Tangled Up In Blues

Still warm from sleep, I fluffed the pillows and made the bed, reassured by the aroma of fresh, black coffee. My husband and I were leaving for New York where I would undergo my second cancer surgery.

As I closed the curtains, I marveled at our amazing view of the shoreline, ocean, and marsh. Blue skies. Calm seas. Smooth sailing.

I paused.

What would my story be in two weeks when I returned?

Three days later, the multiple surgeries were over. I still didn’t know my diagnosis, but my face had been rearranged.

Two packets of fabric bolsters were sewn in inconvenient places on my face. One cushion crowded my left lower eyelid, obstructing my view. Every wounded blink stung.

Any facial movement sent a quick reminder to my brain that I was injured. Places I rarely thought about — behind my ear and my upper leg — now throbbed as donor skin graft sites.

During the first week of recovery, we stayed on the twenty-eighth floor of a hotel overlooking bustling, beautiful Manhattan. The cacophony of taxi horns beeping, dogs barking, and sirens screaming filtered into the room. The streets were full of people living life. I watched from above like Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock’s “Rear Window.”

I was stitched, scarred, and scared.

Yet, all I could do was wait.

Restricted to the 400-square foot room, I encouraged my restless husband to go on a walkabout.

I settled in, took a pain pill, fluffed the pillows to the medically required 45-degree angle and drifted off to sleep.

That’s when Bob Dylan knocked on the door.

“Is he here?” he growled. My eyes opened wide. Stunned, I shook my head, somehow knowing it was my husband he was looking for.

Perfect. My husband was missing, I looked like Frankenstein’s understudy, and now Bob Dylan was breaking and entering.

Dylan casually sauntered in, picked up a book I was reading, and tossed a few spicy cashews into his mouth like it was written into his performance rider.

He sat on the worn, stained couch and threw a blue tattered pillow to the side. Maybe it felt familiar to him, like when he started out in the Village.

“Do you prefer playing piano or guitar?” I asked, just to break the ice.

“It depends,” he answered.

Somehow my feet had suddenly become dry and calloused, as if I’d been walking barefoot through the dust of my childhood farm. Dylan noticed me trying to hide my toes and reached to hand me a miniature complimentary hotel lotion. Thoughtful.

“Do you sing?” he asked me.

“Oh, lord no. I’m tone deaf,” I nervously replied, turning my head so he couldn’t see the bandages.

“Everyone can sing,” he said, and started to hum “Tambourine Man.”

I hesitantly tried coming in on the chorus. He abruptly stopped and said, “Dang, you’re right, you can’t sing!”

Tipping his hat, he left just as my husband walked in.

Then I woke up.

Wow. Dylan. I really wanted to examine my opioid-induced dream.

Had I just begun a long journey for which I wasn’t prepared — hence the bare feet? Was my creative spirit trying to tell me something?

I did know this. I was tangled up in my blues. Maybe Dylan waiting with me was my subconscious telling me that I needed to heal. And healing takes time.

I couldn’t just muscle through the impatience, the sadness, or the uncertainty.

Then, it occurred to me. Maybe it’s okay to wait right now.

Not to explore, not to work — and according to Dylan, not to sing — but to take the time to heal and prepare.

There will be more brewed coffee to savor, osprey to marvel, tides to match my breathing. Stories to write. Cities to explore. Dylan to listen to.

Maybe not smooth sailing. But on time. My time.