I was asleep when the text came. It was in our sibling group chat.
September 13, 2022. 3:27 a.m., Text from Mal: Hi guys. We are at the ER with Dad. Dad’s speech was slurred, and we called 911 around 11:30 p.m. He was fighting EMT and undergoing imaging at the hospital. They had to sedate and restrain him. A neurologist said Dad has a brain bleed but isn’t convinced this is the only problem. They are moving him to the ICU shortly, and Ann (my mom) is staying with him. I will keep y’all updated. Feel free to call me at any time.
Still dead asleep. Phone on silent. One hour had passed since the first text.
4:48 a.m., Text from Mal: They think the blood from the brain bleed is causing seizures and have put him on anti-seizure medication. He is awaiting a test that will determine if he is having seizures or not. We are still waiting for an ICU room. I have no cell service back there, so text me if you have any questions.
Crickets. Still asleep. Four hours had now passed.
7:12 a.m., Text from Ann (my mom): We are in Neuro ICU waiting. They took him back to imaging to do a test that will show blood flow in the brain. I hope he is calmer when they do this one. They want to make sure all parts of the brain have good flow. They have two machines that determine if he is having seizures or not. Presently, both are in use, but they are working on getting one as soon as possible. He will go from imaging to an ICU room.
It had been raining the night before, so Manhattan was hidden by the fog that had settled over the East River when I looked out of the window of our 15th-floor apartment around 7:30 a.m.
I slid my shorts on and pulled an old Billy Strings shirt over my head. Muddy was licking me and wagging his tail. He was extra excited about his morning walk since I had overslept by an hour. My feet slid into my Jordan, and I attached Muddy’s leash to his collar. We made my way to the elevator.
I hadn’t looked at my phone yet. I have a rule that in the morning I try not to have any screen time for at least one hour after I am awake. Although, I will turn on some low-fi tunes for Muddy and I’s walks to drown out some the city noise.
We made our way to the West side of Roosevelt Island, which faces Manhattan. I put in my earbuds and grabbed my phone from my pocket, tapping on the screen to navigate to the music app and start my low-fi playlist.
That is when when I noticed the 16 text messages stacked on my home screen. They were from our sibling group chat.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. My mind could not comprehend the texts. I still remember the fog rolling over me and Muddy as he took the world’s longest piss.
I texted my brother immediately.
7:58 a.m., Text between Justin and me
Tripp: What’s up?
Justin: Fuck, you tell me. Got that text at 2:30 a.m. and have been wrecked.
Tripp: I just woke up and saw it. Should we go to NOLA? I was thinking about changing my flight there. I don’t know what the fuck to do. * I had already booked a flight to Pensacola, FL, for the 15th to fly down and surprise dad for his birthday. *
Justin: Yeah, I was thinking you’d change flights there. I’m assuming Shai, Lauren, and I will go today. I don’t know anything about brain bleeds. I’m just shook.
Muddy and I made a hard pivot back to the apartment. I pulled out my phone and immediately started looking for a flight that was non-stop and could get me to New Orleans as fast as possible.
Boom. Delta had a non-stop leaving NYC in two hours.
8:24 a.m., Text to Bub: Got a flight. Departing at 10:58 a.m. and landing in NOLA at 1:30 p.m.
“I’ll get you,” he responded immediately.
I took the elevator back up to our apartment. The ride was so slow. I hate elevators, too.
I walked into the apartment and my wife was having her coffee on the couch. I didn’t say anything as I unhooked Muddy from his leash and made my way to the bedroom. I immediately grabbed the suitcase from under our bed and started packing.
8:25 a.m., Text from Mal: Dad in room 0986 in ICU. They will let us back in 30 minutes.
Amanda came in and knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what to say and was so pressed for time that I felt speaking words would take away valuable seconds. I handed her my phone where she read the text thread.
“The fucking traffic is going to be insane. I have to make this fucking flight,” I said to her. “I HAVE to make it.”
I had to complete one of the most important tasks of my life—get to LaGuardia Airport in heavy traffic in time to make that flight. The one that started boarding in less than 2 hours.
“What can I do for you?” Amanda asked. She is the best.
“Nothing right now. I just have to get to the airport.”
I don’t remember what I packed. It could have been Halloween costumes or 78 tubes of toothpaste. I just remember zipping up the suitcase and calling an Uber. The app said the estimated time of arrival was 9:45 a.m.
I started doing calculations in my head.
“Okay. 9:45 a.m. is really like 10:00 a.m. Security is another 15-20 minutes max. Walk to the gate…let’s say 10 minutes for cushion.”
That meant I’d get there at 10:30 a.m. It would be tight, but doable. I don’t think I texted anyone during that ride to the airport. Not that I can remember.
I know I was stressed going through security because it meant I would be without my phone for a few minutes. I had been checking it non-stop. I put it in its own separate bin and told the agent that I was waiting on an important call from my family.
When it slid out on the other side of the conveyor belt, there was a new text.
10:01 a.m., Text from Mal: They are putting the EEG on Dad now. This will tell them if he is having seizures. He will have this on his head for 24 hours.
“Okay. Progress. The medical staff is taking it seriously,” I thought.
The next thing I knew, I was walking toward a gate. Boarding had started, and the current zone was high, but at least they were still boarding!
There would be no last-minute desperate plea with the gate agent to let me board.
10:27 a.m., Text to Bub: Boarding now. Hit you up when I land.
I got in line. I was probably second to last passenger as the folks in front of me made their way down the jet bridge. I was the person the rest of the seated passengers silently applauded since it meant the cabin door could now close.
I walked down the aisle but had to pass my seat to find an empty overhead compartment. About 10 rows back, I found one and jammed my suitcase filled with who-knows-what inside. I got back to my seat next to the window and slid my backpack under the one in front of me. My phone vibrated.
10:37 a.m., Text from Bub: Love you, lil bro. Can’t wait to see you.
I sent a text that I was about to take off. Unfortunately, the plane didn’t have Wi-Fi, or so I thought. The text didn’t go through. It also meant no updates or communication.
I pulled my headphones from their case that was clipped to the top of my backpack, which jutted out slightly from underneath the seat. My palms started to sweat, and I could feel the tears starting to build at the bottom and corner of my eyes.
I slipped on my headphones, connected the Bluetooth to my phone, and started looking for my go-to “plane song.” In 2017, I adopted “Thank You” by Alanis Morissette.
The song was one that my mentor, Berta, played during our Mindfulness course in grad school. She passed suddenly from an aortic aneurysm in 2017 while the class was still ongoing.
But Berta had this energy about her. She was so calming and present. That song was one of the last things she played in class before her departure from earth.
Since I hate flying, I always try to find songs that I feel will “chill me out.” This song makes me feel like I can hear Berta talking to me. “You’ve got this. It’s just a flight. Feel what’s making you anxious and then remind yourself it will pass. What a great day today is,” I’d imagine her calming voice saying.
I put it on. But I wasn’t calm. I couldn’t hear Berta. My brain was just full of scenarios.
“What if something happens, and I don’t make it in time?” “What if he wakes up and sees everyone and asks where I am?” “What if he dies, and I am not there?”
The plane started to vibrate as it was gaining speed down the runway. I was scrolling through my phone when I came to one of my most-played songs, “A Few Words for the Firing Squad (Radiation)” by Run the Jewels (RTJ).
I hit play. The beat started.
BUM. BUM. BUM. BUM. BUM. DAH. DAH. DAH. DAH.
Then EL-P’s verse started. The levees holding back my tears were growing weaker. Then Killer Mike’s voice hit.
“When my mother transitioned to another plane, I was sitting on a plane/ Tellin’ her to hold on and she tried hard but she just couldn’t hang/Been two years, truth is I’ll probably never be the same/Dead serious, it’s a chore not to let myself go insane/It’s crippling, make you want lean on a cup of promethazine…”
The levees gave way. Tears started streaming down my face.
“Dad, hold on. Listen to me, motherfucker. Fight. You are a fighter, goddammit. I’m coming to you. We are all coming to you. You are not going out like this!”
I said this over and over in my head. I don’t remember when the liquid from my eyes stopped, but I remember thinking the only reason was that my tear ducts had nothing left to secrete.
There are some people who take pride in not crying. Or, they think it’s a sign of strength to hold back tears. Others simply don’t cry because it’s not how they are wired. And that is OK.
I know people throw shad at those that cry openly, especially dudes that cry. Aside from the scientific research that shows this action “releases oxytocin and endogenous opioids, also known as endorphins,” this is not an act of weakness.
So, to those that think this, or judge guys like me for crying, I I’d like to pause my story to offer you two words that I bet you can guess without finishing this sentence: FUCK YOU!
I hope you catch me crying and give me a side eye. As my boy Jimmy would say, “That’s that Bama in you.”
I played the RTJ song again. And again. And again. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know what it was. That song still rocks me to my core to this day. And truth be told, it did even before that plane ride.
Both El-P and Killer Mike are really special in that song.
It was about 12:30 p.m. CST when I heard the DING and the crackling of the intercom wake the sleepy cabin. I could hear it over the sound of my RTJ repeat symphony.
“This is your flight attendant speaking. Wi-Fi is now available. Please keep all phones switched to Airplane Mode and follow the instructions in your Delta mobile app to connect to the network onboard.”
I was connected before the voice that was projecting throughout the cabin finished.
No messages popped up when I connected, but I felt my phone start to vibrate in my hands. It felt like a bunch of information was about to pop up.
BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.
Then a few texts came through.
12:10 p.m., Text from Mal: Taking him now to get another CT scan.
12:10 p.m., Text from Shai: Any results from the first ones?
12:10 p.m., Text from Mal: Yes, they are doing another to make sure the area is not continuing to bleed.
“These must have come through at 11:30 p.m. EST, so this was happening at 10:30 a.m. CST,” I thought. I couldn’t do the math on how much time had passed between the first CT scan and me taking off, and the most recent CT scan (second)..
If Shai was asking this question at 10:30 a.m. CST, that meant that she, Justin, and Lauren were on their way to the hospital.
“They should be there by now,” I thought. I tried responding, but not texts went through.
Suddenly, I felt the wheels of the plane touch down on the New Orleans airport tarmac. It was only 12:59 p.m. Had we really arrived that early?
I thought pops had pulled the plane closer with his brain.
He used to always ask me for my flight itinerary when I traveled. He’d text a bunch of short sentences with question marks. “Flight number? Airline? What time do you leave? Have a layover? Weather OK? 3-hour flight…Not bad dude!”
When I’d arrive at my destination, he’d always say, “Made great time! Strong tailwind!”
So when I landed early in New Orleans, I could hear him saying, “Great time! Strong tailwind. Now get your butt over here!”
I knew he wanted all five of us there when he woke up.
My brother-in-law, Josh, picked me up. Justin was already at the hospital with my siblings and my mom.
I’m ending the story here. I don’t know if I am ready to go in to everything that happened after I arrived. Maybe someday, but not today.
You might be asking what was the point of this story.
The answer: I just wanted to share with you what it was like to be in a suspended space in time saturated with uncertainty. In a state of pure helplessness. I don’t mean for it invoke fear, but more or less to serve as a voice to let you know I know how you feel.
Some of you might already know this feeling. I am sorry for that. Some might be experiencing it at this moment. I am sorry for that as well. Some will face it in the future.
To be honest, I just wanted to say, “FUCK THE 13TH!”
Today will actually be the last time I say this. That is because I have a niece entering the world today.
Excited to meet her.
I like to think that pop’s had a hand in replacing this shitty day with one that we can celebrate moving forward.
