Tales of the ‘Rona, Episode 4, pt. 2: The Soldiers’ Minute

There’s a scene in the Netflix series Peaky Blinders when Tommy Shelby, the main character, discovers he’s been betrayed by his lover, Grace.

Sitting at the Garrison Tavern contemplating this heartbreaking revelation, Tommy engages in a conversation with Harry, the bartender.

Harry: “Will you go looking for her?”

Tommy: “She is in the past. The past is not my concern.

And the future is no longer my concern either...”

Harry: “What is your concern, Tommy?”

Tommy: “The one minute. The soldiers’ minute.

In a battle that’s all you get.

One minute of everything at once.

And anything before is nothing, everything after nothing.

Nothing in comparison, to that one minute...”

It seems like a lifetime ago.

It feels like yesterday.

The night I came home from the hospital it was cold and snowing.

It was bleak.

It was grey.

It was winter.

It was a lifetime ago.

Today while I write, it’s warm and breezy.

It’s bright.

It’s blue.

It’s summer.

It’s the one minute.

Days have melted together, inconsequential, ordinary groupshots.

Moments have stood up and out in bold relief, raised-hand, attention-seeking selfies.

The one minute of everything at once.

Flashback

“Can you give me that wave thing?”

I’m a boy.

1st grade, 2nd grade, some young grade when I trusted my Dad to fix my hair.

Standing on a stool looking into the bathroom mirror, my dad would work his magic and give me a mini ‘do of Elvis hair.

Swooped up in the front, rolled back down, high-ish and tight on the sides with just enough gel to last a playground day.

Stylin’.

A grammar school fashionista.

A glance or two at lunchtime in the reflection of the cafeteria swinging door to make sure my wave was still rising high.

Adolescent chic.

Other-worldly creatures called “girls” suddenly appeared on my radar at exactly the same moment my Dad-rocked pompadour went public.

Coincidence?

Chance?

I think not.

It was - and forever would be - surf’s up with hair wave expressions.

Flashforward 

“Telogen effluvium...it’s a thing...”

It was several weeks after my carotid endarterectomy, I was in the shower, and while washing my hair, a handful came out. 

Of hair.

Not just a few strands, mind you, this was...a lot.

Of hair.

A bunch.

A fistful.

Of hair.

For the next several weeks, I could run a brush through my hair any time of day and wind up with what looked like a small nest of locks.

Not an “oh look honey, there’s a couple of hairs on my pillow I think I’m going bald” incidents that hit men of a certain age.

No.

No pillow hair discoveries.

This was creepy, disturbing, and freaking out worthy.

A little confessional detour first.

I like my hair.

No doubt you’ve caught me over the years checking out my hair in a reflection or a mirror.

Sorry, not sorry.

It’s just a thing.

Blame it on the wave.

Call it what you want, I’ll call myself out on it.

I’ve fussed, primped (yes, primped), teased, highlighted, faux-mohawked, greased, blow-dryed, straightened, mulleted, shagged, cut short, grown long, and colored my hair.

(To all those who think you’ve “caught me” over the years, as in “I can tell you 

color your hair!”, well, as the kids say, no shit Sherlock, that’s the point - it’s colored black, blue-black right now to be exact - because I feel like it, I like it, that’s the color I’m going for...it’s not like I’m trying to go all Grecian formula on anyone hoping to hide a few sneaky, rebel, rogue grays in the mix...).

And right now, it’s long.

Ponytail long.

I almost died, so I don’t care long.

Maybe that’s why the departure of all that hair was so shocking.

There was so much to come out when it did come out.

“Is this normal?”

I was holding one of my more nest-like nests of hair when I finally asked Lauren.

A few silent, uncomfortable, wide-eyed seconds too long gave me my horrified answer.

“You need to ask the doctor”, she said.

“Maybe it’s from all the drugs they gave you in the hospital”, she said.

“Maybe it’s from the surgery”, she said.

“You’re going bald, Barry Gibb, deal with it”, she didn’t say.

She’s kind like that.

“Telogen effluvium...it’s a thing...”

Lauren Googled my hair nest debacle and this was the first, second, and third entry that came up.

“During traumatic stress our bodies shunt nutrients to our hearts, lungs, muscles, and other vital organs. As a result, hair may be weakened and in some cases, hair follicles stop producing new hair. This is called telogen effluvium. This is the most common form of hair loss, and typically seen two to three months after a major body stress such as major surgery, chronic illness, or significant infection...”

Telogen effluvium...it’s a thing.

One more thing.

One.

More.

Thing.

Feel sick?

How about pneumonia?

But wait there’s more!

How about double viral pneumonia with a bacterial infection?

ICU worthy!

Brain cell loss, low oxygenation level worthy!

But wait there’s more!

Do you like sleep?

How about night terrors and stress disorder?

Do you like working and taking care of your family?

You say you like playing the guitar?

But wait there’s more!

How about a stroke?

With a carotid endarterectomy for good measure? 

What was that?

You like to sing?

But wait there’s more!

How about vocal paresis?

(Tune in to the next episode for more on that joyous ENT visit).

What was that?

You like your hair?

You really like your hair?

But wait there’s more!

How about telogen effluvium?

A nice bout of hair loss to top this entire ordeal off!

I can deal with a lot, but seriously?

After nearly dying this is the next phase of living?

Daily hair nests coming out of my brush?

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

For the love of God, what’s next?

Penis reduction?

The telogen effluvium has mercifully stopped.

No more thinning, no more hair nests, no more follically challenged nightmares.

Don’t get me wrong, bald is beautiful.

Some of my best friends are bald.

Just not my time.

Just not this minute.

Traumatic stress hair loss might seem like a small thing in the bigger picture of things on my Covid or not Covid journey.

Or in light of cultural and world events.

But it was a thing.

It was one of my things.

It was a minute.

It was one of my minutes.

I see life in minutes these days.

Minutes that melt together, inconsequential, ordinary groupshots.

Minutes that stand up and out in bold relief, raised-hand, attention-seeking selfies.

Minutes of everything at once.

Nothing before, nothing after.

Just minutes.

Precious, beautiful, sacred, holy, frightening hair loss minutes.

Let me rephrase Tommy Shelby:

“The one minute. The survivors’ minute.

In life and beyond, that’s all you get.

One minute of everything at once...”

Scattered Riffs and Sacred Lines

The Restless Wheel

In the preface to “Wilderness: The Lost Writings of Jim Morrison, Volume 1”, Morrison wrote this in reference to his work:

“Mosaic

a series of notes, prose-poems,

stories, bits of play & dialog

Aphorisms, epigrams, essays

Poems? Sure”

I’m an expressive person.

I need outlets for whatever limited creativity I possess that simmers inside, and these days my outlets are scarce.

At least the outlets I’ve relied on in recent years.

I can’t sing - it’s eerily reminiscent of an adolescent boy whose voice is changing; my speaking voice, for the brief period it’s present, has a quiet, Dylan-esque quality to it; and my guitar playing is, well, quirky at best.

So I started this blog.

It’s an outlet, it’s a healing vehicle for me, and, I hope, maybe a sliver of light for some of you during these days of chaos.

I’ve always leaned into writing.

Even when I made a living speaking and teaching, I wrote every word before I spoke.

Every word.

When I started this blog I knew I wouldn’t always only write about my health.

I mean, I’d like to maintain whatever readership I do have without prematurely slipping into an AARP cliche.

I have notebooks, folders, scraps of paper, napkins, and computer files filled with words, lyrics, phrases, poems, teachings, and fragments of thoughts from as far back as junior high.

I do like a lot of it, but a lot of it is just downright embarrassing, primitive, and painful to read.

Like this, for example, a preview of my lyrical brilliance from around age 13:

“Scoop up that egg yolk/with that delicious bread 

Your mother said to/else you’ll go to bed...”

There.

That’s one poetic skeleton freed up from the closet.

In between “Tales of the ‘Rona”, I’m going to start posting some other writings, “Scattered Riffs and Sacred Lines” that I very much hope you’ll enjoy.

The deal is I promise to keep the egg yolk scooping to a minimum.

“The Restless Wheel” became a song that I eventually used for a fundraiser for an organization called Waves for Water when Hurricane Sandy nailed the east coast in 2012.

I had no idea then how relevant the words would be to me so many years later, seeming to fit my own personal hurricane these days.

But the essence is universal.

Don’t bow to hurricanes.

The Restless Wheel

Been down for far too long 

shoved to the side, to the floor

Through the hardened heart of the crowd 

to the edges of the saddest, saddest song

Road ahead looks dark, looks wild 

shadows chase my dreams at night

Voices whisper “give up the fight” 

voices cry “you’re lost, you’re killing time”

But I won’t give up

And I, I won’t kneel

And I won’t give in

To the restless wheel

Devils’ in this sacred space

face down in the driving rain

Chasing angels you pay a price

faith gets lost in the sacrifice 

Was a time I thought I knew

what love and pain and grace could do

But how this heart it fails you

how this life can harden and derail you

But I won’t give up

And I, I won’t kneel

And I won’t give in

To the restless wheel

- cwa, 2012

Tales of the ‘Rona, Special Episode: Bypasses and Burials

“I’ve got Jesus breathing down my neck

And angels gather like crows...”

- Helicopters, Sixx AM

“We’re done”, said the doctor.

Bright, white lights, lots of bright, lots of white, and silver.

Lots of silver.

Lying cool and naked on an operating table, appropriately covered (at least that’s what I was told, but I wouldn’t have known or really cared in the moment), slowly emerging out of “twilight”, the expression doctors use for the “we need to knock you out for a bit so we can do stuff to you cocktail” the nurse said she had given me that contains Fentanyl.

Fentanyl.

I could hear the medical team describing the ingredients and dosage as it was being administered.

Fentanyl is 100 times stronger than morphine, and yes, it works.

It works quite well.

It felt like only a few minutes had passed, and I laid there wondering when they were going to start the “procedure”, another innocuous term designed to not scare the crap out of you that’s used for having your insides explored like they were on your outside.

But thanks to Fentanyl and whatever other companion drugs were mixed together to concoct this medical Long Island Iced Tea cocktail, an hour had slipped by and my Angiogram was over.

Heart concerns started sprouting like dandelions during my was it or wasn’t it Covid-19 nightmare earlier this year.

The stroke, the carotid endarterectomy, the “hey, let’s do a stress test, something looks funny on your heart”, the angiogram, to this yet another “that’s the last thing I thought I’d ever hear” moment, lying cool and naked on an operating table.

According to the Mayo Clinic, this is what an angiogram is: 

“A coronary angiogram is a procedure that uses x-ray imaging to see your heart’s blood vessels. The test is generally done to see if there’s a restriction in blood flow going to the heart...”

In the course of being prepped for my angiogram, Dr. V came and spoke to me about what to expect.

Dr. V is another link in a chain of fabulous doctors who have treated me over the course of my amusement park fun ride of 2020 health issues. 

The conversation went something like this:

“My name is Dr. V and I’ll be assisting with your procedure. We’ll administer twilight, you won’t feel anything but you may hear conversations; we’ll take a look at your heart and vessels, and if there are any restrictions of say 50-60%, we can treat them with medication and diet, and after a few hours we’ll send you home...my name is Dr. V, do you have any questions?”

No, sounds good, I said.

He continued.

“If we see any restrictions upwards of 70%, we’ll insert a stent that will open up the artery and allow the blood to flow more freely, in which case we’ll keep you here overnight...my name is Dr. V, do you have any questions?”

The smart-ass in me wanted to say, “Yes, I have a question - what was your name again?”

I didn’t.

I bit my tongue.

No, sounds good, I said.

“Alright then, we’ll get started shortly...my name is Dr. V if you have any questions...”

Got it, Dr. V.

Looking back, I should have asked, “So what if you see something worse than 70%? What then Dr. V?”

But I didn’t ask because that answer wasn’t an option on my radar.

I just assumed my worst case scenario would be the 70% solution - a stent, an overnight, and home.

“We’re done”, said the doctor.

“There’s too much damage to fix with a stent...”

Bright, white lights, lots of bright, lots of white, and silver.

Lots of silver.

And silence.

Lots of silence.

He may have said more, but I don’t remember.

Fentanyl and shock are a numbingly disquieting combination.

It was a long, quiet roll back to my room.

Dr. V returned and thoughtfully and thoroughly shared my angiogram findings.

One artery is restricted enough so that other arteries are compensating and carrying the weight.

Another artery is similarly damaged.

And the main artery to my heart, in Dr. V’s words, “shows significant damage”.

He paused.

Respecting the silence that hung like a curtain in the room, he said, “My name is Dr. V, and I’ll be here if you have any questions...”

I’ve never been a fan of platitudes, slogans, or religious lingo to fix chaos and disorder in the house.

They always seem to mute the very real human element of emotion.

24 hours into finding out I’m facing open heart, triple bypass surgery - conditions that have been smoldering inside for some time now, but ramped up and most likely exacerbated by my is it or isn’t it Covid-19 personal hell - the range of emotions have been gargantuan.

Resigned, scared, pissed, numb, anxious, angry and tired are just a few that come to mind.

2020 has been a rugged year for just about everyone.

It’s been rugged in our house since January.

Emotions run raw, as they should.

My son posted this on one of his social media accounts yesterday (FYI if swearing offends you or goes against some perceived religiosity, then just skip this quote):

“Been a little while here but here’s an update on my dad. In a nutshell, angiogram today showed he needs triple bypass surgery. I’ll just cut to the chase and be the one to say what’s really on all our minds: 2020 can fuck off...”

Well played son, well played.

24 hours into this next bizarre chapter of my life, I do know this - I have a strong faith, a loving supportive family, a very good woman by my side, and a loyal band of comrades I call friends who are ready, willing and able to walk through this with me.

I read this quote the other day.

I liked it.

I guess it is sort of a platitude.

Oh well.

“You need to be buried deep in the dirt before you can find your bloom...”

Okay then, bring it on.

Let the burying continue.

Tales of the ‘Rona Episode 4, pt. 1: Smolder

My Backyard Deck

Frankfort Square, Illinois

“I had a dream last night that I was piloting a plane

And all the passengers were drunk and insane

I crash landed in a Louisiana swamp

Shot up a horde of zombies

But I come out on top

What's it all about?

Guess it just reflects my mood

Sitting in the dirt

Feeling kind of hurt

All I hear is doom and gloom

And all is darkness in my room...”

- Doom and Gloom, The Rolling Stones

“How you doin’?”

It’s a universal question, but it’s rooted in Jersey speak.

“How you doin’?”

“No, how you doin’?”

“No, how YOU doin’?”

Ask.

Repeat.

Ask again.

Since early February I bet I’ve been asked that question 100 times or more.

No, actually, much, much more.

I deeply appreciate the question, I truly do.

It’s a perfectly legit question.

It’s a well meaning question.

It’s a fair and sincere question.

I want to believe it’s a caring, honest question.

It’s just a really, really hard answer.

So hard.

I desperately want to say, “Me? I’m fine! I’m great! Oh man, everything is sweet! Couldn’t be better! Everything is perfectly normal! No problems here! That whole deal was just a blip on the screen! Life is hunky-dory! Que sera sera!”

(Take a minute to Google “hunky-dory” and “Que sera sera” if you need to...I’ll wait).

I mean it’s June for crying out loud.

Nothing worse than milking an illness for all it’s worth.

Come on, it’s time to move on. 

Get over yourself.

Life is good, right?

Right?

Whispered tone...

“Um, kind of, sort of, I guess...not really...”

Smolder.

That’s the word.

That’s the answer.

Smolder.

Smoldering.

Things are smoldering.

The dictionary defines smolder this way:

“Burn slowly with smoke but no flame”.

The official word is I didn’t have Covid-19.

The other official word from my team of doctors is, “You did have Covid-19, the test was off, no question, you had it.”

At this point it doesn’t matter what I had, it really doesn’t.

I was sick.

Very sick.

But I’m here.

I’m alive.

I’m grateful.

I’m breathing.

But there’s stuff. 

Either Covid-19 stuff or “what is this fresh hell?” stuff.

Smoldering stuff.

The greatest hits of Covid-19 (or whatever 21st century version of the Black Plague from Hades I contracted was) are cough, shortness of breath, difficulty breathing, or at least two of the following symptoms: chills, shaking with chills, muscle pain, headache, and sore throat.

Check, check, check, and checks.

I particularly like the “chills” or “shaking with chills” option.

You know, like an Olive Garden “cheese or no cheese on your salad” kind of thing. 

If you’ve been following me on this blog, then you know this is old territory, this is ground we’ve already covered, this is rehashed old news, tell us something we don’t know stuff.

This is classic rock radio, spinning tunes we’ve heard ad infinitum.

This is a re-run.

It’s also not anything I currently deal with.

That was then this is now. 

It’s in the past.

So when I show up for my physical therapy and they ask if I am experiencing any symptoms, they aren’t asking about anything other than the greatest hits.

They aren’t asking about the deep cuts, the B-sides, or the rarities that don’t get much airplay.

And that’s why the “how you doin’?” question is so difficult to answer, and frankly, it sucks.

The smolder.

The shit that hangs on that some people are still navigating through months later.

Some people.

Some.

People.

Aftershocks, as it were.

Nightmares.

Night terrors.

Depression.

Hair loss.

(Hair loss? Really? Yes, we’ll get to that.)

Anxiety.

Panic.

A sense of dread.

Confusion.

Future fear.

Ongoing respiratory issues.

The one hit wonders that get a little more airplay, the loss of taste and smell.

Suicidal thoughts.

Or at least the “what was that all about, will this happen again, am I going to be OK, will I ever be my old self again?” thoughts.

Heart issues.

Strokes.

In case for whatever reason you’re still on the fence at this point, no, this is not just “another flu”.

Believe what you want but this is not the latest version of The Flu.

Not. The. Flu.

If you believe that, switch the channel.

If you believe that, you aren’t listening, reading, or learning; or at least not listening to, reading, or learning the right stuff.

Not. The. Flu. 

It’s the smolder now.

I’ve always been a nightmare kind of guy, always had very weird dreams.

Very weird.

I have no idea why.

I’m not sure at this late stage of my game I even want to know why.

Wake up in a sweat, heavy breathing, where am I, was that real, Technicolor, Steven Spielberg production level kind of dreams.

Plots, narratives, good versus evil, and to quote David Bowie:

“Scary monsters, super creeps/keep me running, running scared...”

Ask my wife, Lauren.

She can vouch for years worth of late night, early morning, all out what the hell is wrong with you weirdness, episodic, epic nightmares.

But lying in my ICU bed with my was it or wasn’t it Covid-19 sickness was an entirely new addition to my nightmare curriculum vitae.

I’d never experienced darkness to that degree before.

I came to dread night time. 

The night terrors were fierce and furious.

When Lauren would leave my ICU room after some 12 hours of patiently sitting at my bedside, I truly feared what was about to transpire

A recent article in the Atlantic Monthly takes a deep dive into the ghoulish realm of ICU/COVID-19 after hours headplay.

It’s called “delirium” and it isn’t pretty.

The article begins:

“The prevalence of ICU delirium in patients with COVID-19 is sharply rising. If you had to design an experiment to make delirium as bad as it could be, COVID is it - COVID is essentially a delirium factory...”

A delirium factory.

Stay with it.

“Delirium is a strong predictor of adverse cognitive, physical, and psychological outcomes for ICU survivors.  This cluster of problems that ICU patients can experience post-discharge, called post-intensive-care syndrome (PICS), affects up to 33% of all patients on ventilators and 50% of patients who stay in the ICU for at least one week...”

I did my time.

I logged a week, and then some.

That’s not a complaint or a brag; God knows it’s neither.

It’s just a calendar fact.

The Atlantic article goes on to compare ARDS (acute respiratory distress syndrome) ICU survivors with those who develop PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).

“One in four ARDS survivors develops PTSD...that’s a rate similar to that of soldiers returning from combat...”

Then, a survivor story:

“Amanda Grow remembers how she was blindsided by the symptoms of PTSD that cropped up nine months after her discharge from the ICU.

“They surprised me so much because I thought I was through it, then came the nightmares...I just kept having all these nightmares where I was fighting to wake up, fighting to wake up, fighting to wake up,” she said.

“I just reached a point where I wished I had died in the hospital.”

Her recovery involved a long process of acceptance.

“We have this perception that people are sick and then they bounce back, but that’s not the way it is at all,” Grow said. 

“This chapter of your life happens, and it changes every chapter after that. 

I worry about COVID-19 survivors experiencing kind of a breakdown of grief, having to go through this reality that their life has changed...”

My life has changed, regardless of what it was called.

This chapter of my life happened, and it is changing every chapter after that.

It just is.

But, you know, officially I didn’t have Covid-19.

Unofficially, well, you know the saying, “If it walks like a duck...”

John Mellencamp wrote a song called “Paper in Fire” that captures the vibe:

“Paper in fire

Stinkin' up the ashtrays

Paper in fire

Smokin' up the alleyways

Who's to say the way

A man should spend his days

Do you let them smolder

Like paper in fire...”

My ICU delirium has thankfully ended for now, hopefully for good, and my nightmares have receded back into a “we now return you to your regularly scheduled program” normalcy, if there is such a thing.

But there’s still some more lurky, dark, smoldering remnant type stuff under the surface.

Stuff like “telogen effluvium”.

Now that’s a fun follow-up to ICU delirium.

Stay tuned kids, you don’t want to miss that one...

Tales of the ‘Rona Episode 3, pt. 4: Bring Tea for the Tillerman

 “The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers... 

The name of each is, a heart-singer, eye-singer, hymn- singer, law-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet- singer, wise-singer, droll-singer, thrift-singer, sea- singer, wit-singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love- singer, passion-singer, mystic-singer, fable-singer, item-singer, weeping-singer, or something else...”

-  Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman

Or something else. 

They’ve always been there, in my dreams and in my waking, like some caravan of mystic gypsies, showing up with something beautiful, something naked, something holy. 

The music. 

Always the music. 

The riffs. 

The poetry. 

The operatic, smoky-roomed jazz, sexed-up back-seated blues and front-seated, come-to-Jesus gospel. 

Always the music, the songs, the tunes, the vibes, omnipresent and omni-elusive. 

And the singers. 

The singers who brought it with swagger, sweat, and conviction. 

Frank and Dean, Sammy and Aretha, Smokey and Sly. 

Dylan, Plant, Janis, and Marley. 

Rev. Green, the Stevies - Wonder and Nicks - Tony and Tina, Otis and Teddy. 

Sirs Mick and Paul, Little Richard and the Big Bopper, Bruce the Boss, the Purple Prince, Diamond Dave, Saint Marvin, the Lizard King, the Godfather of Soul, Ziggy Stardust, Queen Freddie, and Elvis - always Elvis - the King. 

The singers, always the singers. 

It was summer, early ‘70’s, and my cousins - Paul and Steve - were in town. 

My uncle was a missionary in Puerto Rico, so I’d only see my cousins once every few years when the family was home on furlough. 

Paul and Steve were everything I wanted to be - older, cooler, street and worldly-wise, both with the long hair I desperately wanted so I could be the rebel without a cause I imagined myself to be at the age of 11. 

We were pirates. 

We were gypsies. 

We were rock stars. 

We were...well, truth be told, we were just boys getting into trouble or girls, not in that order, but usually all at once. 

My cousins were “influencers” long before the digital age. 

They introduced me to the wonders of ginger beer and pork rinds, bacalao and puka shell necklaces, swearing in Spanish and the art of rolling your own - cigarettes or whatever else they smuggled in from the island. 

Missionary and pastors’ sons - pirates, gypsies and rock stars indeed. 

Paul introduced me to the guitar, teaching me a version of “malagueña” that I still play note for note to this day when I want to sound quickly and vaguely impressive. 

Steve sat me down one lazy afternoon and said, “You have to hear this”, and he dropped the needle from an old record player onto a tune from a just released album called “Tea for the Tillerman”. 

“Longer boats are coming to win us 

They're coming to win us, they're coming to win us 

Longer boats are coming to win us 

Hold on to the shore, they'll be taking the key from the door...” 

We sat for hours listening to that album by singer-songwriter Cat Stevens. 

We dissected every phrase and lyric, studied the cover art and liner notes, and solved the world’s problems with the wisdom only adolescent boys possess. 

“Oh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world  

It’s hard to get by on a smile...” 

I taught myself every song on that album by ear, and after a year or two I had a pretty good Cat Stevens repertoire and impression going. 

More importantly, that afternoon listening session with my cousins launched me into a lifelong romance with writing songs and singing. 

I filled notebooks with song lyrics that filled my head. 

I sang in the shower, in my room, in friends’ cars, and in the hallways at school. 

I wanted to find a voice, my voice, a voice that would set me apart. 

It might not be the silkiest or the shiniest, the most controlled or the best trained, but at least my voice would be my own, and in my mind anyway, unique and unforgettable. 

From that sunny afternoon lazing on a bed with my cousins and Cat, to that moment just months ago in the office of my cardiothoracic vascular surgeon when he said, “You could lose your voice”, I’ve searched for that voice. 

Singing, speaking, writing, but always rooted in a singer’s lyrical turn of phrase, I’ve searched for that voice. 

A voice. 

My voice. 

In these times of social and racial unrest, people look for a voice, a singer who can calm the chaotic waters. 

“Nothing to fear but fear itself”. 

“We shall overcome”. 

“I have a dream”. 

“Lean on me”. 

All songs in some fashion or another, all lyrics phrased to a song or spoken word. 

In a recent article from the Albert Einstein Institution titled, “198 Methods of Non-Violent Action”, the act of singing is wedged between vigils, marches, and pilgrimages as one of the most effective means of non-violent protest and persuasion. 

Finding a voice to diffuse the unrest. 

King David, the original bluesman, cried out in the sacred Psalms, “God leads out the prisoners with singing...”. 

Singing breathes freedom. 

Singing breaks chains. 

“I can’t breathe” is the loss of a voice. 

“I can’t breathe” is the loss of freedom. 

“I can’t breathe” is the loss of life. 

Breathing is singing. 

Singing is life.

When my body fell ill, I lost my breath and I lost my voice. 

When my corroded carotid got fixed, it left my voice unfixed and in a shabby state of affairs. 

My lungs are still rebuilding and re-envisioning the scales and shimmer of a this new normal voice I’ve been given. 

I still sing - maybe croak - in my shower, in my room, and in my car. 

But I didn’t lose my freedom and - thank God, the angels and saints living and departed - I didn’t lose my life. 

Maybe my body and my voice are a microcosm of the culture we live in now. 

A shabby state of affairs, unfixed and a little croaky, but rebuilding and re-visioning the scales and shimmer of a new normal. 

 “Oh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world...”