“…your parents are ok, but something happened.”

My sister-in-law Jodie didn’t have much more information other than that my folks had gotten in a motorcycle accident and that my Mom and Dad were rushed to the closest hospital. I got the call while on my way to a gig with my long time musical partner Shelly. She was driving and only heard my shocked and deadpan one word answers while I was on the phone. Something wasn’t right, something was off.

My head was spinning and I locked up. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what to think, I wasn’t even sure if what I had heard was real. Shelly kindly asked if we should turn around and cancel the gig… I just said no and we carried on and played the show, which I was physically at, but mentally I was miles away.

The next day, Whitney and I made plans, with the encouragement and support from her parents, to go back to Chicago and spend time with my folks. We packed up the car, pointed it towards Chicago, and arrived at my childhood home late in the evening after three days of driving. The house was eerily different and familiar all at the same time.

The house smelled the same, the pictures and art hung on the wall just as I had remembered, and the basement door’s glass still rattled the same way it did when I was trying to sneak out during my first years of high school.

Everything was exactly as it was the morning when my parents had left for their ride. Two empty coffee cups in the sink, some bills stamped and ready to go to the post office on the kitchen counter, that night’s dinner recipe out by the stove so Mom could start right in when they got back, but they never made it home that afternoon.

The following morning we left for the hospital and when we arrived there was a flood of every conceivable emotion. Seeing my folks laid up in hospital beds was jarring, they’re the strongest, most independent people I know, and seeing them so vulnerable broke my heart.

I always travel with my guitar, and at Whitney’s suggestion, I brought it to the hospital that day… she said it would mean a lot to my folks to hear me play and have a healthy distraction. My wife is always right, but I didn’t know just how right she would be…

As the four of us sat and caught up in between the frequent visits from nurses and doctors, my Dad asked if I was going to play that thing or just lug it around. My Dad taught me guitar, and we’d often sit and play songs whenever I would come back and visit, but it was very clear we wouldn’t be playing together today, or so I had thought.

I started playing and singing “Oh My Sweet Carolina” by Ryan Adams. I had just learned the song and given the situation, it felt like a nice mellow song to play. Nearing the end of the song I decided to tag the chorus again and what I heard filled my soul beyond comprehension… my Dad, always a keen listener, joined in and sang harmony with me.

Right there, from his clearly awkward and uncomfortable hospital bed, his leg in a full cast, monitors & machines buzzing in the background, he sang right along with me. Whitney and Mom experienced the same magic that I felt and heard.

It transcended music, it was healing, it was hope…

It didn’t matter if our harmony was “right.” The song itself was irrelevant. The way I played had nothing to do with it. It was about being together and having a sign that, despite the heaviness of the situation, things would be ok.

It was the purest form of expression, love, and connection. We stuck around Chicago for about a week visiting the hospital as often as the nurses and doctors would let us, and when we decided to head back home it was more than difficult. I felt the pull of wanting to stay and help, as well as, the sense of urgency to get back to life’s obligations Whitney and I had back in Montana.

The drive home felt longer than it usually does. The rest areas and gas stations seemed farther apart, the car moved slower than what the speedometer claimed. It was emotional purgatory The more I thought on that drive, the more I relished in the memory of my Dad and I singing together. That singular moment, that singular chorus repeat will be burned in my mind forever. Without question, Dad and I’s relationship deepened that day, but something else happened. I had always looked to my guitar as an escape of sorts. The busy-ness and stresses of life seemed to evaporate when I played guitar. It was a tool that, up until this point, I used to ignore the things that I simply didn’t want to deal with.

In that hospital room the guitar grew into a tool that I used to explore and express, rather than ignore, the feelings I previously ran from. It helped me sink into the hurt, the fear, the anxiety… the good and the bad. No longer did the guitar numb and drown out, now it was a confidant, a sounding board, and, in essence, it set me free to unload emotional baggage that I thought I would perpetually bear the burden of.

After what felt like a month of driving we arrived back home to our apartment. Walking up the stairs to our unit the sun felt warmer and a bit brighter, our smiles felt more sincere, and when we opened our door Whitney and I hugged longer than we normally did.

The next day Whitney and I would prepare for our “regular” life again. We would sit at our kitchen table and drink coffee. I knew I would be thinking about what my parents’ life would look like henceforth, and deep in my core I knew their coffee cups would be cleaned, I knew their bills would get mailed, and I knew that Mom would follow that recipe for dinner.

Deep down, I had unwavering conviction my family would get through this rough chapter and things would slowly ease into a new normal. It would no doubt be a tough transition and I was reassured I had a way to sort through my feelings as opposed to ignoring them.