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(NOTE FROM JEFFREY): In celebration of Father’s Day, I am reprinting the column I wrote 11 years ago when my father passed away. If your father has passed away, I hope you took the day to remember happy stories and great deeds. If you are lucky, and your father is still alive, I hope you were with him to celebrate with him, thank him and tell him you love him.

I said goodbye to my father today. Not just “see you later.” My dad is on his deathbed.

Max Gitomer, my dad, has been lying in a bed for three weeks on all kinds of life support. They’ve done every kind of test and biopsy. They put in a pacemaker and took out several pieces of lung. In the process, they cut a hole in his throat to replace the breathing tube in his mouth.

These are referred to as “procedures.” What they do is cut you open, cut something out or insert something new, and sew you back up. Then they heavily sedate you for days and put tubes and wires on every part of your body to keep you “alive.” Sound horrible? Looks worse.

I spoke on the phone with one of his doctors, who was as matter-of-fact as an Internal Revenue Service agent at an audit. He said: “Due to the infection and scar tissue in his lungs, your dad will have to be on some kind of artificial breathing support for the rest of his life, or he can choose to go on his own without the life support and pass away. That’s about it.”

I went to my dad’s bedside and told him what was about to happen. Even under sedation, I’m sure he heard me. He kept trying to move as though he was listening and wanting to say something – anything. But the machines and the tubes keeping him alive were also preventing him from speaking.

So, I began to say goodbye. He stirred and pinched my finger to tell me he was listening. I tried to be upbeat – no crying. “Hey, remember the time you and Arnie played touch football against me and Michael – and you ran around and I couldn’t catch you? That was the last time we raced. You always won.” I started to cry.

I reminded him of visiting day in 1960, when parents came to summer camp for the weekend to visit their children. The camp counselors played against the fathers. My dad came up to the plate and hit a ball out of the field of play and over the tennis courts. The counselors gave him an ovation. I was so proud.

Fathers want the same for their sons. To be proud of them. In one of our recent conversations, he said, “Sonny boy, the old man’s real proud of you.” I just said, “Thanks, Pop,” but inside I was as fulfilled as possible.

Max Gitomer was a master salesman. The kind who made friends, made people laugh, gave them confidence, and kept people as friends for years after the deal was done. He was the best kind of salesman. Max was a warrior. A never-quit sales warrior. He knew what it took to make the deal happen, and had negotiating nerves of steel.

My dad never let me come to him with a problem unless I also had my version of a solution. He never actually said I was wrong in my thinking; he would just say, “You got it all figured out, son?” That always meant there was more thinking to do.

“Don’t offer anything you wouldn’t be willing to accept,” Max would always say after he sealed a deal.

Like any 52-year relationship, there were good times and bad. I learned lessons from both. And in the end, I got a chance to tell him I love him and kiss him goodbye until the next time.

I am sure there will be a next time.

As for this time – my dad was proud of me. What finer gift could you wish from your father?

Jeffrey Gitomer can be reached by phone at (704) 333-1112 or by e-mail at salesman@gitomer.com. © 2010 Jeffrey H. Gitomer