Bartender, Please.

I had just emerged from a 10-day, three-layer-deep intubated coma, and reality was something I could barely hold onto. It was like nodding into a nap you’re desperate for, but you have to snap right back awake because of everything going on around you. My wife played a mix of Dave Matthews Band from my phone and placed it on my chest, so I could hear the music as well as the voices of the nurses, doctors, and visitors—though honestly, it was all just a blur of noise, like a circus spinning out of control.

Then, this exact version of the song came on, and it was the first thing I could grasp in that haze. Still deep in it, I found myself torn between comfort and terror. It was comforting because it felt like I had asked for the right spiritual drink, even after I had stopped praying for it. But at the same time, it was terrifying because there was this nagging feeling that the drink might be poison, that it had been drinking me—that somehow, I had been spiritually drinking myself toward death. I don’t know… it’s hard to put into words, but that version of the song hit me in a way I can’t quite explain. Now, when I hear it, it brings both comfort and fear.

It was the crooning and guitar at 5:41 that set my soul to flight with love and hope.