Music and Trauma in West Texas
Jan and I were driving through West Texas in the late 1990s when we stopped at the University of Texas McDonald Observatory near Fort Davis. We sat on the base of an incline and held hands as we listened to the ethereal voice of Dolores O’Riordan singing “I Still Do” through the open widow of a nearby summer residence for students. The Cranberries and whoever was playing them on their stereo were our companions in the dry heat. We felt a moment of communion with an unseen stranger, the three of us sharing a song and the loneliness of the landscape.
After we left, Jan’s right eye began to bother her. Unfortunately, she had somehow scratched her cornea. The pain became unbearable. I started driving at top speeds to the nearby town of Alpine. Within a few minutes a Texas state trooper appeared behind us, lights flashing. He pulled us over and approached our car. He looked just like one of the chain gang cops in Cool Hand Luke.
Well, I was caught speeding. No question about it. I explained that I needed to get Jan to the ER. He walked over to the passenger side without saying a word and took a hard look at Jan’s eyes.
“Follow me,” he said.
He turned on his siren and led us to Alpine, where he directed us to an eye doctor (this was in the pre-digital world. There was no Googling “Eye doctor near me.”) We were grateful for the trooper’s help. But the physician turned out to be an arrogant blowhard who condescended to us, failed to review the medical intake information that the helpful nurses had recorded, and made things worse by failing to comprehend what Jan was going through. He sent us on our way with some meds that were really not much more effective than a Tylenol and told her to cover her eye with a bandana.
The pain intensified as we drove to our planned destination, Austin. What to do? We pulled over by the side of the road, and I inspected a road map. There were no towns nearby. At all. Like, nowheresville, USA. Remember, folks: there were no mobile phones, and no internet in those days of yore.
I noticed a county seat on the map: Ozona, population 2,000. I figured a county seat was more likely to have medical services, so we took our chances and drove there.
We waited in a tiny outpatient ER center with a muscular man who was screaming because he had been bitten by a scorpion. To this day, we both remember the image of this muscular macho man screaming. Jan was in some intense pain herself, and she soldiered on like the badass she has always been.
After a few minutes, a kindly, elderly man came out to see us. His name was Doctor Owensby (or Ownsby, I am not sure which), and he was like something out of Marcus Welby, MD, a gentle soul. He gave Jan some healing drops and a potent drug. He bandaged one side of her face properly.
“She’ll be alright,” he said. “She just needs rest. And prayer always helps.”
They were the right words at the right time. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to cry.
We left Ozona late in the day, and I drove us to our bed and breakfast in Austin, while Jan slept deeply the entire time. I glanced over at her, looking comfortable for the first time all day, and I savored the kind doctor’s words. I had a cassette of Nirvana Live in New York playing, and because I did not want to bother Jan with changing the music, I must have heard that cassette repeat like 30 times. I got to know every single song intimately. I felt Kurt Cobain’s ache deepen with each listen. By the end of the drive, I could swear he was sitting in the car with us, a lonely companion, sharing his mental and physical pain in solidarity with Jan. That’s what music does. It becomes personal. Yours. Forever.
After we arrived at our bed and breakfast, Jan slept for hours thanks to the doctor’s strong meds. So I explored Austin and landed two tickets for a Lyle Lovett show the next night at an outdoor theater. Fully recovered, Jan and I drove to the concert and settled into our seats way in the back. Jan was feeling good, but she had to wear an eye patch for a few days. Some guy walked up to us and said, “If you can see out of only one eye, you need a better seat.” He gave us two free tickets to the front row and walked away.
Every time I hear “I Still Do,” my mind wanders to West Texas to savor that beautiful moment alone with music before our visit took a painful, nerve wracking twist followed by moments of grace at the hands of people we never saw again.
I think of Doctor Owensby especially, how is gentle demeanor was a balm amid stress and pain. I wonder what happened to him after that and how many lives he must have touched before he most certainly left this earth between then and now.
