I got a call.

I know this is a lame excuse, the reason why I have not been to Bally's since the day before Thanksgiving. I have not been able to muster up the desire to see the other faces who also saw John fall. I know I won't be able to slide into the baptismal pool, erasing the cares and the calories of the day. To be anonymous in my laps and my lounging.

But I got a few calls – voice mail messages from John’s wife, telling me that he’s ok, pleading for more information, wanting to connect with someone who may understand.

She left another message the other day, something about a blessing in disguise. The doctors believe that John had a seizure – that that is what caused the fall. John had a seizure because John has a brain tumor. I listened to this recording while I was standing in my kitchen, taking off my winter coat, setting down my keys, trying to imagine how this woman could find any joy in this discovery. Brain tumor. Braaintumor. BRAin TumoR. The words seem so foreign on my tongue, like lederhosen or war or Stalin or female genital mutilation.

His surgery is today. Today, maybe at the hospital down the street, someone is rolling the edge of a knife down the length of his skull, his skull that just a few weeks ago I held, and this someone will remove what’s foreign and dangerous and, his wife ensures me, “he’ll be back at Bally’s to see me soon.” BEEP.