APRIL 11, 2026 – (Cont.) At the ready were my bow and “Italian model”—the sobriquet I assigned to my modern Italian violin, which I’d purchased to bump up standards after the inaugural year of the “Under the Roof” concerts. With jittery hands I placed the sheet music version of Dvořák on the piano music rack and set my iPhone down beside him. After pressing the start button, I lifted bow and Italian model from the comfort of their case.
For the 1,000thtime—give or take a hundred or two—I sawed through the piece, but mind you, I was using a finishing saw, not a table saw or God forbid, a sawmill head rig—the kind that rips through old growth logs five feet in diameter and produces piles of course sawdust. Though I was nervous, I was more or less in charge of the piece, technically and, by my amateur standards, musically. The entire episode lasted just over three minutes. I returned bow and Italian model to their case.
Now would come the moment of truth, as I hit “replay.” Suddenly, however, “the best teacher in the world” vanished from the room. I thought of the immediate objective, which also posed as a problem: sending the video to Lisa, as she’d requested, and copying Nancy on the transmittal.
[The music plays.]
I didn’t cringe, nor did the Italian model flip over in her case. I was no longer in fear of being tossed out of the boat without even a traditional round of drawing straws. After some technical snafus, I managed to create a link to the recording and email it to my two musically superior classmates. With some trepidation, still, I awaited judgment.
Being the kind sorts that they are, neither of my classmates discouraged me from attending the reunion. Nor did they suggest a modification of the memorial service program. Nevertheless, an obstacle remained . . .
In mid-March a regular check-in with my dermatologist had revealed a suspect growth on my upper left arm. The anomaly was nothing that alarmed my good doctor, whose name, reassuringly, is “Goodman,” but he advised that the thing be nicked and biopsied. “If there’s anything there,” he said, “we can easily scrape a bit deeper. I’m confident that nothing further will need to be done—if the biopsy shows anything at all.”
“Sign me up!” I said. We both laughed. Dr. Goodman, whose care I’ve been under for years, knows I’m a card-carrying medical wimp.
As he and his assistant prepared to execute the “scalpel nick,” we talked music. Dr. Goodman is a conservatory-trained pianist, who still plays up a storm. His wife is a professional bassoonist, and he often serves as her pianist collaborator. I’ve never had an appointment when we haven’t talked music; recent concerts we’ve attended; recordings we’ve discovered.
The next day, Dr. Goodman called to ask if I’d seen the lab report on the biopsy. “Of course not,” I said. “You know me—I never look at lab results without adult supervision.”
The good doctor laughed, as if hitting the opening phrase of Mozart’s Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star—fully voiced on a Steinway concert grand. Then came the final chord: “The biopsy came back showing [a slight layer of cancerous cells]. But the good news is that it should be very easy to treat in the manner I recommended yesterday.”
“Sign me up!” We laughed together over my usual response hiding my usual fear. Dr. Goodman then described a few details about the procedure. When I heard the word “stitches,” what mirth remained in my lungs was quickly exhaled. “Stitches?” I inhaled again, however, when I heard the words “just two or three little ones.”
The follow-up appointment was duly scheduled for last Tuesday afternoon. In all honestly, having been through several Mohs surgeries and any number of lesser encounters with scalpels and liquid nitrogen, I wasn’t anxious about the scheduled procedure . . . until around 3:30 Tuesday morning.
I emerged from a dream and into semi-consciousness, a transitional state in which thoughts and images often assume distorted proportions. The scalpel of the morrow had grown to the size of a hunting knife. Its gouge, the size of a quarter. The stitches turned into a dozen, sewn with a Singer. The imagined pain—after the aesthetic wore off—was excruciating, without narcotics, “which I don’t ‘do’.”
The central problem with all of this? I feared that for the next week, I wouldn’t be able to practice my violin; for the next month after that, I wouldn’t be able to practice or play above 75% of my capacity.
After tossing and turning repeatedly, I resolved to do two things: First, before baring my arm to the hunting knife, I’d ask Dr. Goodman if my worries was warranted. Second, to be safe, I’d practice at noon—before the appointment—instead of my usual time in the evening, thus getting in one more session before my playing suffered.
It was this second resolution that was filled with serendipity. (Cont.)
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
