From The Land of Tethered to the Land of Un: A Journey of Truth Toward Freedom

I can’t believe I’m starting off this piece with a biblical reference, but it seems apropos as most of us have heard the phrase, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32, KJV). That might actually be true. The truth can certainly have a positive effect on people. It can also hurt like hell. But let me focus on the clarity-providing positive aspects of the truth.

I have long avoided asking questions to which I feared the answers. Answers that I suspected I knew but didn’t officially know. In recent weeks, however, I asked some of those questions of my family, and I was graced with a bit of truth in their answers.

Imagine wandering aimlessly down a path cracked with uncertainty, overgrown with weeds of assumption, constantly trying to evade being ensnared by snaking vines of suspicion. This path is in the Land of Tethered and I’ve been walking it for a long time. Avoiding. It’s exhausting. I thought knowing the truth would hurt too much, so I avoided it. I trudged along, believing the “truth” in my head. I let the unspoken “truth” weigh me down. I’ve been rambling down the path wearing concrete shoes.

Turns out I was right about the answers. I know my family loves me. But being loved is different from being supported. Love might allow one to throw out the welcome mat but that doesn’t mean it will open all the doors. There is silence between us. Conversations, when they happen, have moved into the zone of politesse. There is no depth, no revealing honesty. We tiptoe around each other, avoiding topics like religion, politics, anything LGBTQ. We’re on different sides. What I didn’t know is there’s a perception that I am selfish and self-absorbed. Those thorny words pricked my skin. Yet, I know I can be both. But so can we all at times. It was expressed to me that I am the cause of heartbreak, which is never my intention. But sometimes our actions and choices break the hearts of those we love. Sometimes even the questions we ask. My heart has definitely been in a state of break due to the choices made by my family based on a religious moral code. But the most surprising disclosure of this truth-telling delivery was the anger. I was on the receiving end of anger that I didn’t know existed. I’m usually the angry one.

We are not entitled to know what other people think about us. And we would all probably be better served not knowing. But learning the truth, in a way, released me. I was relieved to know that what I had always thought was the truth was actually the truth. I began to accept it. I began to process the fact that I will (likely) never have the relationship with my family that I long for or the type of support from them that I desire.

I was recently speaking with a gallery associate at the Bowersock Gallery in Provincetown, Massachusetts, about the artist/owner’s series of hot air balloon paintings. I had first seen a few of the paintings in the series in June 2021, when I was there to celebrate my 50th birthday. I was so drawn to them. Initially I thought it was because in October 2010, my best friend, on the occasion of his turning 40, had planned a hot air balloon ride in the Berkshires as part of the celebration. However, the weather didn’t cooperate. The winds were too strong that day. The hot air balloon ride was cancelled.

It was nearly eleven years later that I first laid eyes on Steve Bowersock‘s hot air balloons. Set against ominous skies, these colorful hot air balloons were floating toward something, away from something, through and above. They hovered in their dreamscape world, frozen but not. Were they carrying the rider into danger or transporting him to freedom? One painting in particular continues to fascinate me. In it, a rope dangles freely from the basket of the balloon, a body clinging to it. I can’t help but wonder if the person is trying to climb aboard or trying to escape?

(I want in.)

My best friend was on that trip but not in the gallery with me on the day of discovery. I wanted him to see those beautiful hot air balloons. I found him and brought him to the gallery. I hoped he would love them as much as I did. I hoped he would buy one and then by proximity I would be able to view it and contemplate its strange surreal beauty every time I was at his home. Alas, he did not buy one. And while he liked them, he wasn’t actually as drawn to them as I.

I’ve been to Provincetown a few times since that trip. Each time I’ve stopped in the Bowersock Gallery to see if any of the hot air balloon paintings remained. There’s always been one or two available. I’ve always gotten to see them. Ponder them. Wonder what was happening in their world. But on my most recent visit in October 2023, they hung in the gallery no more. Sold. All of them. And it was during that visit, and the aforementioned conversation with the gallery associate, that I began to think more deeply about the hot air balloons.

They’re untethered. They’re free. They can float aimlessly but they can also soar with direction. I want that. I want to leave the path.

Admitting the truth that I am non-binary gave me a sense of freedom. Learning what I feared was true is true gave me a sense of freedom. What am I doing? Why do I keep trying? I want to be accepted for who I am in all of my queer, non-binary fabulousness. Not despite who I am. I’m not sure I even want to keep pushing and trying to educate. I’m kind of tired. And that’s not a bad thing. I think my family is just as stuck as I’ve been but I don’t have to be. I can soar.

I’ve found a clearing at this juncture in the path and I’ve stepped into it. The clouds might be ominous but there’s a sliver of sun shining through. There’s a balloon. It’s beautiful: pink and teal blue patterned in yellow and purple, sage and red. I feel hesitant but I also feel the thrill. I want to untie the rope and get in the basket. I want to soar upward and float freely away to the Land of Un, knowing that even if a major wind blows me off course, I will be fine because just like the balloon I can right the course or even change direction.

Using hindsight, one can always connect the dots of a past experience to that of his present, finding greater meaning in something from then when applying it to now. Maybe the meaning is something he couldn’t see at the time. It’s possible the hot air balloon paintings were simply something I loved because they made me think about my best friend and his canceled hot air balloon ride. But maybe they represented something that I longed for even before I understood fully what that was and how desperately I needed it.

Funny thing about this truth: it wasn’t as heavy as I’d feared. None of it. The fear itself is what was heavy. The fear is what choked the path, kept me tethered to the ground. I don’t believe the truth has fully set me free. Not yet. My fear did not magically disappear. But I know it has helped me feel freer. And while I will probably continue to fear the truth, even after knowing and understanding its benefits (it’s my pattern), my hope is that I will spend less time limiting myself in the Land of Tethered and more time soaring free among the clouds in the Land of Un.

Convinced

When one has convinced himself that no one truly cares about the things he cares about — merely indulging him as he romanticizes about the scent of a new perfume, humoring him as he reenacts a moment from his favorite soap opera, tolerating his frustration with the lack of consequences for rule breakers — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself he is his family’s shame and disappointment — welcoming him into their home, yes, but avoiding conversations about his life as a gay man, flippantly replying when faced with gay topics, silently reacting to his emotional outbursts on phobic occurrences, ultimately tempering his own shame — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself that he is a unicorn peacocking among the regular horses — chin up, aloof, lips glossed with color, lashes mascara’d, perfectly armored (um, adorned), an inkling of knowledge that makes him seem well versed, a pretender even after he is safely hidden away and has removed the horn he foolishly believes makes him special — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

©️MichaelRohrer

On The Occasion Of Your Anniversary

 January 16, 1971

Fifty years ago today

The roses were red in your wedding bouquet.

There was tulle, satin…delicate lace;

Blue velvet and stripes and a smile on each face.

With something blue and something new,

Was anything borrowed? I haven’t a clue.

You were young. Were you scared?

Your lives were changing. Were you prepared? 

Time is fleeting. Years fly by.

Looks like you made it. Even Ms. Twain can’t deny

Was everything roses?

Of course it wasn’t. But this writer proposes…

Smile. Exhale. Look back on your lives:

Reflect. Reminisce. Remember. Realize.

A choice was made in ‘71

And her eyes still adore you in 2021

What was then has now grown,

You’ve both been changed forever, “For Good.” Who could’ve known?

Fifty years ago today

The roses were red in your wedding bouquet

January 16, 2021

Happy 50th Anniversary

Two Weeks & Twenty-Six Cents

When I was younger, two weeks could seem like an eternity. What about for you? Did the two weeks leading up to Christmas drag on forever? And what about the two weeks before your 16th birthday? Or the two weeks leading up to the end of the school year? Weren’t the hours endless? Of course, there are exceptions to this prolonged waiting period; e.g., the two week break I used to get during the Christmas/New Year’s holidays when I was in secondary school felt like it only lasted a couple of days. 

Back in October of 1998, I found myself unemployed for an indeterminate amount of time. (Kind of like right now. Except, right now, I “kind of” have a return-to-work date even though it keeps getting extended.) I worked in the box office at the Century Center for the Performing Arts Theatre; an off-Broadway performance venue where the most recent production, Stupid Kids, had closed early (October 4, 1998) and there was no replacement waiting in the wings.    

I took a Greyhound bus from the Port Authority in New York City to Nashville, Tennessee. At that point in my life, taking the bus was the only way I could afford to take the trip. It was an adventure—a 24-hour adventure 😳. (And one that I didn’t relish repeating for the return trip. I’m just sayin’.) It took roughly three more hours by car to get to my ol’ Kentucky home. But I got there…with no responsibilities and no plans.

During that visit, I felt very creatively fertile. Every morning I made a pot of coffee and perused old journals, searching for those soul bearing moments that might make a good country song. Some days I didn’t change out of my pajamas: no shower, no real clothes, just focus and flow. My parents would leave for work, and I would pour the first cup and sit down in front of my mother’s computer and start transforming adolescent thoughts into lyrics, hoping I might be composing A, if not The, Next Big Hit for country radio.

While stardom was something that eluded me, mostly due to my own lack of motivation to chase it, that time in my life is a warm memory cloaked in fuzzy slippers that is at once comforting and melancholy. 

Two songs figure prominently in my memories from that visit: “26 Cents” by the Canadian country group, The Wilkinsons, and “Wide Open Spaces” by The (no longer Dixie) Chicks. While both were favorites before, they became touchstones for me...and my mom. And remain so to this day.

Two weeks had expired when the time came for me to return to NYC. The Century Center had a new tenant. I was employed again. Memories fade. And while mine is pretty solid (ask anyone who knows me well), I don’t recall a flying-by feeling. In my memory, time marched at a steady pace—not too fast, not too slow. I remember feeling free and dare I say, happy. That’s not a feeling I always feel when visiting Kentucky.

At the Greyhound station in Nashville, my mother gave me an envelope. She asked me not to open it until I was on the bus. I was extremely curious what was inside, but I waited—like I used to have to wait for my grandparents to arrive on Christmas morning before I could unwrap anything. Once the bus started moving, all deals were off. I opened it.

In my hands I held a lined piece of notebook paper where, in her perfect left-handed cursive, my mom had written the chorus to “26 Cents.”

When you get lonely, call me

Anytime at all and I'll be there with you, always

Anywhere at all

There's nothing I've got that I wouldn't give

And money is never enough

Here's a penny for your thoughts

A quarter for the call

And all of your momma's love (9-16)

Below that she had written her own message of love and encouragement. And at the very bottom she had taped a penny and a quarter.

Cut to August 3, 2020. The COVID-19 pandemic has left me unemployed, isolated, afraid, and with limited access to my fremily (that chosen family of friends) for nearly 20 weeks. 

I was supposed to take a trip to Kentucky in June for a wedding that got postponed to August. When I changed the flight I decided to add an extra week to the stay. I mean, why not? I had nothing better to do. And sure, after 23 years in New York City, country living in the southern part of the United States is something that I can only take in small doses. A week teeters between just enough time and an overstay. It all depends on how I let outside factors affect me. But weighing the options, a large back yard and a pool seemed pretty charmed even if I might have to deal with Trump-supporting politics. And lest I forget, momma’s hugs and home cooking would be beneficial perks.

My mom might be the one person in my family that I allow myself to be vulnerable enough with to have very frank discussions. I push. She listens. Sometimes she has advice. Sometimes she doesn’t know what to say. I often wonder if I make her uncomfortable with my statements or questions; if I’ve pushed too hard or too far. I probably over share. But she keeps smiling at me, hugging me, loving me. I don’t know how she does it—(This must be where All of your momma’s love comes into play)—but I’m grateful that she does.

For two weeks the days were filled, each turning to night without me seeming to realize it was happening. 

My mom and I took three-mile walks almost every day. In that freedom of companionship and exercise, we talked about many things: the pandemic, people’s reaction to it, people’s inability to respect others and wear a mask, other frustrations, the fiction I’m writing, the soap opera Santa Barbara, my love for the soaps in general. We talked about the past, the present. We questioned the future while also looking forward to it. We huffed and puffed and challenged ourselves while sweating through our shirts. 

We played card games almost daily: Rummy, Five Crowns, Karma. We laughed. We quibbled. (One is prone to quibbling and deep sighing when a winning streak seems to be consistently elusive. Trust me, I sighed. I sighed so much.) We ate Milk Duds. We ate the fresh blackberries that we picked from the garden. Picture it: Arlington, KY. 2020. Me picking blackberries in a garden. But I digress.

The inevitable question: “What would you like to have for dinner?” was usually asked before we had even decided what we wanted to eat for lunch, and was usually met with an exaggeratedly humorous response along the lines of, “We haven’t even eaten lunch.”  But the duck, the chicken, the steak, and the pork chops were all worth the early decisions when they made their way from the grill to the table to my mouth. 

Sitting side-by-side on my parents’ sofa, my mom and I battled for the win playing Words With Friends. Books were completed and new ones started. Homemade ice cream churned in the garage, its hum becoming white noise until it stopped. Hours were spent cavorting in the pool: sliding into the refreshing coldness, tossing a volleyball back and forth, sitting on the bottom, attempting to keep a frisbee in the air—fifty-four times was the record between my sister and me. 

We found family relics that I thought had been inadvertently discarded by me long ago. I had resigned myself to the sadness of their loss, accepted I would never see them again. Yet there they were in a storage tub in a large closet in the basement of my parents’ house. I was overwhelmed at seeing again this bonanza of sepia-toned pictures and daguerreotypes; images of family members I couldn’t possibly know and that no one still alive could provide information about. I was beside myself to once again hold the hand-written document noting the births and deaths of the family from which my own maternal line started five generations prior. My excitement was contagious and my mom caught it. 

We consumed hours of television: The Golden Girls, Friends, Santa Barbara. We watched Jurassic Park and Scream.

Sleep came. And, for the most part, it cast us deeply in its shadow. Morning brought a new day, a fresh pot of coffee, a mug of hot chocolate, and a question of what to have for dinner.

We washed, rinsed, and repeated our way through two weeks. And even though those two weeks 

contained the same amount of minutes and hours as any other two-week period, they seemed to fly by. I guess it really does when you’re having fun.

As we get older, time no longer marches at a glacial pace. It speed skates. There is no way to slow it down. Our task it to enjoy every moment. That’s all we can do.

As we said our goodbyes outside the small regional airport in Paducah, Kentucky, I thanked both of my parents for the welcoming opportunity to freeload at their house and told them I loved them. Mom always gets the last hug. That’s the way I want it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a penny and a quarter and placed them into her hand. She looked down at what I’d given her and continued to smile even as her eyes filled with tears. History repeating. A full circle moment. 

Now that I’m back home in NYC, a two-week period of self-quarantine begins. That’s because I’ve returned from a state with increased rates of COVID-19 transmission. Time in isolation is rarely fleeting so I’m betting this two weeks will inch along like an airplane sitting on the tarmac, 24th in line for takeoff.

“Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?” The Chicks ask in “Wide Open Spaces.” Who doesn’t indeed. 

Christmas 1995: A Memory

I drove through the night. Snow was falling like the steady rain of summer storm. As the yellow dividing line disappeared under the white fluff, so did the dark paving of the highway. I was traveling as fast as I dared, which wasn’t fast enough. The headlights illuminated the snow as it pelted my car giving the illusion that I was driving through an avalanche of stars.

I was headed to my momma’s house for Christmas. 

Christmas at momma’s house: the anticipation, the excitement. Remember? There’s an ease to it, a comfort. It’s childhood and cookies and surprises: memories flooding the mind. 

At that time, my momma’s Christmas tree was decorated beautifully with ornaments both old and new, standing proudly in the living room. I can see it in my minds eye filling the corner by the front door, the lights glowing with a beauty that’s hard to match at other other time of the year. 

On this particular night I wanted to be at her house desperately. But the snow was slowing me down. I was scared and frustrated. But I kept going. Moving forward with caution.

When finally I arrived in Arlington, Kentucky—in the wee hours of the morning, after an arduous journey from Bearcreek Farms in Indiana—I was met with an excitement I could actually feel in the air. For you see that was the year my aunt Cindy and her family spent Christmas at my momma’s house. I’ve seen my mom very happy on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day many many times—she has a childlike joy during the Christmas season—but that year was like a Brady Bunch Christmas. And as crowded and chaotic as it sounds like it could have been, it wasn’t.

It was amazing. 

I quietly walked into the house to find the living room floor strewn with blankets covering sleeping bodies, pillows supporting resting heads. Aunt Cindy awoke as did momma. They came into the living room where my sister, April, and cousins, Casey and Whit, had all stirred awake from a half slumber under those blankets. We sat talking in the glow of the white Christmas tree lights: alive, awake, happy. It couldn’t have been more special.

The snow fell that night. And Santa delivered his presents. The house was warm and filled with love. I don’t think the lights on that Christmas tree have ever been more dazzling.

Time spent together with the first people who love you is special and as we get older that time becomes more rare...and even more precious. 

As Christmas morning approaches take a second to step outside and feel the magic in the air on the Eve. Look at all the beauty. See it...before it disappears. Laugh, hug, eat, tell stories. Remember.

Merry Christmas 

The Cap and the Silence

I was confronted with a symbol of hate, deception, and racism last week on a vacation trip to Kentucky. A red "Make America Great Again" cap practically throbbed like a caution light on the head of a member of my family as he walked into the room where I was sitting. To say that I was shocked and unprepared is an understatement. My heart began to pound. The space around it became weighted with anxiety.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to react. I felt the flush of heat burn my cheeks. I felt sick. 

The person wearing the cap doesn’t know what it represents to me. I honestly believe there was no malice intended. Yet I couldn't help but wonder why those with more knowledge weren't more attentive to their surroundings. Then again, I was the outsider, the guest. I was in their environment.

As I sat on the sofa at my parents’ house I was very aware that I was wearing mascara that day. I was also aware that I fully expected acceptance from everyone around me while wearing it. Mascara is not a MAGA cap, but it is a potential button pusher when worn by a male in a family of gun-toting, sports-playing, Southern Baptists. No one said a word about my mascara the entire trip. Just like no one mentions the bracelet with rainbow beads that I sometimes wear while there. Is it avoidance or acceptance? Rainbows and MAGA caps send completely different messages, but I digress.

Additionally, while relaxing inside this household of Trump supporters, I was never hesitant to discuss Michelle Obama’s memoir, Becoming, which I was openly reading at the time.

I tried to put myself on the other side of the Party line, trying to provide the acceptance that I was expecting. How could I expect it yet not give it in return? Aren’t we all human beings, co-mingling with differing opinions? Yet providing that acceptance was hard for me. I sat in silence trying to ignore the rage that was bubbling inside me, just below the surface. 

I was hurt. That cap (and those words) will go down in history as the symbol of a very dark and divided time in America. I will never be able to see it with eyes that don't register negativity.

I may be a Kentuckian by birth, but I am a New Yorker by choice. I knew at an early age that I had to get out of Kentucky. I had to get out of my small town. I knew there was a bigger world out there where I could find the freedom to be myself. Where I could find the freedom to question. I knew there were bigger ideals than what I was taught in Sunday service. 

I am gay, and feminine. I am a believer that Freedom of Religion also means Freedom from. In Trump’s Divided States of America, I am a liberal. I am for progress. I am for gay rights. I am for women’s rights. I am for trans rights. I am for human rights. I am for TRUTH! I believe America was already great.

That cap makes me angry. What it stands for makes me angry. I can’t believe I have family members who believe the huckster who pushes its message. I love the wearer so much, but with caution was the only way I felt I could proceed. I've never been one to rush head-on into conflict. In order to keep the peace, I kept my mouth shut. For this, I am disgusted with myself as much as I am with the cap.

As I sat writing about how this incident affected me, I couldn't help but ponder: does writing about it, rather than confronting it in the moment, make me cowardly or intelligent?

I was the lone blue in a room full of red.  

The Guilt of Departure and the Hypocrite's Prayer

My dad was transferred from Baptist Hospital to the rehabilitation floor at Lourdes Hospital in Paducah, Kentucky, a week and a few hours after his quadruple bypass. A quadruple bypass which unexpectedly led to a stroke. For all the progress he had made at Baptist, my mom and I were filled with questioning trepidation as we left him on the 8th floor at Lourdes, alone in his bed.

We were so excited that he had been accepted into the rehabilitation program at Lourdes Hospital. We waited, less than patiently, all that day for his discharge and transfer to happen. We knew that the focused therapies they offered—occupational, physical, and speech—were exactly what he needed in order to come home as close to 100% himself as possible. I had seen him trying so hard in the days leading up this moment. He was determined to improve. Although I sometimes wondered if he didn’t quite understand the questions being asked of him, pretending he did anyway, just so that he could move on to the next phase of recovery.

Side note: I wish I could make him understand that no one is going to think he is ignorant, dumb, or stupid for not knowing the answers. But I would need someone to teach me that also. Maybe if I can get him to understand it I can be my own teacher.

We left my dad in a small room with a roommate who had just arrived post leg amputation. The room was small. I’m pretty convinced it was actually smaller than his private room at Baptist Hospital. There was only one chair for a visitor to sit in, and no other place except his bed for my dad to sit. This was disappointing as part of his recovery from the heart surgery involved sitting in a chair for several hours every day. He still had to focus on that recovery even if the stroke had taken precedence. His only chair option turned out to be his wheelchair. 

The nurses seemed less than adequate and didn’t seem to care about the patients. My dad had such impressive care from most of his nurses at Baptist Hospital. But nothing about the care at Lourdes Hospital gave me hope. I felt this way the first day. So did my mom. We later learned he wasn’t being given the correct meds and that his information was entered into the system incorrectly on his first day. (Instead of heart surgery or stroke patient he was entered as a hip fracture patient.) His room often smelled. The floors were dirty. No one seemed to care. We missed Baptist so badly.

My mother couldn’t stop her tears as she leaned down and kissed my father goodbye on that first night. My heart ached for her. On our drive home I tried my best to be the emotional support that she needed all the while telling her she didn’t have to be strong for me. I couldn’t practice what I preached. I was scared and discouraged too. I told her so. Why do we find it necessary to be strong in times of stress and grief? Maybe we should all just show what we’re feeling and commiserate with one another in our tears and sadness, then get stronger together through that vulnerability. I’m not one who can speak with any confidence on vulnerability though as I find it so difficult to be vulnerable. 

A couple of days later I found myself alone in my parents’ house listening to the cast album of Dear Evan Hansen, and my vulnerability reared it ugly tears. It was as if the knot in my stomach had decided to loosen its grip, move up to my heart, and squeeze it until I nearly burst. I broke down. I felt broken. 

I felt guilty.

The day of my departure was quickly approaching. I knew that I shouldn’t feel guilty that I've built my life in New York City so far away from where my parents live. Yet the feeling of guilt persisted. I was getting ready to depart this place of corn fields and homemade ice cream and leave my mom and my sister there to carry the weight of my dad’s recovery…alone.

I looked around the living room in my parents’ house and read the sayings that decorate the walls: “Our family is filled with Love,” “Loved you yesterday, Love you still, Always have, Always will,” “Family is where life begins & Where love never ends.” These words seem to vibrate straight from my mother’s heart. I pondered the words as I focused on the pictures. I saw the framed photographs of my niece and nephew smiling back at me. I prayed to God that their papaw would be healed and returned home to them fully himself. They need him in their lives. I prayed that he would return home to my mom. She’s been his wife since she was 17-years old. They are each other’s world. I prayed for my sister who was in agony  over her fear that our dad might not return home our dad. I walked back to the bedroom my parents still share 47 years later and stood on his side of the bed. I looked up to the ceiling, tears streaming down my cheeks. I begged to be heard. I begged for God to help my dad recover. I begged for God to bring him home to take his place back in that bed again.

I felt like such a hypocrite for praying. But isn’t that what we do? We pray when we’re scared. We pray when we feel the desperation that comes with the shock of events like  heart attacks and strokes. We pray as we grasp for hope.

No matter the distance between our homes, no matter the distance between our hearts, I want to walk into my parents’ house the next time I’m visiting and feel my dad’s arms around me. I want to hear him laugh. I want to hear him say my name. I want to listen to him tell a story that may not really interest me but that I care about merely because he is still here to tell it…and that he can still remember it at all.

We won’t fish together. We won’t hunt…anything. We won’t really watch the Cardinals play baseball. But we can sit on the front porch and enjoy a cup of coffee while birds chirp and passersby honk. Hopefully my mom will join us with a cup of hot chocolate and take on the fly swatting duties.

When My Dad’s Heart Surgery Became The Lesser of Two Trauma’s

It was hard to imagine what my dad was going to look like hooked up to tubes. I’d seen it before with both of my maternal grandparents and my paternal grandfather. But there was no real way to prepare myself to see my dad in this way. He had gone into surgery just after my flight departed New York’s LaGuardia Airport headed for the landing strip that is Paducah, Kentucky. By the time I arrived at the hospital the surgery was over. 

Much like ripping off a bandaid, I walked into his room in ICU. I had to. As much as I wanted to hesitate, there could be no hesitation. There he lay—my normally active-to-the-point-that-I’m-exhausted dad—hooked to monitors, floating in and out of consciousness, and ultimately silenced by a breathing tube.

There were more drips than I’d ever seen hooked to one person. Two IV poles with 6-8 bags on each pole. It was alien. Bag after bag of clear liquid flowed into his body, necessary for healing and pain, but still disturbing and ominous.

He knew we were there. He periodically open his eyes, revealing brown irises so large that they seemed to have overtaken all the white space. He wanted to speak. He tried to speak. The breathing tube, of course, prevented that. He nodded instead—communication restored in a primitive way that brought more relief than one could imagine it bringing.

When my sister called me three days prior to the events that led to this ICU layover I was alarmed yet not completely dismayed. She told me that my father was going to the ER complaining of shortness of breath, chest discomfort, and a bit of numbness in the arm. I wouldn’t really let myself believe that my father might be having a heart attack. That just wasn’t on the agenda. Again, not prepared. Is anyone ever? 

My dad is not the healthiest eater in the world. Never has been. And there have been many occasions of trying to persuade him to take better care of himself. But he is strong-willed and stubborn. He wants to do what he wants to do. Arguing eventually gets old and inevitably one gives up the fight.

Recovery was moving along at a rapid pace. His doctors and nurses were astonished at how well he was doing. Thirty-six hours post surgery he was moved from ICU to his own room on the fourth floor of Baptist Hospital. My family and me, we were thrilled with his progress. So what if he was a little confused? So what if he seemed a bit vacant? He had just been through quadruple bypass with all the anesthesia that goes with it. We didn’t know how long it would take his body to rid itself of the anesthesia. Nor did we know how the pain meds, which my dad rarely takes, might be affecting him. What we did know was that he had a hard time turning to the right and seemed to take longer than necessary to register what was said…or who we were. 

My sister, a nurse herself (and struggling to be daughter instead of nurse), knew something was wrong. She told other nurses. She told respiratory therapists. She was met with reactions of unconcern followed with explanations like, “the anesthesia needs to wear off” and “there’s been so much trauma to the body.” But my sister sees my dad almost daily. She knew something was off. It was actually she who came up with the word “vacant” to describe the look on his face. 

Finally, a physical therapist saw for himself what my sister had been seeing and questioning. And the unthinkable began to run riot in our minds. My dad, the strong, independent, hard-headed man I've known all my life, had had a stroke.

I was angry. I was angry at God. I was angry at the doctor. Human being, party of one. I called my best friend, Neal, and spewed my anger to his listening ear as I paced from corner to corner in a makeshift waiting area.  And much like Jesus did in John 11:35, I wept.

I have never been one to deny my Baptist upbringing. Nor have I denied how it has negatively affected me. But I felt the power of all the prayer that surrounded us. I felt the power in his room. I felt the power in the hallway outside his room. Hands were laid upon my dad. Tears were shed. His name was lifted up to heaven. It took me back to the days of my youth when this act was a part of my everyday life. I felt the power that I struggle so hard to have faith in… to believe in. But it was my family’s faith that gave them comfort even as they dealt with fear and anger of their own. And it was their faith, and the faith of their friends, that comforted me by proximity.

We’re all human beings filled with emotions. It’s natural to be angry, to be scared, to be frustrated, to doubt, to question, to feel bad about laughing in moments of sadness, to feel hope when the situation is dire.

My dad and I have never been particularly close. I’ve struggled with that for most of my life. We have our ups and downs…and silences. But I love him, and I know he loves me. I never anticipated a moment when my dad would struggle to find my name in his memory. My heart ached. I stood before him, staring into his brown eyes, mentally sending the name Michael straight into them. I watched as his mouth tried to form the word. I heard the Um’s as he searched. I saw the frustration on his face. I felt the panic in my heart even as I tried to keep my face blank. Then he said it. My attempt at a blank face still had tension that relaxed. Who knew hearing my name said aloud could be so important? But the double clutch of anxiety and sadness barely released its grip on my heart.

As the days progressed, his quadruple bypass became more and more the secondary trauma. It was almost as if he hadn’t had the heart surgery at all. He wasn’t complaining about pain and rarely took a pain pill. He was getting up from his chair more easily. And walking became less and less difficult. 

The stroke became the focus. 

I could see him fighting to find the words for the pictures he was being asked to identify: glove, keys, feather. I saw him miss the word hammock three days in a row. 

Eventually he began to more easily find his words for speaking, but writing them was a new challenge. I watched as the Speech Pathologist patiently taught him the sound of letters like “f” and “s” much like I remember learning them in elementary school. Every day he was better than the day before. Every day the recognition improved. Every day the conversations were more engaged. Every day he was more like my dad. 

We all know that the heart is our emotional center, and I’ve been told that with heart surgery emotions can run high and spill over without reason. That is true. Dad would often get emotional, cry without warning, stop crying within seconds. Sometimes I couldn't find the reason. Other times it was clear that he was extremely effected as he began to realize he was making progress. He was also very moved by the love he felt from visitors, most of whom had been positively affected by the way he lives his life.

On the morning of the day he was to be moved to the rehabilitation center I walked into room 437 at Baptist Hospital and saw my dad…not just the shell of the man. He was sitting in the reclining chair watching my nephew Dylan play baseball on my sister’s computer. He smiled. He was more himself than he’d been even the day before. I recognized that man. 

“There are bridges you cross you didn't know you crossed until you've crossed.” Stephen Schwartz, Wicked.

As we sat in his room waiting for the doctor to make his final round then sign the discharge/transfer papers, our holding-pattern-of-a-day was broken when dad passed gas. It will probably embarrass him that I even wrote this, but it was the most natural thing in the world. However, what followed was even more so. My brother-in-law said, “Her-ca-lees,” a la Mama Klump in The Nutty Professor. The entire room cracked up, including the best sound I’d heard all week…full-throated laughter from my dad. Natural. Easy.

I think the grip of anxiety finally began to release its hold on my heart. All of dad’s progress in such a short time was nothing short of miraculous. We all knew there was a long road ahead. But I’ll take a long road over a grave any day.

Mad Dash To Terminal F

I wanted a glass of wine. That had been the plan all along: get through airport security, find my gate, buy a single serving bottle of Pinot Noir, enjoy.

That didn’t happen. It seems that LaGuardia Airport, unlike JFK, doesn’t have small kiosks near the gates that sell individual bottles of wine along with their sandwich boxes and protein bars. Maybe it has to do with international flights as opposed to domestic. Obviously, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a United Airlines thing. Maybe I just missed it. I convinced myself that as hot as it was in the waiting area, a bottle of wine would’ve probably put me to sleep. I changed my plan to having a glass in flight.

With an on-time departure from NYC to Chicago's O’Hare (connecting on to Paducah, KY), I was finally starting my vacation; my first since July 2017, and boy did I need a break from NYC. I don’t often enjoy the waiting or the traveling. I’m more of a hurry-up-and-get-there kind of person. But one can’t really hurry when he is at the mercy of the airline and the flight time. 

The flight was smooth and actually arrived early into Chicago. I was annoyed (surprise!) by one of the flight attendants so I didn’t bother with that glass of wine. 

Good ol’ Chicago, where winter weather in January threatens to derail my plans every time I travel through it during that month. And this particular day was no exception as the clouds discharged their wintery goodness gracefully and steadily onto the ground.  

I turned off airplane mode on my iPhone as soon as we landed and was immediately greeted by the text:

Your flight to Paducah is cancelled. 

Of course! I should have bothered to have that glass of wine. Hindsight's 20/20.

I didn’t so much process this information as feel my face heat up with anger…then contort with frustration and disappointment. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in Chicago for a night (been there, done that, didn’t have a toothbrush or clean underwear). I had booked this particular flight on a Sunday evening so that I could wake up at my mom and dad’s house on Monday morning, starting the vacation without a travel day. If I was going to have to spend the night in Chicago then I would be on the same flight to Paducah on Monday that I would have been originally been on had I departed from NYC on Monday as I had initially planned. However, the best laid plans are out of our control when Mother Nature decides to get involved. Don’t be fooled. I’m not that zen.

I could see from my updated electronic boarding pass that I had already been rebooked on the next flight into Paducah, which was scheduled for departure the next day after 2pm. I went directly to Customer Service to see if there was an earlier flight. If I had to stay in Chicago, I at least wanted to get out of her as early as possible the next day. The customer service representative told me that the flight on which I had been rebooked was the first flight departing for Paducah the next day. Then he said something interesting. 

“We have a couple of flights to other locations tonight. Are either of them close to you?”

He mentioned a town in Missouri that I hadn’t heard of before and a town in Indiana. I knew the Indiana option was out of the question but when he turned his computer screen around so that I could see the destinations, my heart leapt in excitement. The Missouri town was Cape Girardeau. He didn’t know how to say it, or at least not the way I’d grown up saying it, so it didn't register until I saw the words.  I knew Cape Girardeau was close to where my parents lived. I called my mom immediately.

Mom: “Hi,” she said, her voice colored with disappointment .

Me: “How far is Cape Girardeau from your house?” I asked with no preamble.

Mom: “About an hour and 15 minutes,” she responded with no real change in her voice.

Me: “Can you pick me up there?”

Mom: “Yes.” The color now tinged with excitement.

Me: “I might be able to get on a flight tonight to Cape. I’ll call you back.”

The flight was already boarding and was scheduled for departure in 30 minutes. You know that joke book title: Fifty Yards To The Outhouse by Willy Makit and Betty Won’t? Well, my joke book title that night was Mad Dash To Terminal F written by Will Power and D. Termination.  

I ran. I ran like Rhoda Morgenstern running through the streets of New York City on her wedding day back in 1974 on an episode of the sitcom, Rhoda. I had a carryon bag in my right hand and I was holding my winter scarf in my left. I didn’t start out holding that scarf, but it’s so long, and kept getting tangled between my legs, that I had a vision of Carrie Bradshaw on the Sex and the City episode where Carrie slips on water that has dripped from a wet umbrella and goes splat! right in the middle of Dior in Paris. I couldn’t have that! Falling and embarrassing myself was not an option.

So, carry on bag filled with laptop and magazines in the right hand (praying the handle didn’t break ‘cause that shit was heavy) and scarf pulled across my body held tightly in the left, I flew past the people strolling along to their gates--or toward that glass of wine I so wanted. I was a vision leaving a gray and blue streak in my wake. 

I was running like my life depended on it. I’m in fairly good shape and yet still I was gasping. I made a right then a left then another right. I was looking for the escalator. Found it. Took it down. Ran past all the people letting themselves be glacially-paced along on the moving sidewalk. People looked over their shoulders as I approached. Peripherally, I could see them watching me as I passed. I stepped on to the up the escalator on the other side of that long space, taking a moment to catch my breath before starting to climb its moving stairs because they weren't moving fast enough. To the right then the left then hugging the curve connecting me to another terminal. All the while looking at the overhead signage for Terminal F. Was I getting closer? It didn’t feel that way. 

I was a man on a mission; determined to make it from Terminal C to Terminal F with breath-catching time to spare. 

As I approached the gate the customer service representative had told me the flight to Cape Girardeau would be departing from I noticed it said Quincy, IL instead of Cape Girardeau, MO. Two lovely women confirmed that this was indeed the flight to Cape but that it made a small layover in Quincy first. I couldn’t have cared less about the layover. I was just glad to be in that line.

I could barely breath. Gasping for air, trying slow my heart rate, I called my mom and told her I was going to be on the flight, providing her with the pertinent flight information. I was euphoric even as I panted. I had made it to the gate with a moment (though not breath-catching) to spare before scanning my boarding pass. The gate attendant marveled that I was in “good shape” as she hadn't thought I would make it from C to F. I showed her, wheezing and coughing, trying to keep composed.

All of those who had been on the receiving end of my disgruntled-passenger-with-a-cancelled-flight texts received the following from me…

I ran from terminal C to terminal F. I made a flight that goes to Quincy IL then on to Cape Girardeau MO. Hope my luggage gets on board. I’m a sweaty mess but I’m on the plane.

…as I sat, sounding asthmatic, buckled-in to my seat on the airplane. Relief was beginning to calm my anxiety. We hadn't taken off but we were supposed to. I was still apprehensive.  Then I realized the plane I was sitting on was the same size as the one that flies to Paducah. The same size plane for the flight that had been cancelled because of "weather" before I had even had a chance to connect to it. The same size plane that was about to take off, in the same weather, toward Cape Girardeau. And it did take off and land and take off and land again. In the weather. I still don’t (and may never) understand why the plane heading toward Paducah couldn't fly in the weather, but I digress.

My gasping cum wheezing had turned into a cough. As my heart rate slowed back to normal my breath kept catching in the back of my throat. I felt as if I had dislodged something. I felt like an undiagnosed upper respiratory problem had chosen that moment to present itself. I could not stop coughing. I was seated on the aisle in the 11th out of 13 rows and we were just sitting on the tarmac while the plane was being de-iced. I had to have some water. I unbuckled the seat belt and made my way to the front of the plane.

“I am so sorry" I began, speaking to the flight attendant who eyes widened in shock at my standing in front of her, "but I just ran from terminal C to terminal F and I can’t seem to stop coughing. May I have some water?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes remaining wide with shock, her voice stern as she continued, “but you need to sit back down.”

I get it. The doors were already closed. Okay. But were weren’t moving. We didn’t even have an estimated time for departure at that moment. But I sat back down, assuaging her fear that (even though the plane was sitting still except for rocking of the high-pressure wash of the de-icing fluid), I wouldn’t be knocked down by the “turbulence.” She brought me a glass of water. The cough persisted.

There would be no beverage service other than water on the first leg of that flight due to its short duration. No wine for me. There would be no beverage service at all on the second leg of the even shorter flight. One should always take advantage of his opportunities for wine when he has them because as Cinderella says in the musical Into The Woods, "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor." 

I finally made it to Cape Girardeau after midnight and found the welcoming arms and smiles of family members waiting for me, happy at my arrival...at last.

It took until Tuesday evening for my luggage to arrive. And it took until Wednesday evening for me to finally get that glass of wine I had so desired at the beginning of this scenario…before it turned into the adventure it became. 

The cough lingered for about three days.