representing the worst of those who populate the business world. To reach her destination, Moira must not only navigate the confusing structure that represents the company itself, but also contend with such employees as Hedger, a man who avoids giving a straight answer at any cost; Trenchy, a woman so confined to her own tasks that she has no idea what her colleagues are doing; and Stomper, a cynical killjoy who would like nothing more than to see Moira fail.

Lighting the Way
In each of the book’s 13 chapters, the authors detail another step on Moira’s journey. Each step illustrates a basic principle for success, such as “Conceive a Plan; Pursue It,” “Prepare for Ridicule” and “Seek the Unlikely Alliance.” As the book progresses, we see Moira succeed because she refuses to be dragged down by the negative aspects of Zenobia. She forges ahead, relying on her talent, intelligence and courage to identify opportunities and solutions to find Room 133A.

But this story is not just Moira’s. As the heroine fights her way through the quagmire that surrounds her, the authors show how her actions inspire many of the Zenobians to not only follow her, but to begin forging their own ways ahead to success: “What she saw just then was even far more dazzling than the lambent atmosphere. For at the end of the kite tail, on the rungs of the ladder, in the spaces between things, against the warp of the wood, she saw a rising stream of Zenobians … They were making the journey for and with one another, showing each other the way.”

A Deceptively Simple Tale
Zenobia is an engrossing read that provides readers with honest enjoyment. The concepts it presents are often astonishing in their simplicity. Logically, we all understand that in order to succeed we must first have a plan and then be prepared to follow it. Most of us can expound on the virtue of being a good listener. However, the authors reveal the importance of these concepts not as declamations from business gurus but rather as lessons from an engaging heroine on a unique journey.

Zenobia is a book for anyone who has lost his or her way in the business world, who feels stalled or who just needs a little inspiration. Moira’s story is a reminder of what can be achieved in business and in life when we aren’t afraid to take risks and show some courage.

For those of you feeling stalled or in need of inspiration (or psychic companionship), Zenobia can be ordered here. 

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Honoring caregivers through the Shire BRAVE Awards

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.

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