A week ago yesterday my Sunday started pretty typically: Did the Times Crossword, started laundry, got a pot of chili in the oven (I like to braise chunks of chuck roast), then headed to the gym with Beth.

Sometimes normal is stupendous.

I hadn’t been feeling exactly sharp all day, but I’d hoped working up a sweat, hitting the sauna, and showering would change all that. Well, I lasted 10 minutes on the treadmill, had to cut the sauna short when I started feeling faint, and by the time I got home, I was an achy mess.

I had the flu but was still holding out hope that it was a garden variety bug until I got the worst case of the chills I recall ever having. Even with layers of blankets and the heat turned up, I could barely hold the cup of water Beth brought me to down a couple Advil.

The rest of the mornings, I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, the only thing missing was Sonny and Cher. I’d open my eyes. My head ached. My body ached. I’d take my temperature, hoping this was the day I’d see 98.6, it’d be 101 or thereabouts, I’d get down a hot tea or some broth, I’d feel good enough to check email and do a couple of work things, and then suddenly feel like my skeleton had been removed and I would just will myself to the bed where I would dissolve for several hours.

There were fever dreams, and I remember beginning to concoct what played as a bluesy-rock song in my head, with a chorus that went something like:

Chillin’ and a shakin’
Achin’ and a bakin’
I got the flu
Fa fa fa flu

I hadn’t been that sick for sometime, and I forgot how it leaves you vulnerable and nutty and schmoopy. I thought about people sicker than I was, people in the midst of chemo. Good God, like I needed to feel worse. I imagined being this sick—but being homeless, or in jail, or all alone or even sicker than I was and I just curled up tight in crazy gratitude that I was lucky enough to feel so awful in my own home in my own bed.

There were smatterings of news—Beth would have the radio on in the bathroom as she got ready to go out and teach her classes. Somewhere along the line I remember hearing about the journalist Bob Simon being killed. In a mundane traffic accident, of all things. I have this thing about dying in a car accident—I think it’s the absolute stupidest way to go—and truth be told, the older I get the stupider driving and its attendant risks seem. I mean, going out on a motorcycle, that’s a different story. As Hunter S. Thompson once said, “better to be shot out of a cannon than to be squeezed out of a tube.” Anyway. To hear a guy who’d cheated death and done so much good work under perilous circumstances got killed in the middle of Manhattan just left me deflated.

And then there were more stories about kids getting measles. When you feel like death, it reminds you how much grief is visited on people regardless of their best efforts. And to think any kid or any one is suffering because some morons won’t get their kids vaccinated was all the more infuriating. It’s a good thing for the anti-vaccine people that it took everything for me to get from the bedroom to the living room, or they’d have been in big trouble. (FYI, I did get the flu shot this year, as I have for the past 10–and this is the first year I’ve had the flu since 2005.)

Of course, there was the healthy living version of a foxhole conversion, also. I whispered in a fevered haze that I’ll only eat healthy food, I’d drink less, sleep more, and generally be much more boring as soon as I felt better. As if someone could grant that wish.

Then Saturday…I awoke…and my temperature read 98.4. No headache. No ache at all. Just looked like a ghost and felt limp. My appetite was back. Unfortunately, Beth had finished the chili the night before. It’s like it never happened. The chili, that is.

Right about now, though, pizza and beer sound pretty good.

It’s good to be back.

Four different editors at University of Illinois Press went over the rough draft of my memoir before they published it. All of them suggested changes.

One of the most common request? Stronger verbs. They also wanted descriptions that were more precise, more colorful, more heartfelt. Now, 12 years after my memoir, Long Time, No See was published, I am leading four memoir-writing classes every week and urging writers to , you guessed it: use stronger verbs and include precise, colorful, and heartfelt descriptions in their writing.

The requests from my editors forced me to return to certain settings in Long Time, No See and focus on how events at hand made me feel at the time. Not always easy. Some of the most life-altering events in our lives are ones we’d rather forget.

An example: Surgeons operated on my left eye first. That surgery was unsuccessful. The first Try with my right eye didn’t work, either. They operated on it a second time. Each surgery was painful. Each required month-long stays at the hospital to recover, and I had to keep my face down every minute of every day of those long months away from home. My head was down when I “watched” television, when I listened to books, when I walked to the bathroom. I slept with my face in the center of a donut “hemorrhoid” pillow – eye surgeons didn’t want to risk me turning my head in the night.

In Long Time, No See I write about the retina surgeon examining my eyes after the third surgery and breaking the news to Mike and me that I’ll never see again. In the rough draft I told readers that after hearing this, Mike and I walked out of the office and headed to White Sox Park for a baseball game. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! University of Illinois Press editors read that and said I absolutely must tell my readers what was going through my head when we found out my blindness was permanent.

Not exactly a moment I wanted to relive – who wants to re-enter that room and hear that bad news all over again? In the end, though, rewriting that scene turned out to be GREAT therapy. I had to think. When I was told I’d never see again, was I disappointed? Angry? Sad? Scared? The answer is here, in an excerpt from the published version of Long Time, No See (University of Illinois Press, 2003):

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can do,” he said in a tone I recognized from his final report on my left eye.

All I could think to ask was, “Can I lift my head up now?”

He said I could. Thankful for at least that, I raised my head for the first time in over a month. I was struck by a sudden feeling of freedom and relief. No more lasers, no more operations, no more weekly visits to Chicago, no more worrying whether or not this all was going to work. We’d been at this for nearly a year; now it was finally over.

I swiveled my head as if to look around. I saw nothing. Mike talked to the doctor, asking sensible questions, I suppose. Turning toward their voices, I asked if this was really it, if we’d really exhausted the possibilities.

“I’m a religious man,” the doctor answered, “and in the religion I follow we believe in miracles. I believe God has cured all sorts of ailments. This could happen with you, but there’s nothing else I can do for you medically.”

We stood up to leave. I reached out for the doctor’s hand. He clasped mine with both of his, and I thanked him for all he’d done. He was shaking. I felt sorry for him; I would’ve liked to tell him we were going to be all right.

The White Sox were in town that day. Going to a ballgame after learning I’d be blind for the rest of my life was probably a strange thing to do, but it beat heading home and sitting on our pitiful second-hand couch and wondering where to turn next. From the book:

The White Sox were having a rotten year. There were maybe 8,000 people in the stands; Floyd Banister pitched, the Sox lost. But it was strangely pleasant, sitting next to Mike with my head up, not giving a thought to eyes or surgery. We each had a bratwurst and a beer. Between bites and gulps and giving me play by play, Mike bantered with other fans, cursing the underachievers on the team. I laughed at Nancy Faust, the Sox organist—she’s famous for picking songs that play on player’s names. Mike marveled at the endurance of Carlton Fisk, and we both wondered out loud why every time we went to a game, that bum Banister was pitching.

The three-hour ride home was quiet, and once we got there, we found ourselves sitting on our miserable couch, just as we’d feared, holding hands and trying to imagine how we’d cope. Our only decision that night was to go to sleep, and today being Valentine’s Day, I’ll end the post with that steamy scene — editors agreed with me that it didn’t need more description than I had in the rough draft!

Our bed felt wonderful. I was home for good. Despite everything, a powerful relief came over me, a sense of security, such a change from how I’d felt during those months in my hospital bed. And I realized right away that sight isn’t needed under the covers.

Beth here. We debuted our “Mondays with Mike” feature just about a year ago, and since then many of you blog readers have told us how much you enjoy starting your week reading my husband Mike Knezovich’s posts. Some of you newcomers might not know that Mike had been weighing in occasionally with guest posts long before we started his regular Monday installment, and since the poor guy is down with the flu today, we’re reblogging a guest post he wrote in 2013, before “Mondays with Mike” was born. Please accept my apologies if the photos are out of whack –Mike usually handles the graphics on our blog posts!

They ain’t robots, they’re better

by Mike Knezovich

Beth’s on her fourth Seeing Eye dog—and, in a very real way, so am I. Everyone easily grasps the difference a guide dog can make in its partner’s life. What they might not consider though, is the huge difference a guide dog can make to their partner’s partner’s life, too.

After Beth lost her sight, life was a slog for both of us. She had to learn a lot of things, and many of them were only learnable the hard way. And I had to watch. It pushed me into something of a parental role—how much to protect? How much to let her (literally) take her hard knocks? Beth went to school to get orientation and mobility training—which taught her how to navigate with a cane. The instructors were great, the techniques are ingenious. But it’s hard as hell to learn. Like Braille.

And, as Beth will attest, she kinda’ sucked at the white-cane-mobility thing. So when she left to say, go to the mailbox, it was utter hell for me not to spring to my feet and say “I’ll go with you.” So, at first, I did spring to my feet. Or offer to drive her to wherever. Because the thought of her out there by herself with that cane just about killed me. But my being there with her all the time was not sustainable, from either of our points of view.

That’s Dora.

The Seeing Eye trains the people every bit as much as they train the dogs—and dreary consistency is vital. Beth and I were probably taken a bit by the novelty of a new member of our family, and we surely weren’t as consistent with our dog-training habits as we are now. Still, Dora had a defiant streak that I think would have, well, defied us, whatever our behavior.

The one. The only. Hanni. (Applies to Beth, too.)

Harper came next, and from the start, he seemed somewhat ill at ease. He had an incredibly fast gait, but we realized in retrospect that he’d been treating walks as something to get over with as quickly as possible. He was stressed by his enormous responsibility, and why not? Still, stressed and all, he did his job heroically and saved Beth from a catastrophic accident. His ensuing canine PTSD could have been heartbreaking—except that it landed him with two fantastic people and he lives a helluva good life now.

Harper living the good life in retirement, with his best buddy Beau.

On harness, especially during bustling weekdays downtown, Whitney’s head is on a swivel, constantly looking out for her and Beth. She walks at a great pace but slows when she should—threading Beth around construction zones, slowing down for ice, creeping gently around WPs (wobbly people). Walking right up to the curb at each crossing and waiting for Beth to command straight, left or right. God I love her.

People sometimes tell us that they saw Whitney—or Beth’s other dogs—screwing up. In some cases, the people actually have it wrong. For example, they simply don’t know that the dog is supposed to go straight all the way until they get to the curb—and wait for Beth’s command to go left or right. This looks wrong, because it means overshooting the point where a sighted person would make a right or left. But it’s absolutely necessary. The person has to be the navigator, and the dog can’t take shortcuts.In other cases, the dog really is screwing up—weaving to sniff another dog (and our neighborhood is full of them). Responding to the whistle or petting of well-meaning but clueless passersby. Bumping into pedestrians who are texting. Beth is forced to correct her partner in those cases, which is no fun but absolutely necessary.

Without question, the dogs have flaws. All of them. But as the old adage goes, “If you come across a talking horse, you don’t complain about its grammar.” Beth’s dogs have probably added years to my life by relieving me of worry. So if they sniff or veer or bark occasionally, I’m OK with it. And I’ve loved them all.

My retired Seeing Eye dog Hanni will turn fifteen years old this weekend! She was only five years old when I started sending Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound out to agents and publishers, and now, ten years later, the book and its star are still going strong. Just this past weekend a brand new review of Safe & Sound came out on a dogblog called Reading with Rhythm, And the good news? They liked it! Here’s an excerpt :

This book presents a great picture of what it’s like to be a working dog. It’s about the job at hand, but the story is also about the relationship between Beth and Hanni. How they had to learn to trust each other because both their lives depended on that trust. How that trust was the foundation for a deep love. It’s a lovely tale.

The star of the Reading with Rhythm blog is a real-life Black Lab named Rhythm who visits schools and the Somervell County Library in Glen Rose, Texas, where kids come and share books with her and sharpen their reading skills. The latest Reading with Rhythm post reports that Electra, a guide-dog puppy, came along with Rhythm on a recent school visit…and so did a copy of Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound! The review says our book was “perfect for 3rd-graders” and “suitable for all ages, young and old.”

Hanni will be celebrating her birthday this weekend with Nancy and Steven, the wonderful couple who adopted her when she retired, and this book review sure is a great way to kickstart that celebration. Thank you, Reading with Rhythm, and here’s to you, Hanni. As the Beatles like to say: “So glad it’s your birthday — happy birthday to you – oooo!”

As I write this on a Sunday afternoon, the snow’s falling at about an inch an hour in Chicago, with accumulations possibly reaching 16”, and all that snow blowing around in 25-40 mph gusts.

At least that’s what it says online—I’m looking over my computer screen at a grey, but by comparison, mild day in downtown Louisville, Ky. We were scheduled to fly home right about now, but snowstorm Linus has us staying an extra night here in bourbon country.

There could be worse things. For one thing, did I mention the bourbon? Ridiculously smooth bourbon, oaky bourbon, smoky bourbon, caramel-infused bourbon, bourbon with a bite, bourbon…OK. Let’s just say they serve flights of bourbon the way other places do flights of craft beer.

We’re staying at The Brown, one of Louisville’s grand dame hotels. That would be enough for Beth to call it heaven, as we know how much she likes a nice hotel and all that goes with the experience.

That’s the University of Louisville Jazz Ensemble I (L) and the Ballard High School Jazz Band (R)

But even better: We’ve been able to hang out with Beth’s brother Doug and his wife Shelley—and that has meant going to a couple of Doug’s jazz gigs. He’s a trombonist about whom Beth’s written before. He retired from his day job a while ago and learned that when you reach a certain age, you can take classes at the University of Louisville. Beth’s mom raised no fools, and Doug took the opportunity to formally study in the jazz program. He’s been at it for a couple years. And—I wouldn’t have imagined saying this before because he’s always been a fantastic musician who produced the very best tone I’ve ever heard from a trombone—he’s better than ever.

Friday night we saw him with the University Jazz Ensemble I at a campus concert hall. It was a fantastic big-band experience made all the better because the University band director had connected with a local high school program. On stage, the college band and the high schools band set up side by side, alternating numbers, and then coming together for a bluesy piece that saw players on both sides of the stage, including Doug, take solos.

Doug takes a solo on the last number.

It was fantastic—and the high school band was pretty incredible considering they were all in, err, high school. Saturday night Doug and Beth talked a little piano jazz chord changes after we were treated to a terrific dinner by Shelley at their house. And Sunday morning we went to The Highlands Tap (The Highlands is a trendy area of Louisville chock full of little clubs and restaurants). Doug played with a trio while we sipped on Bloody Marys and Mimosas (Beth behaved with a Virgin Mary) and ate some good southern breakfast food.

In between performances, Beth and I managed to get to the Louisville Slugger Factory museum and took the tour—and checked out the Muhammad Ali Center.

The Louisville Slugger museum and tour is terrific. We saw them making some major-leaguer’s bats. And we stopped, here, for the special exhibit on Cuban-born MLB players. Beth’s next to the photo Minnie Minoso, a Cuban-born White Sox great.

Like I said, there are worse things than having to stay another night. (Except for having to leave at 4:30 a.m. to catch our Monday flight. I expect we’ll be asleep by half time of the Super Bowl, which is fine—not much of a Katy Perry fan anyway).

All in all, I’m left with these thoughts:

• A trip to Louisville is well worth the effort. Stay at The Brown if you can scrape together the shekels (or, in my case, the air miles that seem never to do me any good when I actually want to use them for air travel). And have some bourbon when you’re there.
• Everyone, please: Resolve to see more live music. The number of incredibly talented musicians that are out there doing it full time or on the side is an embarrassment of riches in our country. Don’t gripe about cover charges—think about what you spend on bad movies, bad cable, bad food, or pretentious coffees. Don’t do it out of obligation—do it because it’s way more fulfilling than lots of other crap that we get hypnotized into doing.
• Take my brother-in-law Doug’s experience as an example and inspiration—he’s getting older and better. That’s a pretty cool thing all you jazz cats.