The Tribune

By DIANE PHILLIPS

WE SPEND a lot of time trying to get things right, which also means avoiding getting them wrong. Every decision we make--from the moment we wake up and shake off sleep to the moment we crawl into bed at night--is, in some way, a subconscious effort to do the right thing. 

Or at least not to make a mistake, either because we don’t want to embarrass ourselves or for fear that someone will see us and think we are less than perfect.

The fear of failing in our quest for perfection ranges from the mundane to the critical.

Shooting off an email without a single spelling error;

Picking the best package of lettuce with the fewest wilted leaves

Choosing the fastest route when you need to be somewhere on time and traffic is ridiculous.

Every decision weighed, every choice of this over that or that over this, takes its toll on our mental energy. We do it a thousand times a day, exhausting ourselves mentally, without even realising how much energy we’re expending just trying to get it right. We don’t stop to think about it because we’re too busy focusing on the decision at hand.

How many times have I stood in the grocery store with a plastic container of baby spinach in each hand, staring at the one on the left, checking the one on the right--to see which one is best--until I reach that split second when I chastise myself for the indecision, plunk them both back down where they came from, and grab one I hadn’t even checked.

The urge to make the right choice, to send the perfect email with the right tone without leaving anything out, to choose the correct route when speed is of the essence, to remember everything we were supposed to do at work can be so exhausting that it’s no surprise we grow weary and at some point order the wrong pizza online or take the route that was the worst possible choice.

30,000+ decisions a day

It’s understandable. Research tells us that the average adult makes between 30,000 and 35,000 decisions every day. That’s about 2,000 decisions an hour. It’s no wonder we suffer from what’s called “decision fatigue.”

Apparently, as the day wears on and our “decision fuel tank” gets lower, we shift to shortcuts, which also helps to explain why we rely more on Google or AI later in the day than we do in the morning when our brain energy has a fuller tank. We used to think of it as being sharper in the morning but now we understand it’s all about how much is left in the tank as the demand to decide saps a bit of fuel nearly every second.

The right scalpel choice

Most of us are just ordinary folks, slammed as we are by the choices we have to make. Not like a lawyer or litigator, for instance, who must get it right in the courtroom because his client’s fate hangs in the balance. Or the surgeon, whose patient’s life is at stake when she is slicing into flesh with a scalpel during surgery.

For most of us, our daily decisions are more along the lines of the lettuce conundrum-- fewer wilted leaves on the left or the right. But at the end of the day, the sheer number weighs us down.

And when we make a mistake and lack of perfection becomes apparent, we are, as I said, just ordinary folks, trying to figure out how to forgive ourselves or ask others to understand.

Those closest to us may see and shake their head for a moment. But imagine what it’s like for a celebrity like a Tiger Woods, who slips up with a possible extramarital affair. More than 25 years later, we can all still picture the rage of a beautiful blonde wife on Thanksgiving Day chasing her husband with a cell phone and smashing his car windows with a golf club as he tries to escape.

Some mistakes are a lot harder to overcome than choosing the worst of two heads of lettuce.

Even as we forgive and hope that Tiger’s health holds up, and that his son continues to shine on the course, we still can’t quite shake that moment in time when a woman scorned held the attention of a country on America’s national holiday.

What led me to the subject of our lack of perfection is the section of this column that follows: Nearly eight years after I began writing on a weekly basis for The Tribune, churning out more than 3,500 columns and countless words and thoughts, I erred in one that made a difference to a family.

And for that I am intensely sorry.

In my column on January 2, 2026, intended to pay tribute to Dr. Darius Unwala, I mistakenly said the cause of death was prostate cancer. That message had been circulating online and in conversations when news of his death hit The Bahamas. I had tried unsuccessfully to reach the family through numerous channels. I am not perfect by a long shot no matter how hard I try. I erred. 

I have asked the Unwalas, a truly remarkable family, for their forgiveness. I have since spoken with Darius’ brother, Jehan, on more than one occasion and here share with you what he shared with me after confiding how much he had looked up to his big brother as his lifelong hero.

By Jehan Unwala

Dr. Darius Unwala tragically passed away at the age of 50 of metastatic kidney cancer. He was in perfect health until the onset of symptoms, which were promptly evaluated. He was cared for by colleagues at the Cleveland Clinic and quickly scheduled for surgery and initiation of targeted therapy. Darius fought through multiple rounds of treatment and hospitalizations so that he could be at the side of his beloved children and return to his life's work as a urologist, but ultimately died a year after diagnosis.

Darius dedicated his life to caring for patients with kidney cancer and his illness only made him more empathetic. There are no recommendations for routine screening tests for kidney cancer, and the majority of patients are diagnosed while being worked up for other illnesses. His memory will live on through the lives of the patients he touched and the loving family he left behind.

Thank you, Jehan.

And may the entire family cherish the memory of the son, husband, father, and hero he was to all who knew him, and the people he left behind in two nations who are poorer for his loss, but richer for having known him in life.