David McElroy

I’ve thought all week about how I want to wrap this story up, and I’m still not sure. I’d hoped to have some profound point to make by now, but I don’t think I do. I’m not even sure how interesting it is.

For those who have asked, though, here’s how it went and what I remember along the way. It’s going to be pretty chronological and pretty stream-of-consciousness. And it’s going to be way too long. Most of it won’t interest you, I suspect.

As I got ready for surgery the day before, it didn’t feel real. In fact, the preparations I was making felt more like I feel before taking a trip. I had a checklist of what all had to get done — such as taking my dog, Lucy, over to a friend’s house to spend a couple of days — and I had to get to bed early in order to get up early. It was hard to go to sleep.

I was up at 4 a.m. As soon as the alarm went off, I was wide awake. It still didn’t feel real. I was on a schedule and I’d meet the schedule, but I still couldn’t really feel anything about it. A friend who lives nearby, Carole, took the day off from work to drive me to the hospital and wait around for me. My sister, Rebecca, had planned to come down from Nashville, but I asked her to wait until Tuesday. I was taking up Carole’s Monday, so I figured Rebecca could take over on Tuesday if I needed it.

There was more traffic on the way to downtown than I had imagined there would be at 5:30 a.m. The Birmingham economy is dominated by the medical industry and downtown is stuffed with hospitals and medical research buildings, so maybe it was all people who work in those places. I just know I was surprised. As we got to the hospital at 6 a.m., I sent one last brief email to someone and turned my phone off.

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Everyone’s heard of Groundhog Day, but are you familiar with Ground Weasel Day? It’s actually much more important, but it’s mostly a political insider thing. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Don’t tell anyone else.

On Feb. 2, a groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil comes out of the ground in Punxsutawney, Pa., to see whether he sees his shadow, which allegedly tells us whether there’s going to be six more weeks of winter or not. It’s a cute little legend, but who really cares? The important action comes the next day — Feb. 3 — every four years.

On the Feb. 3 of a presidential election year, a ground weasel named Backroom Bob comes out of a smoke-filled room and turns on a television set. He flips between various cable news networks these days, but he used to have to watch the evening news. Before there was television, he read morning papers.

Regardless of the era, though, it works the same way. Backroom Bob comes out on that day to sample the candidates for president and the amount of support they have among voters. He then gives his prediction for the next four political years.

I can’t give you Backroom Bob’s specific location, because they’d kill me if I went that far. But let’s just say that he’s located in a far darker corner of reality than you might like to realize exists in your political system. He lives in the smoke-filled rooms behind a certain seedy bar frequented by especially crooked political wheeler-dealers. As a ground weasel himself, he understands other weasels and doesn’t judge them for their base motivations and vile dishonesty. All weasels are like that, so he expects it.

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