No Explanation Needed
Dane and Jane trying on new cold weather hats.
“Happy Hanukkah!”
“Merry Christmas!”
“Happy Holidays!”
The leaves are almost off the trees, the frost is here, and soon snow will follow. The winter season is approaching—and with it come disagreements, sarcastic memes, and even hate.
Recently, after Dane’s heart health challenges, we experienced an outpouring of encouragement and support.
“We lit a candle for you.”
“We put your name on a prayer chain at church.”
“We are sending you light and love.”
We appreciated every candle lit, each prayer said, and all the love sent in whatever way. We appreciated the gifts of time, labor, and comfort from people who didn’t pray, as well as from those who did. We received it all—each one’s personal choice, with no explanations needed.
Whether we label our approach spiritual, religious, something else, or not at all seems insignificant. In the end, might it not be all the same?
Twenty-three years ago, new to the area, I volunteered at St. Mary’s church to serve their Thanksgiving Day dinner. I noticed some people sat down with their food and started eating, while others quietly bowed their heads and said prayers. The following year, after meeting the Martins, I was invited to their home for a lovely dinner with their friends. No prayers were said. During dinner Roger shared fish stories, we laughed, and afterward, I helped Pat clear the table.
Soon I met Dane and we started dating. We began going to St. Mary’s Church and enjoyed sitting at the community tables where strangers became named friends. After the meal, we’d take the dogs, who had patiently waited in the car, on a brisk walk around Sidie Hollow Park.
One year, our friends Janet and Mark invited us to share Thanksgiving Day with them. We sat at tables with their family in their living room, with the wood stove blazing. Their tradition before any meal has been to hold hands, say out loud together, “Thank you for this meal,” and then all clap.
During the stay-at-home COVID time, Dane and I picked up our meal from the church and stayed in our car to eat. We guessed others probably drove home to enjoy their food, but we had the dogs and they wanted their walk! For the past two years, we’ve felt honored to share this day with Kristina’s family. Both times, there was a short Norwegian prayer before eating. Later, we went around the table and shared what we were grateful for.
Identifying as spiritual, religious, or anything else wasn’t mentioned. People were connecting with each other, and sharing, and the food that had been cooked with love was warming everyone’s bellies. Every year, no matter where we enjoyed this meal, hearts were bursting with gratitude and love. You could feel it.
The season is upon us in which we can honor diversity, individual expression, and freedom to choose, and increase our ability to accept others. Simply wishing each other well seems far more important than what greeting we use or how we show concern when a friend is suffering.
Dane leans towards wishing people “Merry Christmas,” and I say “Happy Holidays.” When it comes to someone needing care, Dane offers prayers, and I light a candle.
And, feeling more grateful than ever, we both wish you a Happy Thanksgiving!
Wide World
“Eating love,” is how Dane describes dinner from friends and neighbors.
Wide World
“Although we have not met you in person, we are part of a big community of people, holding you close to our hearts until you are all well again. With care & healing thoughts, Barbara and Bill.”
Slumped at the kitchen counter, Dane tears up as he reads me these words inside the get-well card. “This is real nice,” he says. It takes him a while to gather his composure.
Dane is on the road to recovery after a heart failure scare. For now, his options are slim: live with me or go to a nursing home. He can’t be alone.
While he was hospitalized for the past week, I’d been home for only quick in-and-out visits and half-night sleeps. The house wasn’t ready for a housemate. The downstairs guest room needed to be cleaned and the sheets washed. The refrigerator needed old foods tossed out and a solid wiping down. It was also time to weatherize the animal pens. Dane would need 24/7 care, and it had to start as soon as he walked in the door.
After a few phone calls, the community answered.
Even before then, the synergy was incredible. From the time I first shared Dane’s predicament, a chain of human kindness formed. Lisa booked me a room near the hospital for the night Dane was intubated, then brought me a bag full of clean clothes, enough food to last a month, and a notebook and pens. One day I was whisked away for a shower and a hot, healthy meal. A lovely card with heartfelt encouragement for Dane and me was hand-delivered by a member of the One Spirit Rising group, containing a gift of money for the hospital cafeteria, gas back and forth, and duck food. Later, when we were packing up Dane's belongings, an envelope slipped out of the notebook. "Sometimes I get to be the boss" was written on the outside. Inside was a gift of money.
I didn’t witness the home orchestration but Téte, the oldest canine, did.
It was crazy, Mom, I was barking most of the day! First Bonnie screeched into the driveway and flew into the house with her spatula and mop. She went in and out of the basement with armloads of sheets and even our blankies from the couch. Then Maureen came and let us out of the kennel while she raked up Louisa and the goats' big mess. (Did you know she takes their poop home for her garden?) Pretty soon Kristina showed up with armloads of food and attacked the refrigerator. (If you’re looking for Maude's hot dogs, they’re in our bellies. Yum!) She filled your cupboards with healthy foods to make Papa strong. Later she came back with a blood pressure machine and told us Papa has to use it once a day from now on. We got to meet Cowboy David, who dropped off a walker and a shower bench. Carole came with a gigantic bag of cat food (where’s ours?), Carol and Sara with chips for the sloppy flock, more cat food and litter (still no dog food!), and then Maureen put us back in the kennel—and it got real quiet.
Once settled in the car, Dane mentioned how good it felt to see the outside world again after a week in the hospital. Getting his discharge instructions, being outfitted with the LifeVest, having a shower, and putting his own clothes on left him exhausted. He was excited to get home, even if it was my home and not his—and my cats, not his. What a blessing to arrive here, grab the waiting walker, and bring Dane into a freshly cleaned and welcoming house full of well-wishing notes and even flowers next to his bed.
These days, we’re establishing a routine of biweekly visits from the rural nurse, thrice-weekly cardiac rehab appointments, visits from family, and the comfort of delicious dinners arranged by Joan.
This is our first experience being on this side of a meal train. Dane remarks each evening about the wonderful soups, salads, burritos, Mexican hash, chickpea curry, and blueberry crisps. “It’s like eating love.” Wholesome, organic meals fill more than our bellies.
Often, when Dane is feeling up to it, the cooks come in for a short visit. We’re amused each time Téte runs in and noses the bags, sniffing for dog food. When we say, “Not for you, girl,” she hangs her head and sulks away.
Each day brings more community care: cards, books, Pat dropping off low-sodium goodies, Geri and Steve offering an abundance of medical knowledge and nifty tools... Dane gets emotional over a hand-drawn picture from our youngest neighbor, Margo, tucked into a bag of goodies. Soon after, a package appears from a dear friend in Madison, full of self-care products for me and tea for Dane.
Today a check arrives inside a wonderful card. When Dane’s brother, Mark, comes to visit later, I drive to town, cash it, and buy a 50-pound bag of dog food. (Téte barks happily when I get home.) I also stop to see Kristen, who’s been cutting my hair for more than 23 years. This time she won’t accept any payment.
Tonight, as Dane and I settle into navigating this new life together, my heart is full of gratitude for what we all do here. We watch out for each other. We take care of each other.
Dane's options are few and his world, for now, is narrow, but the caring community that surrounds us makes it feel wide open and full of possibilities.
Breakdown
Dane putting together his Zoll LifeVest
Call button. Choking. More blankets. Feet cold. So thirsty. Congested. Am I breathing? When tube out?
These heartbreaking words are scrawled across a sheet of paper, attached to a clipboard lying on Dane’s waist. His hands are tied down so he can’t pull the breathing tube out of his throat. Kevin, the cardiovascular ICU nurse, is tuned in, reading monitors, making adjustments, pushing medicine through Dane’s IV, and asking loudly, “Dane, hey buddy, can you hear me?”
On Friday the 13th, I drove Dane to Vernon Memorial Hospital to see about his chest pain and shortness of breath. Later that evening he was transported by ambulance to Gundersen Medical Center in La Crosse. We both thought, Same rodeo as seven years ago. Back then, when Dane had chest pains, he got outfitted with two shiny new stents, went home, and was back in his fitness class the next day.
Not this time. All three of the main arteries feeding his heart were nearly blocked off.
At one point, Dane pleaded for the medical staff to give him something to make the horrendous squeezing in his chest stop. After looking at his EKG, they rushed him away. One of his damaged arteries had closed off completely.
Dane’s brother, Mark, arrived and found me waiting in the room Dane had been rushed out of. Soon a nurse came in to tell us they were performing CPR on Dane. Ultimately, they had to revive him three times.
An hour later, we were ushered to the critical care floor where the chaplain, followed by the cardiologist, came to talk to us. Prepare for possible brain damage, kidney failure with a life of dialysis, and his lungs may fill with fluids. When we finally got to see Dane, we were certain he recognized us, but uncertain about everything else.
Nurse Kevin wisely gave him the clipboard and a pen. Unable to talk because of the tube, Dane fumbled with the pen, trying to get a grip on it, desperate to communicate with us.
So thirsty
Choking
How long for tube?
The next day, it’s determined he can breathe on his own, and to his great relief the tube is removed.
Three days later, we’re in room 6107 on the cardiopulmonary floor. It’s too early for even the birds to be awake, yet Dane is wheezing the lyrics to a song that’s circling inside his head, “Breakdown,” by Tom Petty:
It's alright if you love me
It's alright if you don't
I'm not afraid of you running away, honey
I get the feeling you won't
I watch him from the recliner chair where I've spent the night. It’s earlier than Dane would normally wake up or have a conversation. But this isn’t a normal situation. As he strains to recollect and sing the words, I silently rejoice that his brain hasn’t suffered.
Dane drifts off and then wakes again later with a new earworm: “One More Cup of Coffee” by Bob Dylan.
One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee 'fore I go
To the valley below
Listening to him, I feel my own breakdown coming. I untangle myself from the covers and maneuver to the bathroom to gather myself. Before he drifts back to sleep, he tells me, in a weak, wispy voice that’s scratchy from the intubation: “I’m a miracle.”
Indeed he is. Dane got lucky.
On Dane’s second-to-last day in the hospital, the whole crash team walk behind him and cheer while he takes his first steps down the hall with a CNA and Mark.
Curious, I ask Dane if he saw any lights or a tunnel before the medics revived him. “Nope,” he answers, “this is the second time I was robbed.” Dane explains later that he briefly lost a pulse during a routine surgery at age 19. He tells me, “I guess I didn’t get far enough into the tunnel.” I remind him he had a few chances this last time.
Dane believes in the mystery and connection of all things. One of his favorite quotes is from William Blake: “Everything that lives is holy.” When I read to him all the well wishes, good intentions, prayers, quotes, and poems sent to us by his family, friends, and community, he becomes overwhelmed.
“Lovely. Lovely… Thank you. That’s nice,” Dane comments as I read. Often he names the poet or tells me where a Bible quote is from.
Dane may have had a breakdown, but it’s clear he is not broken—and if we’re all lucky, he won’t be going to the valley below anytime soon.
Simple Fixes
Michael with his granddaughter Penelope
Michael is working in my basement, moving the heavy stuff that needs to be moved, fixing an uncooperative washing machine, fussing with a lawn mower—and blaring old rock and roll music.
When I return from taking a load of junk up to his truck, he’s excited to show me that he found a few old CDs of mine and a CD player. We discover we’re about the same age when we start belting out Aretha Franklin's hit: “R-E-S-P-E-C-T!” We bop around the basement dancing, singing, and working in unison, occasionally sharing a belly laugh as we both try to get through the basement door at the same time.
I look forward to the days when Michael comes to help me around my place. We click. I’m always telling him, “I work better when you're here.” And it’s true.
Michael is a world-class handyman. Years ago, when Viroqua’s NCR plant closed and he was laid off, he started his own business called Simple Fixes and began solving all kinds of problems for me, for his family, and for friends. No one remains a stranger to Michael for long. One of his superpowers is being able to connect with everyone, even if they don’t always agree about world events.
In spring, I dig out the flower pots from under the bookshelf where we stored them the previous fall. We set up a potting station, I fill the pots with new soil, plant the geraniums and marigolds, and Michael whisks them up the stairs to the back deck.
In between trips, he tinkers with anything that needs to be fixed and spends time loving up my animals. It isn’t unusual to see him chatting with the goats, petting Louisa, or holding a cat.
“Ruben James!” he bellows after getting out of his truck, and my normally shy, fearful dog runs full speed to Michael. But he couldn’t knock Michael over if he tried. No one could. Michael is sturdily built and, like his personality, steady and sure.
Michael and I have had plenty of lively disagreements about things from my Tibetan prayer flags to food—he’s a strict non-dairy man and I’m a menopausal woman who needs calcium. Eventually we just shrug our shoulders and turn up the music.
I first met Michael years ago at the Landmark Center in Viroqua, where he helped with the maintenance of the building. I know his wife, Margaret, from my fitness classes. Margaret and Michael met when they were in the Navy, then reconnected about a decade ago, and married.
I recommend Michael to everyone. Even my newest neighbor down the road knows him now—he was glad to be able to help her.
I was surprised when I ran into Michael at the Co-op on October 7. I knew he’d recently had hernia surgery and I’d assumed he’d be resting at home. Not a chance. He said he couldn’t do that—rest—and on he went about some project he had planned for the day.
The community learned that he suffered a massive stroke a few days later, accompanied by a pulmonary embolism, and soon developed deep-vein blood clots. For the many who know Michael, the irony is not lost: he’s a 100 percent type of guy—nothing gets done half-assed.
The family was hopeful at first that Michael would recover to some degree, but that wasn’t to be the case. A CT scan showed intense swelling in his brain, and because of complications, he wasn’t a candidate for any type of surgery. Michael's daughters, Maggie and Kaitlyn, along with Margaret, took turns staying with him in the hospital, keeping him comfortable, honoring his wishes to have no extraneous or invasive medical interventions.
Today I was wrestling with the hose that stretches from the basement door to the animal pens. This year it’s been easier to move, thanks to Michael. He came up with the idea of attaching the hose to the underside of the upper deck and then threading it along the bottom of the crib. I smiled, thinking of him and his ingenious plan.
After cleaning out the water bowls and refilling them, I used a short hose attached to the same faucet to water the potted plants next to the basement door. Michael again! He’d installed a double spigot and a separate hose, so I no longer have to drag the long, ungainly hose I use for the critters across the lawn. He went to Nelson’s that same day and came back with two hose racks, and as he attached them he said, “If there’s ever anything that’s making your chores difficult, tell me, and I can fix it.”
He could. And he would. But there was no simple fix for his situation. Michael slipped away peacefully on October 20.
It’s an incredible loss for his family, friends, and community, and a gigantic gain for wherever he’s gone.
Move, laugh, and love in peace, Michael—we know you won’t want to be resting.
Visualizing Siskiwit Bay
Dawn on Siskiwit Bay
My latest MRI read like a horror report: Multilevel degenerative disc and facet degeneration . . . severe central canal stenosis . . . advanced degrees of lateral recess stenosis . . . moderate dextroscoliosis of the lumber spine. Yet here I was at Isle Royale National Park, hiking the Feldtmann Loop with my friend Carole.
I’d been visualizing this trail for over a year as I recovered from my body’s rejection of an artificial hip and the impact on my spine that came with it.
Carole had been visiting the island with her parents ever since she was 4 years old, but her last trip there had been 50 years ago, when she was 15. Now she was ten months out from a knee replacement. I wanted to return to Siskiwit Bay, a place I used to visit, and Carole wanted to revisit memories of her childhood vacations.
The narrow trail, littered with rocks and roots, required that we pay attention and use our hiking poles for balance. As we set out that morning, our packs were first-day-out heavy. Because it was 8.8 miles to our first campsite at Feldtmann Lake, each of us carried two liters of water along with a titanium pan, a tiny camp stove, a full container of fuel, 3.7 pounds of food (plus our snack packs), and water filters; my pack also held a round of Gouda cheese and a summer sausage. Our rain gear, tents, sleeping bags, and pads were tucked in the bottom.
We hugged the shoreline of the big lake for over a mile, then rested on the rock outcrop overlooking Grace Creek. On the trail, we needed to climb over, around, and sometimes under downed trees. Some had been there since my last trip there four years ago, and some had fallen in a storm two days before we arrived. Once, after trudging through the thick brush around a tree too big to get over, we lost the trail and had to backtrack to find it.
I’d spent many sleepless nights going over this trail in my head from beginning to end. I knew that the dense thimbleberry thickets and various ferns along the trail would block from our sight anything other than the narrow dirt path. I also knew these thickets could feel suffocating and that stretches of them can drag out for two to three miles.
I had hiked this trail solo three years in a row, before my hip flaked apart, in order to enjoy the solitude at Siskiwit Bay. Campsite one is heavenly, but I’d always found my time was better spent on the shoreline, soaking in all the goodness from the healing waters of Lake Superior.
We reached our Feldtmann Lake campsite by 6 p.m., with plenty of daylight left to set up camp, but we chose not to cook. We’d polished off most of the sausage and cheese on the hike, along with plenty of nuts, bars, and dried fruits. We were pleasantly stuffed and exhausted.
We spent the next day finding agates on Rainbow Cove, and then it was time for my dreams to come true: Siskiwit Bay. But first 10 more miles on the trail.
Carole identified juniper, berry, and mountain ash trees. We both touched ancient birch trees too big around for us to hug. On the ridge near the fire tower we admired wild purple asters, orange hawkweed, and delicate rock harlequin. We persevered through the miles of ostrich ferns and thimbleberries that slapped our legs and made it impossible to focus on anything else.
That afternoon, it was exciting to see Siskiwit Bay for real and not while lying in bed doing hip and back therapy exercises. The look of relief and surprise on Carole's face told me she felt the same way. Our next two campsites—Island Mine and Washington Creek—would be easier to reach and our packs would be lighter.
We stayed an extra day on the bay. I rose early to watch the sun rise through the fog. An otter cruised the shoreline for snacks. We dined on fresh salmon, Kalamata olives, and Triscuits in a celebratory lunch on the dock of the bay.
We were delighted by inquisitive foxes, and entertained by a squirrel carrying a mushroom larger than its head. We saw a loon, spied on busy beavers working on their home, and stood still to watch eagles. Carole scolded pesky squirrels that kept leaving their calling card on the picnic table, and I almost stepped on a sunning garter snake. We encountered tiny toads crossing the path, and lay flat in the sand with our bare feet in the water, our faces in the sun.
Throughout the trip, there were snowshoe hares, cranes, pileated woodpeckers, a slug, hummingbirds, gulls, mallards, mergansers, and ravens to keep us company. A highlight was watching a bull moose in rut, grunting and bellowing loudly, trying to get the attention of a cow who wanted nothing to do with him. This went on into the night as they splashed in Washington Creek not more than 10 feet from our campsite. In the morning, the cow and her offspring were noisily ripping and munching leaves near our shelter, barring our way from a trip to the loo.
Fortunately, the rain we expected on Friday waited till we were sleeping, and our ponchos were sufficient to shield our packs and upper bodies from the dripping foliage and trees.
By the time we made it to Washington Creek, finishing the loop, our hearts were full, our bodies ready for a shower in Grand Marais. We had eaten like queens and hiked like warrioresses.
We would head home the following day, but I was already dreaming about next year’s trip. With any luck, Carole’s other knee will stay strong till then and so will my back and hips.