May 22: Closed for Business, Final High School Concert, Last Moments

Now, an encounter with an answering machine . . .

At which point a strange and inexplicable sound thrilled suddenly through the bridge--a noise as of a distant fanfare; a hollow, reedy, insubstantial sound.  It preceded a voice that was equally hollow, reedy and insubstantial.  The voice said, "Greetings to you . . ."

Someone from the dead planet was talking to them.

"Computer!" shouted Zaphod.

"Hi there!"

"What the photon is it?"

"Oh, just some five-million-year-old tape that's being broadcast at us."

"A what?  A recording?"

"Shush!" said Ford.  "It's carrying on."

The voice was old, courteous, almost charming, but was underscored with unmistakable menace."

"This is a recorded announcement," it said, "as I'm afraid we're all out at the moment.  The commercial council of Magrathea thanks you for your esteemed visit . . ."

("A voice from ancient Magrathea!" shouted Zaphod.  "Okay, okay," said Ford.)

". . . but regrets," continued the voice, "that the entire planet is temporarily closed for business.  Thank you.  If you would care to leave your name and the address of a planet where you can be contacted, kindly speak when you hear the tone."

A short buzz followed, then silence.

Let me tell you that some days, I would simply like to phone myself in.  Not show up for life, and have a machine that simply says, "Sorry, Saint Marty is closed for business.  Please try again later.  Like tomorrow or next week."  And then all the pesky troublemakers of the world could simply record a message and leave.

Today was one of those days.  I didn't really feel connected with anything I was doing today.  I did what was expected of me, nothing more, nothing less.  In essence, I phoned it in.  I still joked with patients.  Still told jokes and ate lunch and listened to weird music.  (My radio station of choice today--Essential Banjo.)  Yet, I wasn't really there.  I was still thinking about the previous evening.

Last night, I went to my daughter's final high school concert.  She played in the band, sang with the chorale, and sang her solo.  As I sat in the bleachers with my wife, I kept thinking to myself, "I'm never going to do this again for her."  It was a difficult couple of hours, swinging from immense pride and happiness to incredible sadness, bordering on grief.

I think that my daughter felt the same thing last night.  After the concert, when I found her in the hallway, she was hugging one of her best friends and weeping.  It was the first time that I've seen her show any emotion besides happiness and excitement over her impending graduation.  When she came to me and I hugged her, I felt her kind of go limp in my arms.  It was as if a dam was giving way.  She leaned into me and just sobbed.

My heart broke for her.  Everyone was coming up, telling her what a wonderful job she had done--"Oh, my God, I didn't know you could sing like that!" and "You were so good!"  I felt the joy that every parent feels at these moments, me standing next to her, feeling as if I had played a small part in her accomplishment.  But it was also a little funereal, as if the casket had just been wheeled out of the church and everyone was hanging around, unwilling to let the moment pass.

I have a feeling that she will be experiencing many moments like this in the next week, up until graduation night.  Last music class.  Last band class.  Last math and science class.  Last English class.  Last day of school.  Cleaning out the locker.

Me?  I'm going to be phoning things in a lot for the next seven days.  Not feeling really connected to anything but my daughter and my family.  Everything else seems . . . trivial in comparison.  Of course, I can't seem to think of anything else at the moment.

So, if you see me somewhere in the next week, and I look sort of distant and lost, don't be worried.  Understand that I am going through some stages of grief.  Right now, I'm somewhere in between denial and depression, with a strong helping of bargaining on top.

I am enjoying these moments in my daughter's life.  I am.  It's what she's been working so hard for since she was a little girl, and she amazes me every day with her intelligence, grace, and compassion.

Saint Marty is done now.  If you would like to leave a message for him, you may do so after the beep.  Thank you.

BEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.