The Guitar That Waited For Me

I got my first guitar rig around 1965 — a Gibson LPJR Double Cutaway and an Epiphone Pathfinder amp.

I was 15 and just knew I had to learn to play. My first song was Walk Don’t Run by The Ventures, and I learned it from the LP Play Guitar Like The Ventures.

Over the years, I’ve gone through a few guitars. I even had a spell without one when I got drafted in 1972. In case you haven’t figured it out — or are just too polite to mention it — yeah, I’m getting old. But I still try to play every day.

For me, the guitar has always been more than strings and wood. It’s a magical device that speaks directly to the soul. It lets you communicate with anyone, no matter what language they speak.

I know that might sound a little out there, but that’s what it means to me. I’m not an accomplished musician — just an old bedroom strummer. And that’s fine with me.

The guitar has been my constant companion for most of my life. It’s helped me get through heartache and sorrow, and it’s helped me celebrate joy and connection.

But I didn’t fully realize just how much it meant to me until something happened that changed my world.

It was November 2022, and I hadn’t been feeling quite right. I figured it was just age catching up to me. I had my annual doctor’s appointment coming up, so I thought I’d mention it then.

After all, I never got sick. I held the record for attendance in my department — 15+ years without ever calling in. I stayed active, cycling and doing triathlons. What could possibly be wrong?

The day after my physical, I got a call from the doctor’s office:
“Go to the ER immediately. They’re waiting for you. You need a transfusion.”

Within a week, I was sitting in the cancer center as a doctor explained my diagnosis and the steps ahead.

Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

I’d need to spend the month of December in the Bone Marrow Transplant center in Atlanta.

They told me I could bring whatever I wanted — a big-screen TV, video games, whatever might help pass the time. I asked if I could bring my guitar. I promised to play quietly.

They said, “We’d love to hear you play.”

I showed up at the transplant center with everything I thought I might need — including one of my guitars and a stand.

I set it up in the corner of the room, next to the couch. I imagined sitting there, playing, passing the time. But I was so sick I couldn’t even make it from the bed to the couch.

Still, just having it there — seeing it — was enough.

I’d lie in bed, staring out at the cold, gray December sky, wondering if I’d ever go home… or ever play again. But even in the darkest moments, the guitar gave me something.

I’d think about old friends I’d played with over the years, those magical moments when everyone was in sync and the music felt like lightning in a bottle.

Before I left, I managed to play a little. A bunch of doctors and nurses gathered outside my room to hear me. Honestly, that was almost scarier than the diagnosis.

I’m doing well now, and so far I’ve beaten the odds. But the truth is, I’m on borrowed time. And you know what? I’m cool with that.

My playing has changed since coming home.
I play with more passion. More dynamics. More heart.

Even my wife of 50 years has noticed. She says she can see and hear how much my playing has shifted.

And the best part is this:
When I’m playing my guitar, I’m not old. I’m not sick. I’m not tired.
I’m just an old bedroom strummer, hanging out with his lifelong friend.

And that’s just fine with me.

Message to fellow guitar players:

Don’t take it for granted. Share your gift with anyone who’ll listen.
Play with passion. Play with commitment.

And above all — have fun. Even when it gets hard.