Dave Hope and Freddie Mercury: An unlikely pair

Dave Hope was staring intently as he took another long pull of his Marlboro Red.  He was looking down the dingy hallway at an open doorway at the end. He stood motionless, observing the person inside primping in front of a mirror.

At the time, Dave was a heavy-set, bearded, longhaired bassist for the band Kansas.  A former Topeka high school football standout, he was a no-nonsense, straight-shooting guy who didn’t suffer fools.

Kansas had been on tour opening for Queen for the better part of 1974.  Everyone got along famously, as both bands had worked through years of hardship trying to break out of preconceived notions about how rock music should sound and be presented.  These two groups exhibited a flair for the bombastic in their music, liked to break the mold with their progressive compositions, and each had exceptional lead singers.  Even though they came from vastly different backgrounds, they shared a common bond of being unique in a world of three chord boneheads.

One marked difference, however, was Kansas’ singer, Steve Walsh, didn’t exhibit the over-the-top showmanship of Queen’s Freddie Mercury.  In fact, Walsh was content to sit behind his keyboard for long stretches of their set concentrating on the intricate arrangements that needed to be delivered with precision.  Kansas generally let their playing be the stagecraft. Whereas, Mercury, with his flowing black mane, feathered boa scarf, and flamboyant, skin-tight body suit loved to prance about the stage like a toreador in a bullring.

So, here it was in that downtime between sets at some mid-level arena somewhere in the Midwest. Kansas had just finished rocking a few minutes before, and the stagehands were striking their gear and readying for Queen’s dramatic opening.  Dave had noticed Freddie from time-to-time applying his make-up and trying to get his hair “just so” before their set on other nights.  But, for some reason, he was laser focused on him this evening.

Hope took another drag on his cigarette, burning it down to the filter.  He then dropped it on the floor and rubbed it out with his well-worn Stetson boot.  He lit up another and continued to stare at Mercury as he preened at the reflection of himself, meticulously applying some eyeliner, coyly batting his eyes, and flipping his hair like a Hollywood starlet.

As I said, everyone got along wonderfully. That isn’t always the case, as often bands that tour together end up with a healthy disdain for each other.  But these Englishmen and their cohorts from the Great Plains had grown close. 

The stage manager opened the door at the other end of the hall and bellowed, “Two minutes!  Let’s go Queenies!”  Freddy continued fluffing his hair, puckered his lips to make sure there was no smudging, and leaned into the mirror yet again for a microcosmic analysis of things that absolutely no one would notice in an over-the-top rock extravaganza.

Dave had had enough.  He flicked his unfinished cig against the wall and walked five paces to the entrance of Mercury’s room.  "You know, Freddie, you can primp and doll yourself all you want," he chided with a crooked smile. “But no matter how hard you try, you’re always gonna be one astoundingly ugly, buck-toothed, son-of-a-bitch.”

Taking one last glance at his own backside in the looking glass as he walked past Dave, Freddie gave him a peck on the cheek and with his famously broad smile said, “Yes, luv, I know.  Thanks for reminding me,” and then waltzed down the hall, took the stage, and rocked that crowd into oblivion. And Dave couldn't help but shake his head and chuckle at the absurd camaraderie they all shared.

Indescribably Delicious: The Dixie Dregs

In the fall of ’76 I was chatting with Paul Goddard, the eccentric and quite talented bass player of the Atlanta Rhythm Section. We discovered we both had adoration of progressive rock, and would have lively discussions about various players, bands, and arrangements.  During one of our visits, I asked him if he had any favorite new artists.  Without hesitation, he said, “The Dixie Dregs.”

Being a rock journalist and radio DJ of the progressive ilk, I prided myself on being up-to-date on all the current trends.  But I was stumped with his answer.  “Hmmm…I’ve never heard of them,” I responded.  “What is their sound?”

In his typically clever way, Paul paused, staring off for a moment through his Coke bottle thick horn-rimmed glasses.  “Well….they are indescribably delicious.”

He proceeded to tell me that they were an instrumental outfit that had just been signed to Capricorn Records (the home of The Allman Brothers, Marshall Tucker Band, Wet Willie and other southern rock jam bands).  “The Dregs blend together so many styles of music, and they do it with such a great sense of melody and song structure, you just can’t help but like ‘em, even if you’re not into musicianship. Their first album is to be recorded soon, so be on the lookout for it next year.”

Eight months later, I am the Music Director at WVVX FM, “The Progressive Rock Voice of Chicago.”  My mission was to listen to every single album that came to us, which, during some weeks, could be as many as thirty new releases.  When a box of fresh product arrived from Polygram, the distributor of Capricorn, I was buzzed to see an odd cover featuring some hippie-lookin’ dudes jumping out of an airplane: Free Fall by the Dixie Dregs.  Remembering Paul’s infatuation, I quickly moved it to the top of my stack of auditions for that day. An hour later, when the production room became available so I could use one for the turntables, I dropped the needle on the disc. 

I was immediately mesmerized by the cornucopia of genres that defied easy categorization.  The guitar playing of primary composer Steve Morse was incredibly varied in style, with techniques that was reminiscent of Jeff Beck, Gary Rossington, John McLaughlin, Richie Blackmore, Steve Howe, Chet Atkins, Leo Kottke, Roy Buchanan, and Neil Schon, to name but a few.  Allen Sloan’s violin had elements of Jean Luc Ponty, Kenny Baker, Jerry Goodman, and Charlie Daniels.  Keyboardist Stephen Davidowski was well versed in jazz, boogie woogie, fusion, and rock stylings.  And the foundation of bassist Andy West and drummer Rod Morgenstein was adept at complex as well as solid rhythms that kept everything in sync.

When I met with our air staff the next day to go over new releases, I couldn’t stop raving about Free Fall, and declared that it would become an instant classic with our listeners.  When asked for a description, I gave them Paul Goddard’s line, but they just stared at me.  I then pointed to the mini-review I wrote on the album’s cover: “This is the best rockabluesicaljazzgrass you will ever hear,” and then proceeded to play them several cuts. Their collective eyes opened wide, grins came over their faces, and I knew they had been won over as well.

The Polygram/Capricorn promotion rep was thrilled that we not only added the album in our rotation, but that it quickly moved into our Top Five in airplay within a week of release.  He told me the band had just been confirmed as the opener for Sea Level at the Ivanhoe nightclub in Newtown a few days later and asked if I’d like to go.  I don’t think a battalion of Satan’s minions could’ve kept me away.

When the lights dimmed and they were introduced to the full house, there was only a ripple of polite applause since most of the crowd was unaware of who they were, let alone familiar with any of their music.  I noticed a seat in the front row was empty and filled it during their opening number.   I was directly below Morse and watched transfixed as he played fluid lines on his well-worn Telecaster.  They tore through “Free Fall” and “Refried Funky Chicken” in quick succession, and the gentle greeting from the Sea Level faithful was snow building into well-earned enthusiasm.  In between various tunes, I would chat with Morse and West requesting other songs from the debut album.  They were amused that someone actually knew their music, and Andy even mentioned on mic that, “our one fan in Chicago is here,” pointing at me.  The crowd laughed along, but it was a communal joy in that everyone in attendance was quickly joining that clique.

One of the things that set the Dixie Dregs apart from most fusion bands was that the songs were economical in their composition, and actually had verses, choruses, and a bridge even though there were no vocals. This made the songs quite memorable.  It also allowed them to play most every cut on their debut since each tune clocked-in at between three and four minutes, instead of endless, meandering jams of noodling over one repetitive riff like so many jazz rock outfits of the day.

The one song where they did stretch out was the frenetic “Cruise Control,” which served as their set closer.  The incredibly tight exchanges between guitar, keys, violin, and bass that got shorter and shorter towards the song’s climax had the room full of musician-oriented fans whooping in exultation with each amazing volley. When the final chord sounded, the six hundred in attendance leapt to their feet in a mighty roar.  The Dregs had arrived in big way in the Windy City. You could tell the band was visibly touched by the warmth as they left the stage.

I worked my way over to the small dressing room off stage right, and waited for the guys to come out to help get their gear off stage.  They each recognized me from the front row, and asked how I knew so much about each of their songs.  I explained my position at WVVX and asked if they would like to do an interview on air the next morning.  With “aw shucks” humility and a bit of excitement in their voices they agreed.  I guess they hadn’t done many radio interviews yet, especially anywhere outside of Georgia. 

The next morning they arrived at the station quite early and we spent the better part of an hour going through many of the tracks from the album on air. Our rabid, serious music-oriented listener base soon got acquainted with the Dregs’ narrative of meeting at University of Miami School of Music.  We learned that Pat Metheny was actually one of the professors there and took Morse under his wing. They had recorded an indie album entitled, The Great Spectacular, as their senior project in the school’s small studio.  Only a few hundred were printed up, but one of them made it into the hands of Capricorn’s iconic president, Phil Walden, and they were signed shortly thereafter. Some of the tunes from that disc ended up being re-recorded for their professional debut, and some other songs, like the title track, would end up on future releases.

The guys were so down-to-earth and friendly, and the music so uniquely terrific, that our listeners couldn’t help but fall in love with them. The album quickly shot to #1 on our request lines, and all the retailers in northern Chicago, where the WVVX signal was strongest, couldn’t keep the album in stock.

A strong friendship was forged between the band and me.  Unfortunately, several months later, new ownership of WVVX decided to change the format of the station.  However, when I landed on my feet as Music Director at WMIR in southern Wisconsin, I was able to bring my Dregs devotion with me.  Whenever the guys were within a few hundred miles, I’d drive to see them and we would hang out before and after gigs.  Sometimes they were headlining smaller clubs like Harry Hopes north of Elgin, IL, or in Des Plaines at the Thirsty Whale. I remember a gig at The Electric Ballroom in Milwaukee when the guys from Journey came in to see the Dregs.  I knew Neal Schon from backstage visits over the years, so visited with them while the boys from Dixie were tearing it up.  Neal, Steve Smith, and company had become fans of their recordings, but hadn’t experienced them in person yet. They were duly impressed.

The Dregs second album, What If, built on the growing buzz, and by the time the third, Night of the Living Dregs, came out they were starting to earn opening slots on major tours like the Doobie Brothers.  I recall an evening at Alpine Valley Music Theater where they played in front of 15,000 and took the place by storm.  It was always amazing to see these humble guys transform an oft-disinterested audience into screaming, stomping, shirt waving fans by the end of their set with rousing songs like “Take It Off the Top,” “Country House Shuffle,” “Punk Sandwich”, and the electrified bluegrass of “The Bash” and “Dixie.”  The Doobies even had them come out and jam with them on their final encore, “Listen to the Music,” to great response from the throng. 

Steve Morse and I became the friendliest.  We shared a lot of the same favorite bands, and found out that we were both P.K.’s (Preacher’s Kids).  His dad was a Methodist minister, mine a Presbyterian.  There’s a bond between those of us in that predicament--especially those who grew up liking rock music in the 60s and 70s-- that is hard for others to understand.  Sometimes we would get into pretty deep theological discussions.  Steve has always been afraid to commit to a deeper faith journey because he saw so much phoniness from congregations in his teens.  “I just don’t want to be guilty of being a hypocrite,” he would opine. 

My response was, “Hell, Steve, we’re ALL hypocrites.  And I’m the most ridiculously contradictory one of the lot.   I think each of us has to come to that realization before we can accept God’s grace towards us.” 

At times Steve would get quite bitter because, for all their popularity--especially amongst musicians--they were still struggling with getting mass airplay and generating enough income to sustain a career. For instance, he was voted “Best Overall Guitarist” five consecutive years by readers of Guitar Player Magazine, and was retired from eligibility so other people would have a chance to be recognized (only Steve Howe of Yes had ever been given the same honor).  But at the same time, each of the guys in the band had to take up part-time jobs to cover the bills.  Steve would lament how many people would tell them they were huge fans and had every album, but they would explain, in nearly every case, that they had dubbed the music onto cassettes from someone else’s disc.  He figured they would’ve had numerous gold albums if people just bought them instead of copying them that way.

With the lack of consistent sales and airplay, despite being one of the most popular instrumental bands ever and garnering several Grammy nominations, the Dregs went through various personnel changes, and have become more of an occasional side project for Steve in the past thirty years. Drummer Rod Morgenstein got a good paying gig as drummer for late 80s/early 90s hair band, Winger.  Original violinist , Allen Sloan, went back to school and became a surgeon. Subsequent violinists included Mark O’Connor (who eventually became known as Nashville’s premier fiddle player), and former member of Mahavishnu Orchestra, Jerry Goodman. Second keyboardist Mark Parrish went on the play with many Broadway shows in New York.  His replacement, T Lavitz, later worked with Bill Bruford, Billy Cobham, and Widespread Panic (sadly, T passed away two years ago). Morse was a member of the band Kansas for a stint in the mid 80s, started doing solo albums, and eventually became the guitarist for Deep Purple over the past two decades. It seems like about once every seven years or so the Dregs will reunite for a short run of dates and record a new, freshly stellar, live album.  They are always greeted enthusiastically by adoring musicians world-wide.

Imagine my joy when I found out that Bill Evans, a music impresario friend of mine who helps manage the careers of Kerry Livgren (ex-Kansas), and Neal Morse (amazing composer, singer, and multi-instrumentalist formerly of Spock’s Beard), also got to know Steve. One thing led to another to where Neal and Steve (no relation) have ended up forming a new band along with rock drummer extraordinaire Mike Portnoy (founder of Dream Theater), bassist Dave LaRue (Steve Morse Band) and little known but quite talented lead singer, Casey McPherson (of indie band Alpha Rev).  The ensemble, known as Flying Colors, has recently come out with their first self-titled release to great international anticipation, and will be touring this fall. The conglomerate has progressive elements compositionally, but is also quite accessible and melodic.  With the band members’ individual acclaim, it isn’t surprising that the album debuted on many world-wide charts in the Top Twenty upon release.  So it will be interesting to see if things can finally click for Steve this time around.

One thing is certain, Steve’s original foray into the music scene in the 70s has provided me with some of my favorite memories from his orchestral arrangements and soaring sonics on guitar.  Savoring those intoxicating concoctions has been one of my favorite musical repasts.  Indescribably delicious, indeed. 

Title track to their first album, Free Fall, performed at the Montreaux Jazz Festival in ’78:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I33P03i_YA0

Be Still My Beating Heart, Part 1

Through all my years of physicals I have always been blessed to hear that I’m in great health.  When it comes to my heart, the report was always that everything was solid…no rare ailments like Marfans Syndrome, which took my brother in his early thirties.  No bad cholesterol, or high blood sugar counts, or strange heartbeats.  In fact, my various doctors over the decades have always marveled at how low my blood pressure is (not sure how that correlates with my temper, which has been known to boil at times). 

Additionally, I’ve been fairly blessed with only a couple visits to the emergency room, and one outpatient surgery for a hernia last year.  In fact, I’ve never stayed at a hospital overnight in my lifetime.  So, imagine my surprise when I was cold-cocked by a major cardiac discombobulation that featured ten days in Nashville’s Baptist Hospital (half in the Intensive Care Unit) and subsequent heart surgery just a month ago.  Many have asked for a recap, so here it is:

I believe it all started a few days before I left for the Middle East.  A strange, bright red rash began forming in my armpits.  An odd occurrence, because I have used the same Mennen Speed Stick deodorant for at since the 80s.  I tried another brand for a day but that only seemed to make it worse, and by then there was no time to set up an appointment.  I just figured I would deal with it as best I could on the two-week excursion by just washing my underarms several times a day.  But the discoloration and sensitivity didn’t diminish.  In fact, it even spread to my chest.  Additionally, I somehow picked up an inner ear infection of some sort the final few days.

Once I got back to the States, I had less than a day at home before having to turn right around and fly to San Diego for Kurt and Anne Andress’ wedding.  This was none too helpful for the earache and adjoining fever.  To say I was feeling lousy would be putting it mildly.

I got in to see my doctor pretty quickly once I got home from the Left Coast.  He flushed my ear canal with some antibiotic fluid, and surmised that I had some sort of yeast infection on my skin.  He prescribed a medication that would help clear that up along with some eardrops.  I noticed on the instructions for the pills that they might “cause discoloration, pain, and odor during urination.”  Little did I know, but this was the really going to be the root of my later issues, because, alongside the ear infection, I picked up a urinary tract infection somewhere in the previous week. And unbeknownst to me, three of the primary symptoms of a U.T.I. are discoloration, pain, and odor during urination. 

But because the rash under my arms was disappearing with each passing day, I was willing to take those symptoms from what I thought was just the medicine in exchange for the annihilation of armpit aberration.   I also credited the low-grade fever I had to road weariness and the pills. I had no idea that a U.T.I. was growing worse with each passing day. 

A week later, just as that skin prescription was running out, I was awakened at one in the morning by horrific lower back pain. I rolled out off my mattress and hobbled around my bedroom complaining to no one in particular, “how the hell did I pull a muscle in my sleep?!”  You see, I have a history of lumbar issues tied-in to muscle spasms. We tall guys tend to have these, as we grow older. It can be quite painful and somewhat debilitating for three to five days, and then, usually, it fades along with some thorough stretching and appropriate rest.  Of course, some painkillers don’t hurt either.  So the next morning, I called my doc and asked if he could prescribe some Hydrocordone to help me deal with the knifing throb.  He’s quite familiar with my plight in that realm, and went ahead and sent the word to my pharmacy to get me set up.  This was strike number two in my unfortunate at bat with destiny, because Hydrocordone simply masks pain…covers it up completely, as well as deadening the side effects of a fever.  Most likely I hadn’t pulled a muscle in my lower back.  Rather, my kidneys and bladder were barking because of the undetected U.T.I., and it just felt very similar to a twisted back.

So, several more days passed with the U.T.I worsening, but I was oblivious to it other than a general sense that I just wasn’t feeling right.  But, as they say, the chickens finally came home to roost the evening of March 31^st.  I went to watch an exciting Predators game vs. the hated Chicago Blackholes.  Somehow, the Preds managed to dig themselves into a 4-0 hole halfway into the game.  But they stormed back to tie the game midway into the third period.  I, along with the rest of the sellout crowd was in full throat urging the guys onward.  We “emptied our buckets” screaming and yelling our support (as well as disdain for the Chitown fans in attendance). Unfortunately, Nashville ended up losing on a goal late in the game, and as I was sulking along my normal six-block walk back to my car, I was feeling physically drained…even ill.  It was a tough loss, but I normally don’t get that vaklempt after a negative result. Several times I stopped and truly felt like I was going to keel over.  I noticed my heart was racing, and I was covered in clammy perspiration.

When I arrived at home, I went directly to my room and collapsed into my bed, where within minutes I started shaking uncontrollably.  The chills overtook me, and my teeth were chattering like one of those wind-up false chopper toys, and my entire body was vibrating beyond my will to stop.  I somehow got my clothes off and crawled under the covers, but the quaking continued unabated for nearly an hour. Eventually it faded, but within minutes a sever fever swept over me.  I was burning up.  I had a baking headache, and started making the first of many runs to the bathroom as the heaves started.  Hardly anything chucked-upward, which is never helpful…I find the dry heaves to be much more difficult that full release of a Technicolor rainbow.  This oven-like existence persisted for another hour, and then segued into voluminous sweats…perspiration flowing out of my pores as if I were running a marathon in thru the Okeechobee Swamp in July. My hair was soaking wet, my t-shirt was sopped, and the sheets of the bed were moist.  It was unlike anything I could ever recall.  This element was about a few hours in length, and then it began to fade. I started feeling remarkably better, even normal about four in the morning, and actually slept for a few hours. 

I awoke fairly refreshed at daybreak, and thought I had just suffered through some intense food poisoning of some sort. I thought it might be good to get cleaned up and go to church and give thanks for that being over with.  But just as I began shaving, the shakes started again.  I tried to work through it, but was afraid I was going to cut myself.  I went to the kitchen to try and take my temperature, but my jaw was flapping so wildly that I feared I would bite the thermometer in half. I lay down, and the entire sequence of chills for an hour, fever for an hour, and profuse sweats for an hour began again. 

In fact, this vicious cycle happened four more times that day.  During the fourth one, I was doing some research online, because I had ruled out food poisoning by this time. It also wasn’t the same cycle that I would get with severe migraine headaches.  This was a different animal.  After scrolling through several possible ailments, I came to the conclusion that I had contracted malaria.  Now this isn’t far-fetched in that I have traveled to fifty-four countries, and malaria can take up to twelve months sometimes to manifest itself.  I had, in fact, been to several regions where malaria can be passed on by mosquitoes, so, there was a decent chance I could be right in my self- analysis.  Even though I take anti-malarial drugs, something might’ve gotten lodged into my liver and was finally hatching. I had nine of the ten symptoms listed on the malaria sites going for me…so it seemed as plausible as anything.

By this time it was evening, and I thought, I’ll just try to slog through the night and see my doctor tomorrow, and we’ll get this figured out.  I know, I know…I should’ve gone to an emergency room.  But by this time, the cycles were so predictable, and, even though I felt lousy, it didn’t seem to be getting any worse.

I did not sleep very well, and what down time I did find was influenced by some rather hallucinatory dreams.  9 AM came much too slowly, but that is when I was able to get through to my physician’s office and set up an appointment for early afternoon.  I was greeted with yet another dreaded cycle of chills, fever, dry heaves, and sweats. In the midst of that, I got a call from good friend, Carla.  She’s a very sunny sort, and was bubbling away in her invitation for me to join her for the annual Easter feast she was hosting at her home the upcoming Sunday.   I was sort of grunting responses to her when she stopped and asked, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Honestly,” I groaned, “I feel pretty bad.”  I then proceeded to give her the litany of what had gone on in the previous twelve hours.  She asked if I would like her to drive me to the doctor?  At that moment, it dawned on me that I probably wasn’t in very good shape to be steering a 3,000-pound vehicle, so I gladly accepted her offer.

A few hours later she picked me up and took me in for the predetermined time to meet.  Within minutes, my doctor knew I was quite sick.  I told him I thought it might be malaria, and he certainly didn’t discount that.  But after an hour, several blood and urine tests came back with the results of an U.T.I.  “The good news is that it isn’t malaria,” he explained, “but you are one very sick dude, Mark.  We are going to put you in a wheel chair right now and get you across the street to Baptist Hospital where they are going to try and get this infection and fever under control.”

To Carla’s credit, she stuck right by my side through this whole ordeal.  As matter of fact, she spent over ten hours making sure I was properly taken care of.  I was borderline delirious at this point, my fever spiking at 104, and was severely dehydrated.  It was a bit of a comedy of errors and C.Y.A. (Cover Your Ass) finger pointing with some of the admitting nurses once I arrived at the hospital.  I was in severe need of hydrating saline, and even though I was prepped to receive it, none was actually being administered.  Carla got in several peoples’ faces about it, and finally the head nurse on the floor came in along with the attending physician and they quickly surmised that I needed to be taken to the Intensive Care Unit.

Within minutes of arriving at I.C.U. there was a flurry of attendants and docs buzzing around me trying to figure out why my heart rate was at 170 beats per minute.  From what I could figure, it had been that way since the hockey game nearly two days before. But before that could be fully addressed, they needed to work on getting the infection and fever out.  They had two saline machines running into each arm at the highest flow rate possible within minutes. I joked that I was “a two fisted drinker” at that point (and would be for the next four days).  In fact, they pumped over four gallons of various saline blends into me during that stretch, which I’m told, is a lot of fluid.  I could’ve floated a battleship with the amount of peeing I did the next several days to compensate for the intake.

As I mentioned earlier, I had never spent an overnight in a hospital before, and wasn’t even sure if this would just be a day or two stay.  I certainly hadn’t planned on anything…I was just going in to see my doctor initially.  So, once it looked like the I.C.U. was fully on top of my needs, Carla raced home to get some supplies for me.  I was exhausted, but there was no way of getting sleep as I was continually poked, prodded, and examined in one way or another through the night. 

The word started to get out that I was in this state, and so calls started coming in from family and friends, which I felt I needed to take care of.  I think it was finally around 3:00 AM that I got a bit of restful sleep, and then again around 10:00 AM on Tuesday.  Later that afternoon, the visitors started coming by, which was terrific.  And I was also able to hook-up my laptop and begin communicating online.  Despite being all wired up in both arms and my chest  (I believe there were normally about seven devices pumping me with something-or-other or monitoring me at any given moment), and looking rather disheveled from lack of a shower for a few days, I was feeling increasingly better as the fever was dropping, the headache dissipating, and the nausea fading. My hydration was improving.  Indeed, the infection was beginning to fade.

But my heart rate was of continued concern.  Honestly, it was a mystery to the doctors and other staff as to what was happening.  It stayed frenetic at 170 b.p.m. (Which is just about max capacity for human survival) for a third straight day under their surveillance (and probably at least five straight including the days before my arrival).  It was also erratic in that it was fluttering wildly instead of keeping a steady 4/4 beat.  I cracked that my love of progressive rock and all the odd time signatures had made my heart “go all Gentle Giant” with the 6/8, 9/8, 11/8, 7/8, and 5/8 beats per measure.

But I could tell it was not a laughing matter for the cardiologists who were observing me.  My room had two large sliding glass doors and curtains that separated it from the primary nurses’ station out in the hallway.  Usually after staff would tend to me, they would close the curtains and then the doors to give me some respite from the outside noise and activity.  However, after one visit with three of the doctors, they closed the doors but forgot to pull the curtains. I could see them looking at my graphs and charts outside pointing at me and making gestures with their hands, shrugging their shoulders, and pointing to the sides of their heads. I couldn‘t read lips, but it sure looked like they were expressing the sentiments of “I have no idea what’s going on with him, I’m seriously befuddled.” 

Strangely, though, this didn’t panic me.  The physical improvements were helping me sleep, and even though I had this galloping heart rate, my appetite, thirst, and bodily functions were good.  It’s just that my blood pressure was quite high, and the heart speed was out of control.  Once the fever and infection were relatively stable, they began pumping various things into me to see if they could harness the heart.  At one point on the third day in I.C.U. it nose-dived suddenly from 170 down to 38 (which, as you might imagine, is not good in the other direction).  The head nurse came sprinting into the room when her outside monitor picked up on the nosedive.  “Are you alright?!” she gasped.

I looked up at my heart monitor and started to laugh.  “You know, I feel exactly the same as I did when it was at 170.”  She did not find it funny, but it was true.  I believe God was helping me keep a sense of humor and an even keel about everything throughout my stay.  And, truly, I did feel the same. It was not lost on me that thousands of people were praying for me at my church, and amongst listeners from radio stations where I had a relationship through my work with Compassion.  I was receiving hundreds of encouraging messages via Facebook, e-mail, and phone calls.  Flowers and cards were coming, and dozens of friends were visiting…all boosting my spirits and keeping me smiling.

I was kidding with one of the cardiologists that they might need to name a new disease after me since they were so stumped.  He was only partially amused as he responded, “Well, we have to find a cure first.” 

Stay tuned for  Part Two of this saga coming soon…