I received a call one Tuesday night from a friend who told me Tony, a mutual friend of ours, who lived alone, had barely managed to dial 911 just before he collapsed. Tony had been taken to the hospital where subsequent tests had revealed advanced systemic cancer. My friend went on to mention words like intensive care, just months to live, rehab, probably never being able to go home, etc., etc.
A voice said “call Tony, now!!! I had intended to just leave a message. See, Tony never answered a call from me. It always went to voicemail. That’s how he screened his calls. So, I called Tony despite my trepidation that he would not be able to or be interested in talking with me. Surprisingly, he answered and he said he couldn’t think of anyone he would rather talk to. We had a nice chat and talked about getting together once he was out of the hospital.
I happened to be coming to Nashville a few days later, from my home in Colorado to do some work and catch a little R & R on a farm near there that a couple of friends had given me the use of. Tony lived on that same farm and was sort of the gatekeeper, as well as a renowned, highly regarded professional photographer.
I did my work there and was excitedly looking forward to spending my last Sunday afternoon in the woods, wandering among the meadows, ponds, waterfalls, streams, deer, wild turkeys, and turtles. And the quiet; I LOVE quiet.
As has happened more than once in my life (and I have learned to trust it) just as I was walking to the car to make the 45 minute trip to the farm, one of the places I consider a preview of heaven, I heard a voice in my head shout, “NO FARM TODAY, GO SEE TONY!!! I tried to talk myself out of it. “He is in intensive care.” “I am not family.” They will not let me in,” yada, yada, yada. So, I compromised with that voice. I said, “Ok, I’ll give him a call and leave a message on his voicemail, THEN I will go to the farm. “Fair enough,” the voice said. (What I knew that the voice did not know is Tony NEVER answers his phone.)
Relieved, I pulled over and made the call. (I was already on my way to the farm.) The phone rang four times, and I was mentally preparing my message. On the fifth ring I heard a weak voice say “Hello.” I said, “Hi Tony, I am in town and I had thought about stopping by to see you, but I know you are in intensive care and only family can visit, so I just wanted to call and tell you I was thinking of you.”
He then said something I will never forget. He said, “I can’t think of anyone I would rather have come visit me, and you ARE family.” “I will tell them you are on your way; I will let them know my brother is coming”.
I was dumbfounded. Over the years I had had the impression that Tony had barely tolerated me and my meanderings on the farm. Though we had many deep and profound conversations, he always disagreed with everything I told him I believed about life and its meaning and all that kind of stuff. He let me know that he saw me as a hopeless bleeding heart, totally beyond redemption, a hostage to mainstream media, and the kind of person who, if given my way, would destroy America.
It seemed to me that I was his pet hapless, snow-flakey, bleeding heart, liberal. But, he never gave up trying to convert me into the MAGA Clan. When I asked him why he saw me that way, he told me that he knew that the very first time he got into my car, (we often went to “The Beacon Tea House,” which despite the name, you won’t find much in the way of tea for biscuits, homemade jelly, country ham, and red-eye gravy ) my car radio was tuned to NPR, even though I always turned the volume down before he got in. He told me that he noticed those kinds of things as a way of protecting himself. He said the radio station that one’s car was tuned to could tell you everything you needed to know about a person.
We were friends for four years. The pandemic brought us into each other’s lives. The first time I ever met him his words to me were, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY, YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE, RIGHT NOW.” You have not been told this yet, but Tony was a BIG man. Apparently, I used the correct code words in response, “Aubrey and Michele,” and he told me, “Ok, then.” Knowing him, I would guess that he later called them to see if I was legit.
Our next conversation was about what I did. I somewhat vaguely told him that I work with people and one of the tools I use is teaching them how to write their story. He said he had always wanted to learn how to do that and we worked together to “put story” to some of his photographs. He wrote as well as he photographed.
Tony is a kind soul, though wrapped in somewhat of a rough coarse sandpaper exterior. He is not one to hug or openly express affection. But as I entered his hospital room, he stuck his hand out between the bars designed to keep him from falling out of his hospital bed. We, unashamedly, held hands for my entire hour and a half visit.
As it came time to leave, I stood up, had, and gave into, the urge to say, “I love you Tony, thank you for being my friend.” That was true. Though gruff and hostile to many of my ways, he nevertheless had always been there for me when I needed him. He had actually attended some of the programs I did on the farm, but only as an observer. He had been moved by what he saw happening. He had photographed a number of them. But he never said anything other than “this was a good experience.”
And I had been there for him. We had shared our pride at how accomplished our adult children and young grandchildren were. We had also bonded over many a breakfast at his outdoor kitchen he was so proud of. I would bring the sausage, bacon, eggs, and mush. He supplied the coffee and would do the cooking on his antique wood burning stove. We had shared many a Friday night fish dinner at Nett’s. (Their Motto “If you haven’t et at Nett’s yet, you ain’t et, yet.”) There was some significant truth to that.
He responded with a “I love you too.” We had never before even come close to exchanging those words. Then I impulsively leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. (I warned him just before I leaned down.) As I stood up, I had to wipe a tear from my eye. I’m glad I did that kiss. A tear that welled up in his eye and ran down his cheek told me he was glad for that too. Neither of us knew it then, but that moment turned out to be our last. Tony unexpectedly died four days later.
Fifty years ago, I was in a terrible car accident. Broken bones, concussion mixed with hemophilia, traction and being black and blue all over made for a long, long hospital stay. I remember three people who visited (and there were many.)
One came into the room, looked at me, said “You’re looking good,” then promptly passed out and fell to the floor. (He was my assistant baseball coach, and also coached football.)
One sat in the room keeping me company by knitting, saying nothing, and then as she was leaving, would reach for, and kiss my hand.
The other was a male colleague, Harvey. At various times Harvey would come to see me, reach for my hand, hold it, neither of us saying anything, and after a reasonable period of time, get up to leave. Still saying nothing, he would do one of the most powerful things I have experienced. bend over and kiss me goodbye on my forehead. Thank you, Harvey, for teaching me the power of that act. You gifted Tony, and many others over the years, including my mom and dad by your example.
I think we all have “that voice” that encourages us to do the right thing. I’ve learned I am a better person for listening to it and feel better also. So, I hope that I, and you, can always honor the voice that speaks to us about doing the “next right thing” even if it hard and scary.
Comments