Just over a year ago, while driving home after seeing a play with my best friend Jeremy, he startled me out of our post-show chatter, when he said quietly but firmly from the passenger seat, “Um…Milo…you need to call back home − right now.”
My phone, which I’d muted for the performance, had stayed silent through a flood of missed calls and texts. Desperate to reach me, my family had even emailed Jeremy, as I’d told my brother I was going to the theater with him that evening. Urgent news is almost never good. With my heart pounding, I called my brother as I drove.
The story came quickly. After morning tennis, an afternoon swim, and an after-dinner bike ride — my nearly-86-year-old Dad’s idea of an ordinary day — he came home. This man, who could easily pass for early 70s, parked his bike in the garage, walked inside, and said seriously to Mom, “I’m not feeling well.”
Within minutes, his words dissolved into gibberish. Soon after, he was unconscious. Thankfully, Mom recognized the signs of a stroke and was already dialing 9-1-1. The one blessing? If it had struck three minutes earlier, he’d have collapsed on his bike, alone. Instead, he was safely home in the garage, and she was by his side till the ambulance came.
My brother, Dave, flew in from New York immediately, recommending that I hold off so that I could relieve him when he needed to fly back to NY. Five days later, it was finally my turn to see Dad.
Even braced for it, I wasn’t ready. My vibrant, unstoppable father now lay pale and weak, a feeding tube in his nose, IVs in both hands, his dominant left side slack and unresponsive. His eyes followed us, but how much was truly getting through? It felt like someone had stolen the man I knew. The visits were hard, but we wanted him to know we were there and cared.
And then, a few days later, came the breakthrough.
As soon as we entered the room, he began repeating a garbled phrase, again and again:
“Oh whuzza zay cumma shu-ching!”
We all looked at each other, with no one having a clue.
“Oh whuzza zay cumma shu-ching!”
“I…want to see…the nurse come in?”
“Oh whuzza zay cumma shu-ching!”
“I wasn’t saying you…were searching?”
We guessed wildly, failing each time. He was clearly frustrated, but wouldn’t let up.
Finally, Mom noticed the rhythm of his arm as he spoke and said, boldly but uncertainly: “I think…I think it’s ‘Oh, When the Saints Come Marching In.’”
Dad’s eyes lit up. His hand moved with conviction as he said with more enthusiasm, “Oh whuzza zay cumma shu-ching!” Suddenly, we all heard it too. We all began to sing it together. I quickly pulled a version of the song up on my phone, and as the melody filled the room, Dad tapped his good foot to the rhythm. We played it several times. I never thought that song would have special meaning to me, but it will forever now.
Think about that: a man who couldn’t walk, swallow, or even form words clearly—but he still had a message. “I thought of a melody!”. A need to be heard. And with every ounce of strength, he found a way to share it.
That’s the essence of communication. Not perfection. Not waiting until everything is flawless. It’s courage. Determination. Believing your message matters enough to fight for it.
So the next time you hesitate before speaking — whether it’s in a meeting, on stage, or just voicing your idea — remember my dad. If he could battle a broken body to make himself understood, then you — with your voice, arms, legs, and strength intact—can absolutely share what’s inside you.
No excuses. No waiting. Your message is worth it. And if you need help unlocking it, I’ll help you get there.
(Note: by the time you see this, hopefully all tech errors are resolved, but I’m dealing with issues on the website. If the website is down, write to me via LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/MotivationalSpeakerMiloShapiro )