The Clock is Screaming

I stepped out of the shower in March and my chest split open.

Not a metaphor. The surgical incision from my cardiac device procedure just… opened. Blood and fluid everywhere. Three bath towels to stop it.

My wife—a nurse, the exact person I needed—was in Chicago dealing with her parents' estate. Both had just died. So my daughter drove me to the ER instead.

That was surgery number one.

By Thanksgiving this year, I'd had five cardiac surgeries. Six hospitalizations. All in twelve months.

And somewhere between surgery three and four, everything I thought I knew about gratitude… broke.

When the Comfortable List Stopped Working

Five surgeries. Three cardiac devices. My body kept rejecting the thing meant to save my life.

Lying there before surgery number five, waiting for the anesthesia, one question kept circling: What if I don't make it this time?

And that's when the comfortable list stopped working.

You know the one. Health. Family. Career. The things we say around the table because they sound right.

But when you're not sure you'll wake up from surgery… when your wife is burying both her parents while managing your near-death… when the calendar is filled with hospital dates instead of holidays…

You can't perform gratitude anymore. You have to find out what it actually means.

The clock isn't just ticking anymore. It's screaming.

What Survives

And that's when I saw it clearly. Not in a hospital room—at a lunch table with my grandson.

Last month, Liam sat next to me after church. He's twelve. Runs his own business designing 3D models. And he'd been listening to my podcast episode about breakthrough innovations.

He had an idea. A big one.

"It would need way better batteries than we have now, Papa."

So we went deep—the kind of conversation where you forget a twelve-year-old is asking questions most engineers won't touch. He's already thinking about making the impossible possible.

And sitting there, watching him work through the problem, I realized something: This is what survives when I'm gone.

My grandfather would take me to my Uncle Bishop's tobacco farm in rural Kentucky. When we'd do something wrong—cut a corner, rush through it—we'd hear it: "A job worth doing is worth doing right."

Almost like a family mantra.

I heard it on that farm. My kids heard it from me. Liam hears it now.

And that line will keep moving forward long after I'm gone. Not because of the accolades. Because of the people.

It's Not Just Liam

But here's what hit me sitting there with Liam: It's not just him.

It's you.

Every week for more than twenty years, I've been putting out content. Podcasts. Videos. Articles. Not for the downloads. Not for the metrics.

For this exact moment—where something I share gets passed forward. Where you have a conversation with someone younger who needs to hear it. Where you take what works and make it your own.

That's what legacy actually is. Not the content I create. Not what's on a shelf. The people we invest time in. The effort we put into helping them become who the future needs.

My legacy is Liam, yes. But it's also every person who's taken something from these conversations and shared it forward. That's you.

That's the reason the clock screaming doesn't make me stop. It makes me keep going.

Because you're going to pass this forward. And that's what survives.

The Math

I turned sixty-five in September. Both my parents died at sixty-eight. The math isn't encouraging.

So when people ask me why I keep pushing—why I'm still creating content when I can barely type, when I've had five surgeries in twelve months—

It's because I finally understand what I'm grateful for.

Not my health. That's been failing spectacularly. Not comfort. That ended in March.

I'm grateful I get to see what happens when you invest in people. I'm grateful Liam asks me about batteries over lunch. I'm grateful you're watching this and thinking about who you're investing in.

I'm grateful for what the breaking revealed.

What I'm Actually Grateful For

That morning when my chest split open? I was terrified. Thinking about everything that could go wrong.

Now? I'm grateful for what it forced me to see. Who shows up. What survives. Why it matters to keep going even when it would be easier to stop.

This week on Studio Notes, I'm telling the full story. The medical mystery that took five surgeries to solve. The conversation with Liam that changed everything. What my wife actually thinks about me writing a second book while recovering from all this. And what gratitude looks like when the comfortable list stops working.

Read the full story on Studio Notes: .css-j9qmi7{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-flex-direction:row;-ms-flex-direction:row;flex-direction:row;font-weight:700;margin-bottom:1rem;margin-top:2.8rem;width:100%;-webkit-box-pack:start;-ms-flex-pack:start;-webkit-justify-content:start;justify-content:start;padding-left:5rem;}@media only screen and (max-width: 599px){.css-j9qmi7{padding-left:0;-webkit-box-pack:center;-ms-flex-pack:center;-webkit-justify-content:center;justify-content:center;}}.css-j9qmi7 svg{fill:#27292D;}.css-j9qmi7 .eagfbvw0{-webkit-align-items:center;-webkit-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-items:center;color:#27292D;}