When Your Friend Goes Under the Knife
This morning, I’m thinking of Rick, one of my oldest and dearest friends, whose genuine kindness without condescension or judgment has left an indelible mark on me. At this moment, he is being wheeled into a sterile operating room where a skilled surgeon, hands steadied by years of practice, will open his chest and reroute arteries before closing him back up to let the healing process begin.
Rick has often been my sidekick in schemes to start side businesses. When I started interviewing entrepreneurs who used their day jobs to start businesses for a website I called Sidepreneur Magazine, he was my most fanatical supporter. I can see flaws in how I approached that project that led to its demise, but a decade later, he still says it’s one of the coolest projects he’s seen. I may not deserve such encouragement, but I’m grateful for it. And I know of only one person on earth who will give it so generously.
Hundreds of miles away, sitting comfortably at a Starbucks table drinking a foul-tasting cup of coffee (normally, they get my order right), I’m disconnected from the operating room, but my heart is with him there.
I remember the daily strolls from AutoZone HQ down Beale Street in Memphis to a very different Starbucks across from the FedEx Forum. There, sometimes alone, and sometimes with a larger group of friends (Chad, Roy, Zach, and others) we’d grab our daily caffeine and walk back to work swapping stories, laughing, and discussing recent triumphs and disappointments. These simple things seem almost nothing in the moment, but they built a lasting connection for which I will always be grateful.
Rick is a friend to me, but a patient to the surgeon, who will see several today. But only one of them has known me for fifteen years. From my Starbucks table, I can only breathe a prayer for a good outcome followed by a speedy recovery.
Yet even the most successful surgical outcome will not re-create the healthy heart he had at birth. In a few months, Rick will wake up one morning, swing his legs over the edge of his bed, and realize as he’s getting up that his body feels light, alive like his younger self.
He will be renewed, rejuvenated, and ready to take on the world again, an audacious explorer of a world that tends toward entropy and decay. As the surgeon works on Rick, my heart beats, carrying nutrients and oxygen to my cells, each one unearned, uncontrolled, winding down toward inevitable silence.
Yes, I hope Rick has a brand new lease on life, joy, grandchildren on his knee, and work to give him meaning as he rises from his sleep every morning. When I see him next, maybe we’ll grab a coffee, chat about our shared history, and look forward to a hope that never ends.
