But by July 2011, his cancer had spread to his bones and other parts of his body, and his doctors were having trouble finding targeted drugs that could beat it back. He was in pain, sleeping erratically, had little energy, and stopped going to work. He and [his wife Laurene] Powell had reserved a sailboat for a family cruise scheduled for the end of that month, but those plans were scuttled. He was eating almost no solid food, and he spent most of his days in his bedroom watching television.
In August, I got a message that he wanted me to come visit. When I arrived at his house, at mid-morning on a Saturday, he was still asleep, so I sat with his wife and kids in the garden, filled with a profusion of yellow roses and various types of daisies, until he sent word that I should come in. I found him curled up on the bed, wearing khaki shorts and a white turtleneck. His legs were shockingly sticklike, but his smile was easy and his mind was quick. 'We better hurry, because I have very little energy,' he said. He wanted to show me some of his personal pictures and let me pick a few to use in the book. Because he was too weak to get out of bed, he pointed to various drawers in the room, and I carefully brought him the photographs in each. As I sat on the side of the bed, I held them up, one at a time, so he could see them.
When our discussion turned to the sorry state of the economy and politics, he offered a few sharp opinions about the lack of strong leadership around the world. 'I'm disappointed in Obama,' he said. 'He's having trouble leading because he's reluctant to offend people or piss them off.' He caught what I was thinking and assented with a little smile: 'Yes, that's not a problem I ever had.'
After two hours, he grew quiet, so I got off the bed and started to leave. 'Wait,' he said, as he waved to me to sit back down. It took a minute or two for him to regain enough energy to talk. 'I had a lot of trepidation about this project,' he finally said, referring to his decision to cooperate with this book. 'I was really worried.' 'Why did you do it?' I asked. 'I wanted my kids to know me,' he said. 'I wasn't always there for them, and I wanted them to know why and to understand what I did. Also, when I got sick, I realized other people would write about me if I died, and they wouldn't know anything. They'd get it all wrong. So I wanted to make sure someone heard what I had to say.'
He had never, in two years, asked anything about what I was putting in the book or what conclusions I had drawn. But now he looked at me and said, 'I know there will be a lot in your book I won't like.' It was more a question than a statement, and when he stared at me for a response, I smiled, and said I was sure that would be true. 'That's good,' he said. 'Then it won't seem like an in-house book. I won't read it for a while, because I don't want to get mad. Maybe I will read it in a year - if I'm still around.' By then, his eyes were closed and his energy gone, so I quietly took my leave.'" Later that month, Jobs resigned as Apple CEO.