The Day The Phone Stopped Ringing

I could write a story about the man who came after Wolfie & that time on Hampshire Road but that would be a work of fiction and I already wrote one of those today.

Could tell you about the visit with my GI and the words he shared regarding my liver biopsy or about the importance of leaning into grief.

Because leaning into grief is part of what I have done this week. Blame it on being reminded of a story about how the buffalo is the only animal that turns into a storm instead of running from it

But it caught my ear and it reminded me of The Agony Of Anticipation & The End Of August and recent news that came afterwards.

So I leaned in because I am a guy who dances in the fire and figures out how not to burn.

Besides I heard Fleetwood Mac singing Dreams today and a couple of the lines made me smile.

Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost
And what you had
Ooh, what you lost

Reminds me of a night under a star filled sky talking about whether Stevie or Lindsay were more tortured by the other.

Hard to say, but with your great loves you remember the day the phone stopped ringing.

You Don’t Sing Like Elvis

I am sitting in the hospital parking lot singing In The Ghetto and notice the guy next to me is staring at me.

I stop long enough to say “you don’t sing like Elvis” and laugh because my window is rolled up and unless he has ears like a glorified junior college math teacher there is no way he can hear me.

Four hours and 10,000 steps later I am inside the gym throwing an iron bar up and down. I have dropped 13 pounds since the biopsy and am pushing hard to melt more off of me as fast as I can.

Two days later someone will ask me why I am so angry and I’ll tell them it is a mix of heartbreak, disappointment and frustration with a dose of an activated competitive spirit.

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“And you probably won’t because you don’t listen to what I say. You cut me off to tell your own stories or to offer criticism and I don’t care to compete.”

Actually I am very competitive but it is primarily with myself because that is what comes when you are your own biggest critic.

****

The doc and I talk about my liver and I walk away with a plan of action that I stow in the back of my head because the moment has me thinking about a time just after Dad died.

Grief has robbed me of patience and given me rage that is being unleashed against a door that is jammed shut.

I am slamming my shoulder into it with all I have got and shushing the ghost of my father who is telling me that breaking it won’t fix the problem.

Something about it reminds me of a time I broke up a fight on the basketball court. We pulled two guys apart and I am holding one of them back.

He is so angry he kicks me and then I get irritated and I start shaking him like a rag doll.

“David, he is not worth it, take a breath.”

David is so angry he doesn’t hear me or recognize I have lifted him off the ground and am walking him over towards a wall. In a moment he is going to calm down or discover he has created a new issue.

Part of me wants to let him go but we rent this gym out and I don’t want to lose our privileges because two idiots get into a fist fight.

****

The stuck door has my full attention but I am no longer slamming my body into it. I have realized there is a hinge issue that I can fix, assuming I haven’t made it worse through my actions.

So I take a deep breath, get the few tools I need and make the repair.

Victory is mine but it doesn’t stop me from looking skyward and asking Dad if he is going to haunt me like this for however many more years I have walking the planet.

He doesn’t answer but I mutter something about how it would be ok if he did.

I took that picture in early October of 2024 and have made it my profile in a few places because I like the shot.

Earlier this week I noticed what I thought was more gray in my beard so I pulled the shot up on my phone and looked in a mirror.

Couldn’t decide if there really is any more of any less and shrugged my shoulders. I only sort of care about it, never expected it to be dark forever.

Thought about how it used to be darker in general than it is now and how my son has a reddish beard. He likes to tell me about how his is thicker and I tell him I have a thicker ‘stache.

None of it really matters but sometimes I enjoy the back and forth because it reminds me of doing the same nonsense with my father.

Therapist says it is a different sort of experience being the patriarch and I nod my head. I look at him and say only the best people try to go through two divorces while the country is under an attack from the inside.

“You know what my father and paternal grandfather would say? They’d tell us that you have to play the hand you are dealt and to do the best you can.”

I have shared that advice more than a few times with my own kids and reminded them that sometimes you pull the Ace of Spades and sometimes you pull the Joker.

And you dear reader, I’ll let you guess which cards I am holding now. While you are considering that think about checking out the previous post, Maybe Johnny Cash Can Save Democracy.

See you in a different life.

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