The last lecture by Randy Pausch Read Free Book Online Page B

you to know how much I’m enjoying it.”
    I thought about that, and about Jai’s smile.
    I knew then. That’s the way the rest of my life would need to be lived.

13
The Man in the Convertible
    O NE MORNING, well after I was diagnosed with cancer, I got an email from Robbee Kosak, Carnegie Mellon’s vice president for advancement. She told me a story.
    She said she had been driving home from work the night before, and she found herself behind a man in a convertible. It was a warm, gorgeous, early-spring evening, and the man had his top down and all his windows lowered. His arm was hanging over the driver’s side door, and his fingers were tapping along to the music on his radio. His head was bobbing along, too, as the wind blew through his hair.
    Robbee changed lanes and pulled a little closer. From the side, she could see that the man had a slight smile on his face, the kind of absentminded smile a person might have when he’s all alone, happy in his own thoughts. Robbee found herself thinking: “Wow, this is the epitome of a person appreciating this day and this moment.”
    The convertible eventually turned the corner, and that’s when Robbee got a look at the man’s full face. “Oh my God,” she said to herself. “It’s Randy Pausch!”
    She was so struck by the sight of me. She knew that my cancer diagnosis was grim. And yet, as she wrote in her email, she was moved by how contented I seemed. In this private moment, I was obviously in high spirits. Robbee wrote in her email: “You can never know how much that glimpse of you made my day, reminding me of what life is all about.”
    I read Robbee’s email several times. I came to look at it as a feedback loop of sorts.
    It has not always been easy to stay positive through my cancer treatment. When you have a dire medical issue, it’s tough to know how you’re really faring emotionally. I had wondered whether a part of me was acting when I was with other people. Maybe at times I forced myself to appear strong and upbeat. Many cancer patients feel obliged to put up a brave front. Was I doing that, too?
    But Robbee had come upon me in an unguarded moment. I’d like to think she saw me as I am. She certainly saw me as I was that evening.
    Her email was just a paragraph, but it meant a great deal to me. She had given me a window into myself. I was still fully engaged. I still knew life was good. I was doing OK.

14
The Dutch Uncle
    A NYONE WHO knows me will tell you I’ve always had a healthy sense of myself and my abilities. I tend to say what I’m thinking and what I believe. I don’t have much patience for incompetence.
    These are traits that have mostly served me well. But there are times, believe it or not, when I’ve come across as arrogant and tactless. That’s when those who can help you recalibrate yourself become absolutely crucial.
    My sister, Tammy, had to put up with the ultimate know-it-all kid brother. I was always telling her what to do, as if our birth order was a mistake that I was incessantly trying to correct.
    One time when I was seven years old and Tammy was nine, we were waiting for the school bus, and as usual, I was mouthing off. She decided she’d had enough. She picked up my metal lunch box and dropped it in a mud puddle…just as the bus pulled up. My sister ended up in the principal’s office, while I was sent to the janitor, who cleaned up my lunch box, threw out my mud-soaked sandwich and kindly gave me lunch money.
    The principal told Tammy he had called our mother. “I’m going to let her handle this,” he said. When we arrived home after school, Mom said, “I’m going to let your father handle this.” My sister spent the day nervously awaiting her fate.
    When my father got home after work, he listened to the story and burst into a smile. He wasn’t going to punish Tammy. He did everything but congratulate her! I was a kid who needed to have his lunch box dropped in a puddle. Tammy was relieved, and I’d been put