Dave Brisbin 9.7.25
How could we have known about the first week of September? My wife’s back pain had grown into numbness down her legs and feet, prompting an MRI, but still waiting for those results Tuesday morning, a feeling in my chest grew to what I could only imagine was a heart attack. Finally told Marian I needed to go to ER, and in the midst of endless cycles of testing and waiting, a text comes in telling her to go immediately to ER for emergency surgery. She didn’t even tell me until after I was discharged, no cause determined.
She wanted to wait one more day while I was still shaky—she’d waited this long after all. So Thursday morning, we drove to ER, and soon as the surgeon saw the images, scheduled surgery for that afternoon. If left any longer, she could lose all function below the waist. I waved goodbye, as they strapped her in the ambulance taking her to a surgical hospital, drove to meet her in preop, only to wave goodbye again as they rolled her off to OR. Would I see her again? Would she walk again? She smiled big, I smiled back, went off to wait out expected one-hour surgery. One hour, two hours, no text, no call. Found a nurse.
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We’re both home now, trying to heal, but those moments remain—a wave goodbye, a smile from a gurney—when a fragile reality appears, a wire frame view of life you can’t unsee. If we don’t turn away too soon, keep looking, there’s something underneath. Solid state, no moving parts, irreducible. The everything behind the nothing. Can’t hold on to such glimpses, but they can hold you. Remind you.
Change how you see everything else.
