Mondays with Mike: A very happy anniversary

A strange feeling followed me around last week. Like there was something I was forgetting. Finally, on Friday, during my morning walk to work, it sort of tapped me on the shoulder—for no reason I took my phone out and looked at the date.

April 25. Exactly one year since the benign tumor on Beth’s aortic valve nearly did her in. For just a split second I was brought back to the paralyzing feeling I got when the cardiologist told me that morning that Beth’s heart had gone into fibrillation, that her heart had been shocked back into rhythm, but that there was no time to waste. She was going into emergency open heart surgery. It felt like my legs were going to give out—this time on Michigan Avenue instead of in the hospital.

Beth at the park with Hero of the Game Scott Fischer and his wife Kristen.

I may have indeed stopped in my tracks … I don’t know. It was like a blackout moment, but it passed, I found my stride, and I realized that indeed everything was OK. I’d just said goodbye to Beth on a street corner—leaving her to finish her morning walk with Whitney.

On the walk other moments flashed back. Faces of doctors. Nurses. Of my friend Greg, who shepherded me through the day. Family visitors. Kind of a random collage. I felt like it had been long forgotten, but it was all immediate and real again. One thing in particular: When I came home the night of Beth’s surgery and it was pretty clear that she had made it out of the woods, Chauncey—the door person on duty at our building—asked how Beth was. I started to tell him, and along the way I just choked up. He sprang to his feet from behind the front desk, walked toward me and gave me a bear hug. We chatted. I don’t remember what we said. But I’ll never forget that hug, or Chauncey. He’s enshrined in the Mike Knezovich Personal Hall of Fame.

I realized that things have changed since then, but in a way I still don’t fully comprehend. For a long while, it was obvious in an almost cliché way. I felt compelled to be more patient, more appreciative, more mindful. And I was. That’s the crazy thing about crises. They, in a bizarre way, because of adrenalin or whatever it is about them, make me hyper aware, and leave me feeling more alive than before.

All the memories made me realize that the post-crisis buzz was long gone. That between all the bad daily news, bad politics, work headaches, and the foibles of humanity in general, it was like it never happened. I was in my cubicle at work, back to grind state.

But then I remembered: Beth and I had tickets to the White Sox game that night. The promise of our first game of the season floated me through the day. I met her after her panel discussion on accessibility at art museums, we cabbed home, she changed clothes, I grabbed my White Sox jacket, and three stops on the Red Line later, we were walking down 35th Street to the park.

When we bought the tickets weeks ago, I wasn’t cognizant of anything special about the date. What was special was this: Like other MLB clubs, the White Sox honor a member of the armed services at every home game. On this night, the honoree was Scott Fischer of the U.S. Coast Guard. And son of Beth’s high school friends Jenny and Dean Fischer. We’d gotten in on a special deal for friends and family.
The seats were great, down the left field line, halfway down to field level on the lower deck. Best of all, we were among a sea of Scott’s family and friends. Nothing but good feeling. The game started out great—our Cuban rookie Jose Abreu hit an absolute bomb to put the Sox ahead. But the lead evaporated and the Sox were behind by the middle of the third, when Scott was brought on the field, introduced to the crowd, projected on the Jumbotron, and received a standing ovation. It was a hoot.

During the game, we learned that the Bulls had won their NBA playoff game. And that the Blackhawks won their NHL Stanley Cup playoff game in overtime. Our Sox managed to tie the Tampa Bay Rays at 4-4, but as has been their wont this year, the bullpen gave back the lead in the top of the ninth. Things looked kinda bleak. But, after hits, walks, and a hit batsmen, there were two outs the score was 6-5 and Jose Abreu came to the plate. With the bases loaded. He fouled off the first pitch and then drove the second pitch over the right field wall…for a game-winning grand slam!

Much joy. A post-game beer or two at Hackney’s. And best of all, I walked home with Beth, and we fell asleep in our familiar spoon.

It’s been a really good year.