Tom Petty was always there


This piece originally appeared on Bed Crumbs

I can’t remember the first Tom Petty song I ever heard. I have no big revelation, no singular moment that sticks out as the moment I discovered Tom Petty. That’s because Tom Petty was always there.

He was at the local pool where I spent every long summer afternoon as a kid. The radio was never not tuned to the classic rock station and it seemed like they had some rule that a Petty track had to play at least once an hour.

He was there on VH1 every morning while I got ready for school. Those were the days when my parents deemed MTV too racy for my eyes, but the “adult contemporary” that circulated on VH1 was just fine. Still half asleep, 7 years old, maybe 8. Sometimes it was “Don’t Come Around Here No More” on the classics hour, “Swingin’” when it switched to the top 20 countdown.

He was there on every single mix cd blasted in my mom’s car, my dad’s car, my car as I learned how to drive. He was the soundtrack for my friends and I every time we tried to escape the boredom of our small suburban town by going on endless cruises. He was the ridiculous dance to “Don’t Do Me Like That” my youngest sister and I coordinated in bits and pieces any time we sat in traffic. Both my sisters scoffed and rolled their eyes at everything else I played; it was too old, too obscure. They wanted One Direction and Miley Cyrus and whatever else was cool on the radio that I was blissfully unaware of. But somehow Petty was always accepted without complaints.

I have so many memories tied up in Tom Petty, yes. That’s true for any artist or band that I love. But what I’ve realized over the past week, what I keep thinking about, is that I honestly thought those memories were still being made.

Tom Petty was always there because Tom Petty never left.

The old bands I’ve loved my whole life have largely been, sadly, just that: old bands. I was born in 1991. Led Zeppelin had been long done by that time; Talking Heads split shortly after then. Fleetwood Mac made one album of new material when I was 12 and then that was it. Their music has all been consumed from a slightly removed perspective, forever preserved on vinyl, but never to evolve any further.

But Tom Petty persisted. He just didn’t stop. He never split from the Heartbreakers when he achieved solo success. He resisted the changing musical landscape, refused to let streaming or the industry-wide decline in album sales persuade him to just quit making albums in favor of becoming another legacy act on an endless cycle of greatest hits tours. No, I could always count on something brand new from him to come out every few years. I could eagerly go to the mall and buy the Elizabethtown soundtrack solely for the new Tom Petty song that would be on it. I could buy a Heartbreakers album — a new one, not a reissue — on vinyl and feel the satisfaction of being able to hold it in my hands and anticipate going home, putting it on my turntable, and lying on the floor and letting the music seep into my pores. Times changed, but Tom Petty didn’t.

He was so special to me for so many reasons. His character was something I aspired to: humble, beyond the definition of loyal, kind, always looking out for the underdogs. He seemed effortlessly cool, but still like he held onto a bit of that scrappy kid from Florida.

His music covered me in so many different ways. Sometimes it was a leather jacket when I needed to feel tough and defiant. But sometimes it was a blanket when I needed comfort, when all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and hide from the world.

His songs were magic. They just were. How else can you explain a 10-year-old girl, a 16-year-old girl, and 26-year-old girl not only falling in love with, but finding identity within lyrics written by a young man, a middle aged man, an old man, ones that were often deeply personal? On paper it doesn’t make sense, but I did. I do. I can see a bit of myself in almost all of his songs: The American Girl raised on promises. The jilted narrator of “You Got Lucky.” The resilient punks of “Refugee” and “I Won’t Back Down.” That wandering person still figuring out life, still learning to fly.

Between the Heartbreakers, his solo work, and Mudcrutch, Tom Petty made 10 new albums in my lifetime. Ten. He was a constant. Every couple of years, there was something new, and it seemed like it was never going to stop. I was always a little angry at my parents for not taking me to one of his concerts as a kid, a little angry at myself for never getting around to seeing him live until after I was out of college. It was such an amazing experience: hair-on-my-arms-raising and tears-in-my-eyes-forming. My face hurt from smiling so big and my voice was hoarse from singing along so loudly. How many of these nights had I missed out on? Plenty, but I felt secure in my self-assurance that there would be plenty more to make up for lost time.

I guess what I am trying to say, as I continue to process why this has hit me so hard, why this all feels like a tremendous gut punch, is that I wasn’t ready. That I’m not ready. Just barely two months ago, I was standing in the second row at Forest Hills Stadium (another reason to love him, in that it cost what a floor seat should cost and not an entire paycheck), shouting out the “Hey!“s in “Don’t Come Around Here No More,” clutching my heart during “Crawling Back to You,” crying to “Learning to Fly,” laughing at his knowing grin as the audience sang “Let’s get to the point / Let’s roll another joint” extra loud during “You Don’t Know How It Feels,” clouds of smoke hanging low in the air. I still have a fresh scar on my right leg from not even a month before that, when I cut myself climbing over folding metal chairs at the Prudential Center to get to the pit for the encore. I didn’t even register the pain until after; I was euphorically singing along to “Refugee.”

He was just right there and I was just right there, marveling at how he somehow oozed cool guy and dork dad and chill bro all at the same time. Not once did I think it would be the last time. Nothing about it felt like the last time. Even thinking back now, combing my memory, rewatching the few videos I took, it doesn’t seem real. It seems so illogical it hurts. He wasn’t supposed to leave us like this, and not right now. He was okay. He was okay. He was okay.

Until he wasn’t.

The world feels a little darker. It feels a little more unjust. A little more cruel. But it also feels a little bit more full of love, paradoxical as that sounds. In the wake of Tom’s untimely death, countless tributes and remembrances have poured out from all corners of society. He was loved by everyone, from your Bernie bro hippie friend to your conservative uncle, your boomer parents and your college-aged sisters. We seem to have been reminded, in this ugly time, of goodness that still exists.

If I’ve reached any conclusions over the past week of thinking, it’s these few: that unifying power of music will continue to live on if we want it to. The joy and the comfort that we get from it doesn’t have to go away, it’s just different. But life is short and unpredictable. Don’t take any of it for granted. Buy that ticket. See that show. Remember why you love music in the first place.


A love like a bullet in the chest

For a very long time, I thought that I would be a better writer when I finally had my heart broken.
I thought that that very specific life experience would provide some crucial element that was lacking in my writing. I thought that, somehow, having my heart truly and deeply broken would make me more sensitive and thoughtful, more worldly and knowledgeable, my words more poetic and beautiful.

I don’t think that anymore.

I think that I was incredibly foolish and naive to think that in the first place. I don’t think that there’s anything poetic or beautiful about heartbreak once it happens to you. Not in the immediate aftermath, anyway. You don’t really feel creative. You don’t really feel smart. You don’t really feel wise. You don’t really feel anything.

There’s nothing beautiful about your subway sobs giving you swollen eyes that you unconvincingly chalk up to allergies. There’s nothing poetic about feeling like you’ve been stabbed repeatedly, like your rib cage has cracked open and now you’re bleeding out slowly, the real life version of some gruesome TV death. There’s nothing profound about taking a big gulp of vodka on a Monday night hoping it numbs how you feel like some sort of liquid anesthesia. There’s nothing thoughtful about listening to Landslide 27 times in a row. (Yes, I counted.) Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?Right now, I really don’t know.

When someone you love tells you that you are a bad person, you believe them. It doesn’t matter if they meant to hurt you or not. It doesn’t matter what your mom or dad think. It doesn’t matter what your sisters or your friends or your coworkers or even you, deep down, think. In an instant, you are worthless. You are defective. You are unloveable, because the person you loved told you so.

Love is not always about romance. Soulmates are not always the people you are romantically attracted to. They come in many different forms, but they are usually people you think you were meant to be around for the rest of your life. When forever ends up not being forever, it hurts. It hurts a lot.

It hurts more than when you took a softball straight to the nose in second grade when you swung hard and missed and didn’t duck fast enough.

It hurts more than when you were 10 and got pulled underwater by a wave for the first time. The wrist strap from your boogie board went around your neck and you scraped your knees on the ocean floor until they bled and you thought This is it; I’m going to die before I even get to middle school.

It hurts more than the first rejection letter you got from college applications. It makes you feel even lower than you felt in the moment when you genuinely thought you didn’t belong anywhere and you just wanted to hide from all the prying eyes — Did you get in!? — for the rest of your life.

It hurts more than when you get your third stress fracture, in your knee this time. The doctor tells you you’ve fucked your cartilage so much this time that you may not still be able to run in a few years and you pass out.

It hurts more than the night you’re attacked walking home from the subway by a kid trying to steal your bag. It’s scarier than that moment when you’re lying on the ground kicking and screaming and feeling the strong tugs on your shoulder and the cold, hard thump of your head on the pavement.

Because at least then you felt a little out of your body, which isn’t the case right now. And now there’s no one offering to come sit with you in the police station because they know that even though you’re holding it together on the outside, you’re actually terrified.

There’s no one to come sit with you and make sure you’re okay this time because that person was one of the people you loved most, who you thought loved you back. That person isn’t there anymore. They are gone, and they took their love with them. It’s just you and the things that made them leave.

It doesn’t feel poetic or beautiful. It just feels lonely and sad.


This piece originally appeared on Bed Crumbs.

“Her greatest asset betrayed her.”

Carly said those words with such devastation, such disappointment, such despair. It was 7 on a Friday night and we were drinking vodka and gin and talking about Joni Mitchell instead of weekend plans and our love lives and gossip, things that 20-somethings theoretically should be discussing.

“Can we talk about Joni?” I had asked with a sense of urgency as we sat down to dinner. My mind pleaded that she had read the same earth shattering news I had earlier that day. I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her.

Joni had a brain aneurysm.

Weeks ago, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I got off the subway at Central Park and glanced at Twitter on my phone. My feed was flooded with news: Joni was in a coma, Joni was on life support, Joni was going to die. My head pounded and I sat down on a bench and tried to process what I was feeling. I blinked back tears. This couldn’t be happening, I thought. Our heroes and legends and visionaries are supposed to be immortal. We couldn’t lose Joni. Not yet.

When I was 8, I took a softball to the face. It was pitched straight at me, hitting the bridge of my nose at an alarming speed. It happened so fast. It was so unexpected. It left me gasping for breath, not only from the pain, but from the shock of it all.

Friday’s news felt kind of like that.

I read the headline at work. The rumors of death had been dispelled, giving everyone a false sense of security. Everything was okay. Everything was fine. Something so gravely serious as a brain aneurysm caught me off guard. I stifled a stunned sob and immediately double checked the source. It was no rumor, like the news a few weeks ago. I then wordlessly got up, slipped into the bathroom, and silently cried.

We have been conditioned to think that death is the worst fear of them all. Death is feared not because it is so finite, but because it reminds us of our own mortality. Every time someone we care about dies, yes, we hurt, we ache, we miss them terribly. We reminisce all of the memories and lament all of the could haves that will go unfulfilled. But we also think, somewhere in the back of our minds, of ourselves. We are reminded that that’s going to be us someday, maybe sooner than we expect.

What we fail to think about, and what we should consider, is that there are fates worse than death.

Our brains are full of arteries, powerful veins connecting the head and the heart quite literally. Nearly 20 percent of the blood flowing from the heart flows to the brain. With this much blood flowing, sometimes an artery can develop weak spots, spots that bulge and become deformed, spots that leave the already delicate brain even more vulnerable, only this time it’s our own bodies that can do the damage. Sometimes aneurysms cause no symptoms. Nearly 1 in 50 people in the United States alone have an unruptured brain aneurysm; it’s not terribly uncommon.

The heart doesn’t know that the brain has been weakened, and it beats madly on. Blood continues to pump through its course. Sometimes, as artery walls take on more wear and tear, the spot grows thinner, and blood, the blood that comes from our own hearts, pumping to our brain to allow us to think and write and speak and sing, becomes the enemy. Pressure increases, aneurysms can rupture, and that same blood escapes into the space around the brain.

A ruptured brain aneurysm requires immediate medical attention. There has been no confirmation that Joni did indeed suffer a ruptured brain aneurysm, but one might assume so from a two month long hospital stay. Unruptured aneurysms are generally treated and recovered from much sooner. It’s catching the time bomb before it goes off versus intense damage control.

Ruptured brain aneurysms are fatal about 40 percent of the time. For those who survive, about 66 percent will suffer permanent neurological damage.

“Speech is difficult, but she’s communicating,” a source says.

A person will never be the same after a brain aneurysm. Their emotions, behavior, and mood change. They’ve lost cognitive abilities they once had, abilities that once made them special. How do you go from being a master of language, able to communicate through words the way others cannot to this?

“Her greatest asset betrayed her.”

Carly’s voice echoed in my ears for days. Sad can’t even begin to describe the emotional weight of those five words.

“It is important to remember that these changes are caused by the aneurysm itself, and not the patient,” warns the Brain Aneurysm Foundation.

How do we do that? How do we accept this fate that is worse than death? We of course rely on our brains for everything, for day to day life, but can you imagine really relying on it? Imagine your brain contained thoughts and poems and images that no other brain had, and suddenly, one day it was gone. That suddenly, there would be a day where you were no longer the brilliant, able-minded person you were before. You just were. Not dead, but certainly not alive.

Carly was right, and it stings to think about it. Joni’s brain is the organ that sets her apart from everyone else. It’s what makes every great artist different. It is, truthfully, an artist’s greatest asset. How shocking to realize that it can suddenly stop working for you, that it can attack itself mercilessly.

In his memoir The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, French journalist Jean-Dominique Bauby described the feeling of being a quadriplegic with locked-in syndrome following a massive stroke, the feeling of being a once-brilliant editor resigned to his blinking eye as the only movement his body would allow:

“In the past, it was known as a ‘massive stroke,’ and you simply died. But improved resuscitation techniques have now prolonged and refined the agony.”

Even without an official statement of how serious Joni Mitchell’s condition is, it has me thinking regardless. How do you believe that things happen for a reason when these things occur? How do you make peace with the artist that was and accept to live your future, however that may be?

We fear death the most.

We fear not that our own bodies, once our champion, can work against us, can sabotage all of the amazing things we’ve done with it, can imprison us within.