When I first picked up the rag it was approximately 1 a.m. My wife, Katy, had been in surgery for two hours at that point. I was in the hospital cafeteria trying to distract myself by reading. I needed to take my mind off the surgery; my brain has always been good at worst-case scenarios.
I tried cranking the music I was listening to. I’d made a playlist the other night as I listened to my wife being cheno-sick in the bathroom. The title was “Phuck Cancer”, and it was filled with mostly aggressive tunes — hard rock, metal, Slipknot, DEATH, you get the idea. Currently TOOL was reminding me how fucked up the world is when I realized all Maynard and the boys were doing tonight was exacerbating my current state of anxiety. “Sorry Maynard, I figure you’ll get it,” I thought to myself as I removed my earbuds. Once my buds were tucked away, I gave reading another shot.
It was really Katy’s idea that I bring a book. I knew I wouldn’t be able to read while she was in surgery, there was no way my anxiety-ridden brain was going to allow me to read a book. But I also knew Katy would feel better knowing I had a book with me. I require the ability to listen to music at any given moment; Katy was the same way with books. I swear that woman had a book in every purse, bag, and pack she carried. She took three with her for the hospital stay. So, I went along with the idea and picked something I’d been meaning to read but always found some excuse to put off.
I sat alone in the large, low-lit cafeteria and tried again to make it through a sentence. The words wouldn’t settle. I stumbled over them like a shopping cart with a bad wheel, unable to get any traction. After a few lines, I stopped. I didn’t bother marking my place. In that moment, it felt pointless.
I was sweating, again. I’ve always been a heavy sweater, and when I’m nervous those sweat glands put in overtime. I’d been sweating since Katy and I crossed the threshold of the hospital. Honestly, I’d been sweating since the surgery was scheduled. Her doctor had even asked if I okay after her speech about possible complications, a discussion she assured us she had with every surgery patient for transparency. I could appreciate her intention, but all she managed to do was hand my inner movie director another set of worst-case scenarios. And I was beginning to suspect that director was some cross between David Lynch and Stephen King, with a dash of Tom Savini for pizzazz — some seriously twisted stuff played through my head most nights.
I grabbed a stack of cafeteria napkins, the brown, worthless kind — essentially just a thin strip of cardboard, non-absorbent. It took three stacks to get my head dry, and then I did another pass with my bare hands to check if any pieces had ripped off and stuck — you’d be surprised what sticks to a bald man’s head when he’s sweaty. My nieces were once entertained for an entire family picnic testing that exact theory with whatever they could find lying around.
As I stood, I could see the golden arches of McDonald’s through the window. I checked Google Maps — confirmed, walking distance and it was a 24 hour joint. Sometimes a greasy gut bomb is just what the doctor ordered.
It was cold out and I would be bundled up for the walk. The wind had picked up, and the city streets became wind tunnels in February. I knew between the jacket and my ski cap that I’d be dripping with sweat by the time I arrived, so I started to grab another stack of the useless napkins when I caught sight of some rags on the buffet counter. I walked over and grabbed one, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then glanced up at the ceiling for cameras. Bingo — there were a couple, but they were both pointed at the registers, so I was out of sight. The rag was coarse, not made for rubbing skin — industrial, made to scrub more than absorb. Not the best choice, but it would do. So, it came with me.
Katy’s surgery was successful, but the cancer was persistent. I held onto that rag and would use it many times over the next few years. In the end, she chose to stop treatment and let fate decide. Well — fate can be a real fucker sometimes. My wife, Mary Katherine (Katy) Jordan, passed away peacefully at home in 2025. I discovered early in her treatment that if I rested a finger on her chemo port, I could feel her pulse. Sometimes at night, especially during her roughest nights, I would fall asleep with my hand there. That evening, sitting on the edge of the bed, I held her hand with one of mine, and with the other I rested my finger on her port. I stayed there until I couldn’t feel her pulse any longer.
I used the rag to wipe away my tears later that night. In the immediate aftermath, that rag was a kind of grounding tool. In the fog of grief, the more I held it, the more I used it, it slowly became one of those items I used daily. Some days during work it would be balled up in my hand like a makeshift stress ball. Other days I took it with me shopping, it was draped loosely over the shopping cart rail, not for protection from germs, it just feels good under my palms, and it keeps me from screaming “Please move your cart from the middle of the FUCKING AISLE” while I shop. When doing yard work, I often would drench it with cold water, let it sit in the fridge for a couple hours, and then drape it across the back of my neck — something she used to do with a paper towel when I came in from a hot day.
It just became normal. And when you’re grieving, normal is important.
I’ve tried to throw it out. When it ripped, I instinctively reacted by moving it to the trash. I ended up standing over the bin, rag in hand, looking at it differently. There was an importance to it now — it was part of my story. Incidental, maybe, but still a part of it. And if I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s that even the little things can mean so much. In that moment, the rag felt heavy. Not a heaviness that would’ve made it easier to drop into the trash, but a heaviness that made it cling to my hand. Not stuck — it literally felt like it was clinging, as if letting go of it was a mistake.
It has a home with my drum set now. It’s my sweat rag when I play, which is appropriate — Katy would often watch me play. I don’t understand why the rag is so important to me now, but I’ve never been one to ignore those internal checks and balances that keep me sane. I’ll hold onto it until I don’t need to anymore. I’m sure that someday it will have served its purpose.
I’m sure even Linus gave up his blanket at some point.
…Right?
