Page 47 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

A few days ago, I called Dr. Lisa and asked her to listen to the live stream of the podcast. If I do end up “going deep” in any unexpected ways, a debrief and maybe even a double session will be required, so why not skip the part where I download what happened?

It’s better if she just listens to it live and charges me for her time.

I look down at my phone as I take my seat and text her a reminder.

As I reach the arrivals hallway, I see a driver is waiting with my name on a sign.

Beside him stands Lucia, my publicist. She got to Nashville yesterday to meet with another client and insisted on ridesharing to the airport to greet me.

This is only the second time we’ve met in person, and we greet one another with a great big hug.

Maisy is hosting the podcast sessions from a new small recording studio she had built at her TV show headquarters downtown.

I have to give her credit: the concept of the podcast—called Same Stories— is actually quite clever.

She pairs together two people from different industries, experiences, or walks of life who have experienced a common event or feeling.

Unsurprisingly, the theme of today’s podcast is grief.

On the forty-five-minute journey to the studio, Lucia briefs me on my interview partner for the day.

I’ve been paired with Darrell Jenkins, a former professional football player in his late twenties who had his career ended earlier last year in the playoffs by a serious spinal injury.

One day, he was one of the best running backs of his generation, and the next, he was lucky to be alive.

Even luckier to be able to walk. Football, however, is done.

Darrell and I both share really shitty canon events for our superhero origin stories, that’s for sure.

Broken bodies and broken hearts aren’t all that different, I know instinctively.

“Is this for real?” I say, staring at the briefing sheet she’s just given me when I should be listening to her. The second bulleted item says that we’re going to watch alongside Darrell as he views the video of his injury for the first time ever. Damn , I think.

“It’s going to be intense,” Lucia says, basically reading my mind. “That’s the type of raw honesty and emotion that Maisy is looking for. If listeners aren’t bawling their eyes out by the end of your hour together, we won’t consider it a success.”

We review the list of potential questions that Maisy’s team sent over and go through some preplanned answers, but Lucia is clearly phoning it in. She looks me straight in the eyes and gets serious.

“I mean, it’s good we’re reviewing this because it may help, but she’s going to be on the hunt for ‘big feels,’ as she calls them. Be prepared for Maisy to go off script from the very beginning.”

“I know. Remember—I agreed to this. I’ve thought about some controversial parenting-through-grief sort of things I can talk about, and I can share some really crazy things people said to me after Ben died,” I begin.

“Did I ever tell you one of his pickleball buddies offered to ‘keep me company’? Ew.”

“Major ick,” Lucia says, clearly only to humor me. “But I’m not sure Maisy wants ick or funny. She wants emotions, Gracie, so try not to only do your making-grief-funny thing, okay?”

I nod. I feel so fragile after last night with Josh. The fear of today’s group therapy session with Darrell and Maisy creeps in. Breathe , I tell myself, willing my stress levels to stay down and for my tics and anxiety to keep it cool.

Lucia doesn’t miss a beat and continues on with suggestions for how to weave in as many references to the column and memoir as possible.

She also recommends how to casually mention that I’m soon launching a newsletter (even though it’s not totally official).

When all of our business talk is wrapped and with just a few minutes until we arrive at the studio, Lucia asks how the summer is going.

“We don’t have enough time left in this car for me to share what this summer has been like—those are definitely big feels for another day,” I say with a half-hearted smile.

The last twelve hours have made my heart raw, and I’m bone-tired.

“The one piece of news I will share is that I will certainly be turning in my finished manuscript by this time next week.”

“Well, no matter what else has happened, and I won’t pry, just please take a few moments to be proud of yourself for finishing the memoir. I’m proud of you for all you’ve done and all that is yet to come.”

The car pulls into the studio lot, and immediately I get flashbacks of my last trip here a few months ago.

I was so nervous and overwhelmed. While I had done a few local-market TV appearances, my time on The Maisy Show was my first extended on-camera interview.

It was hard talking about Ben with a national audience for the first time.

And now, if things don’t go well, I certainly can’t call Josh for his counsel. Not after yesterday. I’m on my own.

I try to put that all out of my mind as we walk in and are escorted to the same dressing room that I used back in early May.

I set my small overnight bag on the floor and use the next half hour to freshen up.

Although this is a podcast interview, I try to channel my inner Felicity and make it look like I didn’t just get off a plane.

A few minutes before we’re due in the studio, Darrell Jenkins pops his head into my room. He’s tall, with smooth dark skin and a warm, welcoming smile. He holds out his hand to shake mine.

“Gracie, it’s really nice to meet you. I’m Darrell,” he says.

“Darrell, it’s nice to meet you, too. We get to survive Maisy together today, don’t we?” I say back with a tentative smile.

“I hope we do. Did you listen to the one she did with those two activists yesterday? It made me want to crawl into a hole and hide. Or at least cancel for today. We are definitely not getting the touchy-feely daytime host experience.”

“Yesterday was a wild day for me, and I did not listen to it,” I say, turning to point at Lucia and add, “She’s probably glad I missed it; otherwise, I would’ve probably tried to cancel.”

“My advice is that we stay strong and work as a team,” he says in a determined tone, “and stop listening to our publicists.”

This makes all three of us laugh. Darrell has a good, friendly energy. I’m instantly happy we’re in this together. On cue, a production assistant comes to the door and tells us it’s time to get things rolling.

“Are you really going to watch the video?” I quietly whisper to him as we walk down the hallway.

“I am. I think it’s time, and I needed an excuse to face my fears,” he says, taking a long deep breath, before adding with a forced joviality, “Don’t get me wrong—I’m freaking out about it, but it’s time. What about you? What suffering are they confronting you with today?”

“Don’t know yet,” I tell him. “I’m sure Maisy will surprise me with something good.”

I take my own deep breath, say a quiet prayer, and head to the cozy studio wondering if I will face any fears—and whatever it is that I seem to be running from.

—

The first five minutes of the podcast go smoothly.

Maisy introduces us and throws a few softball questions our way to warm us both up.

She calls these her “popcorn questions” because of the quick back-and-forth they allow for.

I feel a knot in my stomach when two of the questions are ones that Josh recently asked me.

Thanks to him, my answers are there, perfect and ready to go.

The podcast honeymoon, however, ends when Maisy gets to the meat of today’s show.

“The theme of today’s episode is grief,” Maisy begins, signaling that this is the start of the real stuff.

“You’re both here because of traumatic and catastrophic events you experienced that resulted in significant changes to your life.

Darrell, let’s start with you. The clip of your injury went viral—watched over seventy-five million times and still climbing—but I read recently that you’ve never watched it yourself. ”

“That’s true. I just haven’t felt ready to do so,” he says, nodding his head. “I’ve been avoiding it for some time. An act of self-preservation, I think.”

“Are you up for watching it for the first time with us?” Maisy asks, already knowing the answer.

The clip starts playing on a big screen across from the table we’re sitting at.

Darrell sits back and takes a deep breath.

The clip is difficult to watch, even though I’ve seen it once before.

The hit Darrell takes is the result of a confluence of small decisions and movements that everyone on the field makes.

Everyone is trying to win; no one is trying to literally almost kill someone else.

The hit is swift and hard. He collapses like a bag of bricks.

And then there is nothing. No movement, no thumbs-up.

Just Darrell, lying flat, and the players around him manically waving for help.

Darrell is initially sitting with his hands clasped together, but as the clip goes on, he starts to pick at his cuticles and crack his knuckles. A nervous tic of sorts. It’s good to know I’m not alone.

Maisy has impeccable timing, so she doesn’t let the clip play too long. If memory serves, it will take another minute for the ambulance to get on the field and a handful more to cart him off. The hit itself is the main event, though.

Maisy gracefully presses him with questions about why he waited so long to watch the video and what it means for him to see it now.

His family and friends told him about the video and even offered to watch it with him, but he couldn’t work up the courage.

He could see the trauma on their faces, and that was enough for him.

A year later, he was finally strong enough to do it here with us, he explained.