Tangled Up In Blues

After making the bed and fluffing the pillows, I paused to look outside. A few tourists had staked their positions on the white sand. A dolphin pod searched for their salty breakfast.

I sipped my black coffee, feeling the warmth of the ceramic mug, breathing in the toasted aroma.

In a few minutes, my husband Richard 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 be my story in two weeks when I returned?

Three days later, a series of staged daily surgeries for melanoma were over. I still did not know my final diagnosis. I could clearly see however that 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 hit hard.

Any facial movement sent a quick reminder to my brain that I was injured. Places I rarely thought about—behind my ear and my thigh—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.

What seemed to be a few seconds later, there was a tentative tap on the door.

“Yes?” I called, thinking it was housekeeping.

The knob turned and in walked Bob Dylan.

“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. Richard was missing. I looked like Frankenstein’s understudy, and now Bob Dylan stopped by for a visit?

Dylan sauntered in, picked up a book I was reading, and tossed a few spicy cashews into his mouth.

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.

Dylan noticed me trying to hide my bare feet 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. He pulled out a harmonica from his faded black jeans, and with his long fingers started to play “Mr. Tambourine Man.”

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

He tipped his hat as he left just as my husband walked in.

Then I woke up.

Wow. Dylan. What was that opioid-induced dream about?

Had I just begun a long journey for which I wasn’t prepared—hence being shoeless? 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.

It occurred to me that 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.

Have you ever had a moment when healing surprised you — or when time itself became the lifeline? I’d love to hear your story in the comments below.