Lessons From Lucy

by Dave Barry

  I don’t claim that the seven lessons I came up with are amazing, or even original. They are obvious. They are common sense. My problem is not that I didn’t know these things; it’s that I’ve done a lousy job of using what I know.

  But I’m trying to do better. I’m trying to actually help myself with this self-help book. So I thought I’d conclude it with a report card on how I’ve done so far with applying the Seven Lessons from Lucy to my own life.

  Lesson One:

  Make New Friends.

  (And Keep the Ones You Have.)

  I’ve done better with the second part of this lesson than the first. I’ve been making a point of keeping in better touch with old friends, sometimes calling them purely to say hi, which is something I never, ever used to do. I also hosted a large party for my birthday, which is also something I’ve never done. Many old friends came, and we partied reasonably hearty for old people; the glow from that weekend stayed with me for months. I love my friends. That’s an absurdly obvious statement, but I’m just now, at age seventy, realizing how true it is.

  I have not done nearly as well with the first part of this lesson. Unlike Lucy, who remains as outgoing as ever, I still resist meeting new people, let alone becoming friends with them. Apparently I’m not alone. I’ve been asking guys my age whether they’ve made any friends in their later years, and they consistently say they haven’t. As one of them put it: “I don’t want any more friends. I’m not sure I want the friends I have.” This was a typical response. Maybe it’s an older-guy thing.

  But I’d like to do better. Maybe I need to take up some activity that would force me to meet people, like golf. The problem there is that the people I’d meet would be into golf. They’d want to talk about their putters, and how they bogeyed an eagle birdie on the fourteenth hole. I already hate them.

  See? I have a problem. I need to work on this.

  MY GRADE: C

  Lesson Two:

  Don’t Stop Having Fun.

  (And If You Have Stopped, Start Having Fun Again.)

  I’m doing better with this one. As I write these words the Rock Bottom Remainders, who have not performed for several years, are preparing for a gig at a book festival. I don’t mean “preparing” in the sense of “practicing the songs ahead of time” or even “knowing which specific songs we will be attempting to play.” I mean “preparing” in the sense of “periodically sending each other emails asking what date the gig is again.” But we seem to have it pretty much nailed down, so we will be getting back onstage, a bunch of aging people flailing away at musical instruments, trying to remember the lyrics and getting as funky as we are able given our current medical conditions. So that will be fun.

  In my Lucy-inspired quest for fun I also reconnected with the World Famous Lawn Rangers of Arcola, Illinois. My plan was to march with the Rangers in the 2017 Broom Corn Festival; I even talked two of my friends, Mike Peters and Ron Ungerman, both of whom are mentioned in this book, into joining me. Unfortunately that plan was derailed by Hurricane Irma (also mentioned in this book). But I am determined to rejoin the Rangers in 2018. Life is too short to not be part of something that stupid.

  I’ve also been spending more time with my three-year-old grandson, Dylan, who possesses a seemingly infinite capacity for having fun. Everything is fun for Dylan. We can spend a highly entertaining half hour just lying on our backs on the floor and slaying each other by taking turns making fart noises. We’re kind of like Congress, but more productive.

  The point is, I’m definitely having more fun.

  MY GRADE: A

  Lesson Three:

  Pay Attention to the People You Love.

  (Not Later. Right Now.)

  This is a constant struggle. I try to focus on the people around me, the people I love, but there’s always something else I think I need to be doing, and my phone is constantly whispering, “Look at me! Look at me!” I still yield to too many distractions, and each time I give away minutes, sometimes hours, that I could be spending with my family, time I’ll never get back because apparently it was more important for me to interact with random strangers on Twitter.

  But I’m trying, and I think I’m doing better than I used to.

  MY GRADE: C+

  Lesson Four:

  Let Go of Your Anger, Unless It’s About Something Really Important, Which It Almost Never Is.

  This one is also a constant struggle, but I’m working hard on it. For example, when some idiot cuts me off in traffic, I no longer allow myself to become consumed by rage, which is both unproductive and unhealthy. Instead, using a technique perfected by Zen masters, I take a deep breath, then calmly, even serenely, blast the idiot into a cloud of glowing particles with the fantasy Zen phaser cannon mounted on the front of my car. Then I exhale, and I’m fine.

  Also I almost never argue about politics anymore, and I have pretty much stopped watching the nonstop freakout-a-thon that is cable-TV news. I am a far happier person for it. The world may be going to hell, but then again it always was.

  MY GRADE: B–

  Lesson Five:

  Try Not to Judge People by Their Looks, and Don’t Obsess Over Your Own.

  I’m doing OK on this one. The older I get, the less judgmental I am about how other people look, because every morning I observe my own personal appearance in the mirror and I think, quote, Yikes. I’ve reached the point where I think I’m looking pretty sharp if all my nose hairs are approximately the same length.

  MY GRADE: B–

  Lesson Six:

  Don’t Let Your Happiness Depend on Things; They Don’t Make You Truly Happy, and You’ll Never Have Enough Anyway.

  I’m doing pretty well here. In the past year I haven’t purchased a single new camera lens to accompany all the other camera lenses I own that I almost never use. Also I am holding steady at seven guitars. The only new electronic device in my life was given to me by my son: it’s Alexa, a computerized virtual woman who inhabits an Internet-connected box. Alexa sits on the counter, patiently waiting for me to give her commands or ask her things. Like I’ll say, “Alexa, what’s the temperature?” And Alexa will answer: “Right now it’s eighty-three degrees in Miami.” I already know this, of course; it’s always eighty-three degrees in Miami. I’m only asking to keep Alexa from getting bored.

  I think Alexa is a nice addition to our household, but Michelle is not a fan. She and Alexa often do not see eye to eye. Like if I tell Michelle we need beer, she’ll say something like, “We already have plenty of beer,” whereas if I tell Alexa we need beer, she’ll immediately respond, “I’ve put beer on your shopping list.” So there’s some tension between the two. I frankly think Michelle’s a little jealous. I tell her that Alexa could never replace her, and I mean it, despite the fact that I can tell Alexa I want to hear virtually any song—for example, “The Game of Love” by Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders—and she will instantly play it, which is a capability that Michelle does not possess. I’m just saying.

  MY GRADE: B+

  Lesson Seven:

  Don’t Lie Unless You Have a Really Good Reason, Which You Probably Don’t.

  I think I’m doing OK here, too. I still tell lies, of course, but they’re usually little white lies told for a good reason, like when I tell somebody who doesn’t look great that he or she looks great, or when I tell the Internal Revenue Service that I have fourteen dependents.

  Just kidding, IRS! Please do not audit me! As I have accurately stated on my tax returns, I have only eleven dependents, including Alexa.

  But seriously, I’m doing OK on this lesson.

  MY GRADE: B

  So according to this report card, I’m averaging somewhere around a low B in my ongoing effort to apply Lucy’s lessons to my life. Lucy, of course, has an A-plus. She’s still a happy and loving dog, all day, every day; she’s a joy to be around. It’s hard to imagine life without her.

  But I have to, of course. Lucy’s almost eleven; she doesn’t have many years left
. When she goes, she’ll go gracefully, the way dogs do—without complaint, self-pity or regret. Which is another lesson I can learn from her, though I’m not ready for it yet.

  Meanwhile I’ll cherish the time I have with Lucy, and do what I can to make her last years as pleasant as possible. Toward that end, Sophie and I have been lobbying Michelle to get a puppy, so Lucy will have somebody to play with and be with when we’re not around. Michelle has been resisting us, her argument being that puppies can be a lot of hassle. It hasn’t helped that some friends of ours, who recently got two Lab puppies, have been giving us progress reports that always contain the phrase “there’s urine everywhere.”

  But Sophie and I—especially Sophie—have not given up, and I think eventually we’ll prevail. We’ll get a puppy; for now, I will refer to him as Buster. And at first Buster will, in fact, be a hassle. We’ll have to housebreak him, and teach him not to chew stuff or climb on the furniture. But soon enough, with us nagging him and Lucy serving as a role model (except as regards the white sofa), he’ll learn what’s right and what’s wrong.

  And then he’ll start teaching me.

  ONE LAST LESSON

  This chapter wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Lessons from Lucy was supposed to end with the epilogue you just read. That was the conclusion of the manuscript I sent to my editor, Priscilla Painton. The book was done: I’d covered the lessons and tied them up with a nice neat bow. Lessons from Lucy was edited and proofread; advance publicity copies were sent out to the media; a book tour was planned.

  Meanwhile my daughter, Sophie, was getting ready to start her freshman year at Duke. She was excited: Duke had been her first choice, and she was thrilled when she got accepted. Michelle and I knew we’d miss her, but we were happy for her, and looking forward to our new life as empty nesters. We were going to kick it off with a trip to Las Vegas.

  We had plans. Life was orderly. Life was good.

  On Saturday, August 18, two days before we were going to take Sophie to Duke, she woke up paralyzed from the waist down.

  Just like that. Overnight. She could not move her legs. She couldn’t even wiggle her toes.

  She was paralyzed.

  Sophie hadn’t been sick that she was aware of. We’d gone out to dinner the night before to celebrate with her grandmother. Sophie later told us that during dinner her legs felt a little tingly. But she figured it was just nerves, anticipation, excitement.

  Our first thought, that Saturday morning, was that she was having some kind of anxiety attack. It has to be that, we thought. She’s a healthy young woman. There’s nothing wrong with her.

  We told her that. We told ourselves that.

  People don’t just become paralyzed overnight.

  It’s just stress.

  She’s fine.

  But we soon realized that, whatever it was, it wasn’t going away. Michelle called Sophie’s doctor, who told us to take Sophie to the hospital. I lifted Sophie onto a wheeled desk chair, rolled her through the house to the garage, then lifted her into the car. We drove to Baptist Hospital, about fifteen minutes from our house. We got a wheelchair and rolled her into the emergency room waiting area.

  Sophie was not panicking. If I’d been in her situation—if I suddenly couldn’t move my legs—I’d have been freaking out. But Sophie was calm, even joking a little. I told her she’d be walking out of there before the end of the day. I believed it.

  She’s fine.

  After a few minutes in the waiting area, we were met by a neurologist who’d been called in by Sophie’s doctor. The neurologist examined Sophie, asked her some questions. I was waiting for the neurologist to tell us not to worry, it was just nerves.

  But she didn’t. She said Sophie needed an MRI scan. Right away.

  We went to the MRI area. The techs lifted Sophie onto a special gurney, asked if she had any metal on her. She took off her earrings and gave them to Michelle. The neurologist was urgently typing something on a computer and talking to the techs. Twice she used a word that, until then, I had never heard a real doctor say—only actors playing doctors.

  The word was “stat.”

  As they were about to take Sophie into the MRI room, we kissed her on the forehead and told her we’d be right outside. She gave us a nervous little smile and said OK. Then they wheeled her away.

  We went into the waiting room and sat. There was a TV on, but we ignored it. We didn’t talk much; we didn’t know anything. We just sat there, waiting. I felt as though I was barely breathing.

  After a while the neurologist came into the waiting room. Her face was somber. She said the MRI techs weren’t finished yet, but she’d seen enough that she felt she should talk to us. I will never, ever forget the words she said next.

  “This is not good.”

  Sophie apparently had an autoimmune disorder called Transverse Myelitis.28 Something—maybe a virus, maybe something else—had triggered her immune system, which attacked the invader, but then went on to attack Sophie’s spinal cord.

  The neurologist said they were going to begin treatment immediately.

  She said they would do everything they could so Sophie would—these were her words—“have a chance to walk again.”

  I remember leaning forward in my seat as the neurologist spoke, putting my face in my hands, closing my eyes, trying to absorb what I was hearing.

  A chance to walk again.

  The neurologist went back to the MRI room. Michelle and I looked at each other, both of us thinking the same thing: This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. She’s going to college in two days.

  Michelle was on her phone, googling Transverse Myelitis. Here’s what she found:

  One-third of the people who get TM have “good or full” recovery.

  One-third have “fair” recovery, but are left with “deficits.”

  One-third do not recover. They live their lives in wheelchairs.

  This can’t be happening.

  The neurologist came back and told us she was taking Sophie out of the MRI so she could begin treatment. We hurried out to see Sophie. She was frightened now, trying to grasp what was happening to her as the neurologist explained the situation. Michelle and I tried to be reassuring, but nothing we could say could refute the obvious truth.

  This is not good.

  The hospital people put Sophie on a transport gurney and wheeled her off through the maze of corridors. Michelle and I walked behind, fighting back tears, our stomachs hollow pits, following our girl—our girl who was supposed to be going to Duke—as they took her to the Critical Care Unit.

  Within minutes Sophie was in a hospital bed, catheterized, connected by wires to monitors, an IV drip connected to her arm through which they were giving her heavy doses of steroids to reduce the inflammation in her spinal cord. They installed a port in her groin for a procedure called plasmapheresis—sort of like kidney dialysis—in which the antibodies are filtered out of the blood plasma. They did other things as well. The strategy, as I understood it, was to suppress Sophie’s immune system enough so that her body could start healing from the damage it had done to her. Because she was young and fit—she’d played soccer since she was four—she was getting what they call aggressive treatment. Every few minutes, it seemed, a doctor or nurse would come in to check the monitors, draw some more of Sophie’s blood, ask her more questions, give her another pill, another shot.

  Meanwhile Michelle and I were trying, in our shell-shocked state, to figure out what we needed to do—who we needed to call, what we needed to cancel, what we needed from home. We didn’t know how long Sophie would be in the hospital. We didn’t really know anything.

  This can’t be happening.

  Our life became a sleepless nightmare. Michelle stayed next to Sophie—she would not leave her side—while I was in and out of the room, talking to people, making arrangements. I wandered the halls of the Critical Care Unit, intercepting visitors29 and making phone call after phone call. I remember calling
the guy at the storage place in Durham where we’d shipped Sophie’s college stuff, telling him that my daughter was in the hospital, that we wouldn’t be picking up her things on Move-In Day, that she wasn’t going to be starting Duke with the rest of the Class of 2022. I broke down. I was embarrassed, sobbing into the phone to a complete stranger.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I hope your daughter’s OK.”

  “Thank you,” I said, hanging up, because I was breaking down again.

  I broke down a lot. Not when I was in Sophie’s room; then I did my best to be Mr. Positive, Mr. Jokey Dad. But in the hospital halls, calling people, having to explain the situation over and over, I kept losing it.

  I called my son, my brothers, our friends, told them what had happened, heard the shock in their voices.

  All of them asked the same thing: “Is there anything I can do?”

  But there wasn’t anything they could do. If there was anything that could be done, Michelle and I would have done it. But there was nothing. It’s an especially cruel kind of torture, to watch, helpless, as your child suffers. You would do anything to make it better. Every parent knows this: You would gladly, in an instant, trade places with your child.

  Take me. Paralyze me.

  But you don’t get that choice. You have to watch your child enduring pain, trying to cope with a terrifying situation, and you can do nothing for her except try to be upbeat, even though you have been given no real reason to be.