2.26.24

And after all the violence and double-talk

There’s just a song in all the trouble and the strife

You do the walk, yeah, you do the walk of life

Hmm, you do the walk of life

In early December of 1985, I was about three weeks away from turning 11. And I was convinced I wasn’t going to make it that long.

I had an inguinal (or groin) hernia that required surgery. That type of hernia is caused by openings in muscle that didn’t close up like they should have in the womb. Tissue pushes through the hole, and ta-da! Hernia. (Even got a second one about 10 years later.)

I’m a delicate flower.

So I had to have surgery. Unlike so many of my peers, I’d never broken a bone or had my tonsils out or had appendicitis, so the mere thought of a scalpel terrified me.

I still remember so much of that time vividly. My mom reading to me the night before, trying to help me sleep. The uncomfortable scratchiness of the hospital gown. The weird older guy in the hospital bed next to mine. Getting a couple of sweet Insecticons as a gift for being so brave.

But what I remember the most from that time is a song. Right down to where I was when it started playing.

It was early in the morning. We had to be at the hospital before the school buses were even on the road.

The drive from home to the hospital was about 25 minutes (except my dad was driving, so it was closer to 20). There’s a long stretch of the road I grew up on that is surrounded on both sides by farmland my family managed. The last big field on the eastern end of the road is split in half by a dike, or at least what we referred to as a dike. The Lamoille River tends to flood on either side, so if it is a dike, it’s not much of one.

Anyway, my parents were letting me listen to my music to keep my nerves calm. So the radio was turned to B100. We Built This City by Starship was ending just as we rounded the corner and that big field came into view. Then the long, happy synthesizer intro to Walk of Life came through the speakers to give me a hug.

I’d been up half the night, scared that this was the end. I was heading into one of the biggest, scariest experiences of my life. Then Mark Knopfler — with that warm, gently booming voice of his — started singing about Johnny the busker, a fella making his way by singing oldies to subway patrons.

Making it work and doing the walk of life.

I took this as a sign from whatever that I would be ok. My worries melted, and my perspective shifted from fear-based to wonder-based.

The things I’d be able to do after healing. I hadn’t been able to play in gym class for a few weeks or goof around at recess. My hay barn adventures and acrobatics had been stymied. And I wasn’t able to feed the calves their milk and hay or do other farm chores I enjoyed. Surgery would change that.

The Walk of Life took up a perch in my brain for a few days after that to make sure I got through, and there has yet to be a time when I hear the song and don’t think about how it turned things around for that scared kid.

Each of us has our own walk of life. When we’re lucky, we get to invite others to join us. And if we’re really lucky, others invite us to join theirs. Those walks go all sorts of places, even scary spots. But we need to keep walking.

Because what’s up ahead looks pretty amazing.