End the Nightmare
Nightmares started plaguing me Tuesday night—something I haven't experienced since I left the Milwaukee area over 24 years ago. When Dane asked me about it, I assured him I’m okay, that it’s my subconscious dealing with the aftermath of the workshop.
******
It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m rushing into the conference room at the Vernon County Sheriff's Office. I'm brought up short by a row of blue uniforms stretching across the room like a tight rubber band. Backtracking a few steps, I slip into a chair upfront and exhale.
The free two-day workshop, “Investigating Domestic Violence: Upping Your Game with Current Best Practices,” is being offered to law enforcement personnel and other community collaborators. I’m present as one of 24 HEART (Help End Abuse Response Team) volunteers led by Janice Turben, coordinator, Vernon County Domestic Abuse Project. HEART volunteers provide support for victims of domestic violence in Vernon County. We’ll take turns being on call, and once a scene is secured, we’ll be there to support the victim.
The HEART project was spearheaded by a grant written by Susan Townsley, clinic director of Stonehouse Counseling. At our orientation meeting, Susan explained that she was seeing the same people again and again in her practice and wanted to end that vicious cycle—particularly because children who are raised with violence tend to become violent themselves.
On average, it takes seven incidents of abuse before someone leaves their abuser. Often the victim stays because they have nowhere else to go, have children and pets they fear for, have been isolated from family and friends, and have come to see the abuse as “normal.” And leaving doesn’t always mean safety.
Sheriff Roy Torgerson welcomes our group and thanks us for our time. He works closely with Janice and Susan to ensure the HEART program will run smoothly.
The Vernon County Sheriff's Office received 94 domestic violence calls in 2022 and 85 in 2023. But many domestic violence incidents go unreported because victims fear for their lives or are promised by the batterer that it will never happen again.
The agenda is jam-packed. An expert from Milwaukee describes the dynamics of domestic violence: power and control, escalation, cycle, impact on victim, and perspective and behavior.
We break into small groups to work through some case scenarios. My group includes Janice, another HEART volunteer, and four law officers. When the officers decide they can charge the hypothetical suspect with reckless driving, Janice challenges them: How? They confer with each other thoughtfully and include us in the process.
For me, this is the best part. I believe that when our law enforcement is involved with the community, good things will happen. Seeing blue uniforms and guns can trigger a sense of danger and anxiety. But these are good people, learning how to better take care of folks like you and me.
When the first day’s session ends, I sprint for my car. The subject is a tough one, and the presenters have shared real-life scenarios, pictures, and body cam videos to drive home the urgency of the topic.
That night, my bed feels dark and scary. Facts from the workshop spin through my head: the impact of trauma on memory, cognition, and behavior; why victims often recant; the importance of evidence-based investigations; collaborating for the victims' safety; and offender accountability... Then the nightmares begin. No matter how hard I fight, I can’t get free.
******
Wednesday morning, I head back to the sheriff's office for the conclusion of the workshop. I’m grateful to be learning from experienced women in this field, but also tired. This time, I don’t startle at the sea of blue when I walk into the room.
Officer Palmer, of La Farge, shares the terrifying statistics of police suicides. He reminds his team that they don’t need to be alone with the trauma of their jobs and urges them to reach out for help.
Then a survivor shares her story in a nonlinear, disorganized, bits-and-pieces way. We know from our training that this is common for victims. The importance of listening, not interrupting, and not judging or thinking of questions has hit home. The full room is deadly quiet.
This brave soul, at one time a manager at a major company, tells us about her coworker, confidant, and friend strangling her and days later coming back to kill her. She can’t see well out of her left eye even after numerous surgeries, and her right hand, which was all but severed, doesn’t have feeling. I notice she doesn’t mention receiving any mental health assistance.
The rest of the workshop covers legal risk factors for victims, stalking, more case scenarios, report writing, and recognizing and documenting signs of strangulation, which precedes 53% of domestic violence homicides.
The workshop ends with questions and many thanks to the presenters and the county for offering this opportunity. Driving home, I keep thinking how lucky we are to have this level of commitment to the people of our community.
******
Thursday morning, Janice emailed the volunteers from HEART a heartfelt thank you and an offer for debriefing. When I go out on a call, I’ll feel reassured that the officers and I will be working as allies.
My nightmares are temporary. Hopefully, by being more aware, we can end the living nightmare for domestic abuse victims and their families.
For more information about the HEART program, contact Janice Turben (jturben@fccnetwork.org). For more information about programs for victims and batterers, contact Susan Townsley at info@stonehousecares.com.
Thank you to Sheriff Roy Torgeson for the photos.
Home
“I’m already feeling sad,” Dane says, after packing an overnight bag to take to his house. “Yeah, me too,” I answer.
There’s a reason we don’t live together, we’ve always said and believed. Each of us values our alone time and always will. But since Dane’s heart attacks last fall, he’s been living with me.
A month before his heart challenges began, we became engaged. People were excited for us, and their first question was always, “Whose house will you live in?” Or they’d exclaim, “Wow, you two are going to live together!?”
“No!” we'd answer and quickly remind people, “We’re making a commitment to each other, not living together!”
Today, almost four months later, as we were walking up the hill with the pups, we talked about Dane’s upcoming test. They’ll measure his heart’s ejection fraction (EF), the percentage of blood ejected with each contraction, to see if there’s been an improvement. Because Dane's percentage has been low, he still needs to wear the heart monitor (LifeVest), which means he can’t drive. If he can’t drive, he can’t work. If he can’t drive or work, he needs to live with me until he can, so I can be his driver.
So here we are, living together, but today Dane is heading home to spend the evening at his house. He will reunite with his cats, Spike and Blake, build a fire, do a bit of cleaning, and take care of his chickens. I’m heading to La Crosse for errands, and in the morning I have a date with friends.
It wouldn’t have been an unusual scene for us four months ago, but now we’re both feeling melancholic knowing we won’t see each other tonight or in the morning.
“Do you have your phone?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Is it turned on?”
“Yes.”
We load up the car and meander the crooked 11 miles to his place. On the way, Dane says, “When I come home tomorrow…” and we look at each other. I mention that the word home has become confusing, and he agrees. Technically, I’m driving him to his home and going back to mine.
Yesterday, I commented on how flawlessly it’s worked for us to live together, despite how small my place is. Dane doesn’t think it’s too small, but when we’re making dinner it looks more like an intimate dance. And we’re both glad to know it can work, in case someday one of us needs care again.
The other day I was coming out of the Snake Shed with a hunk of hay for the donkeys and yelped when I about stepped into Dane. We both laughed in shock, and I asked what the heck he was doing. “Looking at you,” he answered, and we cracked up again.
This isn’t uncommon. Not long ago, while madly typing, I felt something behind me and turned. Dane, of course. “What are you doing?!” I squealed, my heart racing.
“Just seeing what you’re doing.”
We’ve gotten good at normalizing the winter animal scene here together. Dane yells down the stairs: “Lorca’s under the bed, Merlin is in the cat tower, and Monkey's sleeping in the cat bed on top of the trunk.”
I yell back up the stairs: “Okay, Maurice is curled up on your chair, and Salvador is down here eating. I’ll go round up Rupert and be right up. Do you have Finn’s bone?”
“Yes, he already ate it and is waiting for the one you’ll bring him.”
Thirty minutes later: “I found Rupert, but now I need to let Ruben and Téte out again. Are you sleeping?”
“I was until you yelled up here.”
Rounding up six cats and three dogs, covering the birds, misting and feeding the snails, emptying the litter boxes, and refilling the water bowls and the cats’ food bowls takes at least 30 minutes—with the two of us tag-teaming, about 15. Before we even begin these nightly rituals, we’ve already put the ducks and geese into the Duck Hall, given water and fresh hay to the donkeys and goats, and made sure Louisa had her bedtime meal with three apples.
Today, after my errands in La Crosse, I come home, do chores alone, and call Dane.
“How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“I miss you.”
“Yeah, I miss you too.
Everything and nothing has changed. My home has become Dane’s home, and his house is still his home. Together we remain committed to loving and caring for each other in the simple life we’ve created.
There is a reason we don’t live together... because we each have our own homes and we enjoy our independence. But that doesn’t lessen the love we share.
Three Homes
Sally & Jane enjoying a summer adventure date
Keith, my boss for 15 years, used to tell me that we have three homes: one where we live, one where we go to work, and the other where we go to get away. Decades later, I’m finding deeper value in that concept.
Back then, I was managing Keith’s multi-facility club. Work was relentless, and “getting away” meant sneaking off to a back court to play racquetball, jumping into an aerobics class, or hitting the weight room. I rarely saw my live-in home, except to sleep. My true home away from home was Whitnall Park, with well-trodden paths weaving through the woods and a lovely garden. But I hardly ever had time to visit. I’d look longingly at it as I drove by on the way to work and home.
What happens when your work becomes the place you go to get away?
Nowadays, I spend more time at home than usual. This past summer, I quit a 10-year job in Richland County, where I’d spent more time driving to appointments than with clients. The work with my clients was rewarding, but the drive time was exhausting.
So all summer, after leading a class on Zoom and taking the dogs for a walk, my afternoons were peaceful. I’d start by serving lunch to Maude, my eastern box turtle. I enjoyed filling her special rock with lots of healthy goodies, then sitting back in the red chair to watch her eat. She’d carefully claw aside the carrots, broccoli, cucumbers, and even strawberries, to get to her precious Oscar Meyer wiener bits and good ol’ bananas. Her best friend, Mr. V (a vole), would scurry out from a tiny hole, snatch a piece of carrot, and zip away, only to reappear after mere seconds. Was Mr. V swallowing those pieces whole, or perhaps taking them to Mrs. V and the kiddos?
When Maude finished, she’d saunter off at an astonishingly fast clip, heading for a weedy clump of grasses where she’d take a long, deep nap. This would be my cue to fetch my own lunch and carry it to the bistro table on the back deck. No sooner would I plop down than Hans and Vincent, the resident kid goats, would appear, looking for handouts and not a bit fussy over what I had to share. Eventually, slow-moving Peepers would join us, being the elder goat at age 11.
It sounds like an ideal home life, but here’s where it gets confusing. No longer working in Richland Center, and now teaching all my exercise classes from home, I’m once again pondering Keith's theory of three homes.
What happens when you work from your home?
As it turns out, people in Blue Zones (a word coined by Dan Buettner, who studies areas of the world in which people live exceptionally long lives) also realize the importance of the three-home concept. In Blue Zones, they have what they refer to as “third spaces”—what Keith was calling our third home—where they go to get away and socialize.
The look of third spaces varies depending on the country. In Loma Linda, California, they are churches; in Sardinia, Italy, wine at 5 p.m. creates the third space. In Singapore, one hospital isn’t just for patients. It was built to draw in the community with tai chi and Zumba classes, a health-oriented restaurant, and a 2.5-acre garden on the roof where volunteers grow organic herbs, fruits, and vegetables for patients and the public.
An important function of these third spaces is to combat loneliness and isolation. According to US Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy, loneliness is as bad for our well-being as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. He says it’s “more than just a bad feeling. It has real consequences for our mental and physical health. It increases our risk of depression, anxiety, and suicide. But social disconnection also raises the risk of heart disease and dementia and premature death on levels on par with smoking daily and even greater than the risks that we see associated with obesity.”
Social isolation is becoming a disease with serious health consequences. In a recent Gallup survey, 17 percent of American adults said they feel lonely, 24 percent of young adults answered the same, and 1 in 10 elderly said they are lonely too.
The idea of three homes—one where we live, one where we work, and the other where we go to get away with others (third spaces)—is an important concept Keith was schooling me on all those years ago.
After our recent dump of snow, I’m glad I work from home. If I were still driving all over the county, classes would have been canceled, as would my appointments in Richland Center. But, like everyone else, I need to be careful I don’t become too isolated.
My work life is fulfilling, and I never feel lonely when I can go out my back door and take Louisa an apple, the donkeys a carrot, or share my orange peels with the goats. But I’m also thankful for getting out on adventure dates with friends and all the wonderful events our communities offer.
Thanks to my boss’s musings four decades ago, and the Surgeon General’s recent warning, the importance of this third space has hit home for me. Maybe we all need to pay more attention to our third home and keep this third space open for our neighbors, young friends, and the elderly this winter.
One Word
On my right hand, on my crooked index finger, I wear two thin silver rings with words engraved on them.
After Dad died, when I was a single mother and Jessica was only four, life became more challenging. Dad had been solid, my cheerleader, my go-to person, the one who loved me most. During that hard time, the word faith became my one-word mantra. I wrote it on 3x5 index cards and kept them close by. That word pulled me out of a lot of ditches where I felt stuck, unsupported, or useless. It still does.
Although money was tight, when I found a booth at the Wisconsin State Fair where they engraved words on rings, I bought a ring with the word faith on it. Faith seemed a better choice for me than hope. I wanted to believe one hundred percent that things would get better, that Jessica would be healthy and happy, and that our lives would get easier. To me that would mean having a reliable car, a job that paid more than what childcare cost, and an apartment that was clean and safe.
When Jessica was almost a teen, I participated in a mini-triathlon (now called a sprint) in Peewaukee the day before applying for a job. It was raining during the race, making a downhill stretch difficult to navigate on bicycles. Many people decided to walk down instead of ride. Already toward the back of the pack, I gripped my handlebars, leaned forward, and stayed on track, surprising even myself when I reached the bottom still upright.
Gary, the gentleman at the front desk of the club where I was applying for the job, kept me talking. When I mentioned the Tri, he made a quick call, then sent me downstairs to meet Keith, one of the club’s owners. Turns out Keith had watched that event because he lived in the area. He liked the fact that I’d ridden my bike down the treacherous hill.
I worked at that club for the next 15 years, and during that time purchased another ring that said courage. I felt I needed to be more courageous. Men dominated the fitness field in those days; women weren't even supposed to sweat back then. (Jane Fonda was just starting to change that!) I’d already dropped out of college due to the stress of unaffordable childcare costs and cars that repeatedly broke down. I knew it would take courage to stay in the relatively new field of fitness for women.
Not everyone likes to make New Year's resolutions, but one-word mantras are different. Instead of trying to predict what we’ll do or not do in the new year, how about choosing one word, the way I chose faith and courage?
For example, focusing on the word peace day after day may bring some into our life, or better yet, to the world. Choosing the word peace could be a reminder to take a few deep breaths and slowly release any tension we’re holding.
Or listen. There’s a reason we have two ears and only one mouth. Listening to our friends, family, and clients before speaking is a crucial skill. Listening without forming an immediate response in our head is an art. Truly listening and then reflecting on what we hear acknowledges the other person’s feelings and can help clarify what we think we’re hearing.
Focus: Staying in the game and not racing ahead to the finish. Being aware of where our mind is, one step or one project at a time. Bettering our focus isn’t easy, but what would the new year look like if we did?
Choosing just one word as an intention for 2024 isn’t as overwhelming as a long list of things we want to accomplish, habits we want to change, or what we want to prioritize.
I still wear my rings with the words faith and courage, but I’m ready to add a new one. The choices seem limitless: unity, balance, freedom, abundance, serenity, gratitude, trust, joy, move, inspire . . .
Choosing one word is simpler than vowing to lose 50 pounds, save 50 dollars a week, or finish your first marathon.
Brave, imagine, compassion, grace, assert, explore, flow, heal, harmony, growth . . .
What matters about one-word mantras is their importance to you. When I was a young single parent, faith helped me soldier through the worst of times. Later, the word courage reminded me to stand tall, hold my head up, and keep going.
You don’t have to have your word engraved on a ring. You could just write it on a Post-it note and stick it to your mirror or dashboard. If you love to paint, you may want to paint your word and frame it, or cut up an old magazine and make a collage about it. A friend wears her word on a charm bracelet.
I’m considering painting mine on the back of my clunker of a car. I’m no longer in a position where I need to pay for childcare, and thankfully I have a home I adore. However, my car is an oil-sucking time bomb. But I understand that two out of three isn’t horrible. Maybe this year I'll choose the word gratitude.
My Quiet Years
Riley, Ned, & the cabin
Twenty-four years ago I left Milwaukee, burned out from a 25-year stretch of working in the fitness field. Although I still had energy to burn, my soul felt used up and tired. I was working long hours and then, whenever I had the chance, escaping to the woods to rejuvenate or to a quiet campsite to decompress. I was ready for a change.
A few months after moving to Vernon County, I was living off-grid in a cabin where, if I stood in the middle and reached out with my trekking poles, I could touch the opposing walls. The only noises I’d hear were the neighbor’s cows mooing, the clickity-clack of horse hooves echoing from the road below, or the coyotes singing their luck from a late-night hunt.
I hadn’t a clue what I would do or how I would make a living. All I knew was that I no longer wanted to be the person in charge of maintaining the chemicals in a pool, or the person who did the hiring, training, or firing. I didn’t want to be responsible for the bottom-line profit or loss, or to deal with the politics of managing one club within multiple facilities. I was happier leading classes.
My life went from 100 miles an hour to 20. No longer did I get home late, eat a quick crappy meal, fall into bed, wake up early, and drive back to work, only to repeat the day before.
Instead, I’d wake to my dog Riley's nails tapping on the wood floor, back and forth, from the door to the base of the ladder leading up to the loft where I slept. I’d roll around a few times, trying to squeeze out more sleep, before slipping into my jeans and crawling backward, one foot at a time, down the steep steps to where Riley was eagerly waiting.
As I transitioned from full days filled with plenty of one-on-one contacts in a multi-facility fitness club to long days of quietly hiking with Riley, the question “What’s next?” scurried like an anxious squirrel through my head.
I had no plan when I came here, only a deep desire to live more intentionally, the way I’d imagined: closer to nature, in a landscape I found inspiring, in a less populated town, with a chance for more intimate connections, and space for an animal family.
As for employment, I’d tell people I wanted to punch in, punch out, go home, and not have to worry. In other words, I wasn’t looking for a job with a lot of responsibility. Working in a bookstore sounded appealing. At that time Viroqua had a bookstore, but Susan, the owner, was running it herself. So I found work in the local art supplies store, a resale shop, and a veterinary clinic, until I found myself once again doing something I loved: leading water aerobics classes at the town's only motel with a pool.
Before I knew it, I was right back into the field I’d left behind. My passion for helping people reap the benefits from a regular exercise routine along with being in the great outdoors had come full circle. In 2002 I started a fitness business that has, over the years, included in-person classes in various rural settings and, most recently, online classes seven days a week, with not only local participants but folks in Madison, Chicago, and even Tucson.
The difference is that I’m living in a place I’d only dreamed of, in what I now refer to as my quiet years. I had no idea, when I packed up and left my old life, what this new one had in store for me.
Sometimes all we need is a change of scenery, a place that surrounds us in beauty and is quiet enough that we can think, rest, rejuvenate, and then regrow.
With the new year approaching, I’m once again reflecting on “what’s next.” I feel deep satisfaction in lying in a chair, wrapped in a blanket, my face to the sun, on these last warm days of the year, thinking this may be it: more quiet years.
Up the Hill
Until recently, Dane’s life and mine were like a series of small hills. Some days were more challenging because of work responsibilities or necessary chores. Others, like our date days, were breezy and fun.
In addition to hiking with me and the pups, and bike riding on our date days, Dane spent this past summer working his 10-hour-a-day, 4-day-a-week job that requires miles of walking through thickets. He also spent time cutting wood to prepare for this winter.
Our last big hike at the Kickapoo Valley Reserve was on an early October day that heated up to an unseasonable 90 degrees. We were with the dogs on Hanson Rock Trail, the trail Dane and I adopted years ago. It’s steep, and we’d hiked about 7 miles by the time we got back to the car.
Lately, we think about that hike, our bike rides, and especially Dane at home alone chopping all that wood.
We recently learned, in the midst of Dane’s health challenges, that each time your heart constricts, a percentage of blood leaves it; the amount, measured in an echocardiogram, is called your ejection fraction (EF). An EF of 50 percent or higher is considered good. If your EF is 35 to 39 percent, your heart’s pumping ability is moderately below normal. Reduced EF can indicate heart failure.
Currently, Dane’s EF is 25 percent, which makes everyday chores such as getting dressed, washing dishes, or feeding the critters challenging. He often has to stand still, catching his breath. He needs to wear a Zoll LifeVest, and he isn’t allowed to drive.
Walking up the hill is something we’ve done together here for years. We put the dogs on their leashes and take them up the hill from my house. It’s what we were doing on Friday, October 13, when Dane started having chest pain.
Miraculously, it’s also what we did today, not even two months after Dane’s series of heart attacks and diagnosis of heart failure. It wasn’t easy, and we stopped frequently so Dane could catch his breath. The morning was chilly, and the road was dotted with snow from the day before. Dane usually holds Téte-the-tank’s leash, and she seemed a bit put out that he was holding tiny Finnegan's instead. At the top of the hill, we all soaked in the sunshine and the warm feeling of accomplishment, smiling like cats after a bowl of warm milk.
That walk up the hill was a milestone for Dane. It hasn’t been easy for him to understand his new limitations. It’s not easy for me to understand. But it’s our new reality. It’s Dane’s new chance at life. And today, snapping a picture of Dane and the pups at the top of the hill was something to celebrate.
You can’t see inside your heart as easily as you can lift the hood of your car and look at the engine. Heart disease is the leading cause of death in the United States, and it’s often a total surprise. You can be fit—exercise daily, maintain a healthy weight, and be strong enough to split wood for hours at a time—and not suspect your heart is failing or your major arteries are blocked, until you can’t catch your breath or you suffer a heart attack.
What we can do are the sensible things: keep moving, get outside and bike and hike, eat wholesome foods, keep our weight down. We can monitor our blood pressure—and if it’s high, take steps to control it—not smoke, keep alcohol consumption low, get a good night’s sleep, and work at keeping our stress to a minimum.
And we can pay attention to warning signs: excessive fatigue, dizziness, shortness of breath, coughing or wheezing; fast or uneven heartbeat; swelling in ankles, feet, and lower legs; poor blood supply to lower extremities; unusual indigestion or heavy sweating; pain in the jaw, chest, neck, back, or arms; or even nausea and vomiting.
Heart disease and heart failure aren’t something you can just get over, nor are they always a death sentence. They are something you can get help and treatment for, and then you can commit to making changes.
Above all, watching Dane throughout this process has taught me how to keep moving! We can keep trying to be better, do better. And when we make it up the hill, we can take time to rejoice.
Shut Your Mouth
When people hear that I sleep with my mouth taped shut, they laugh. Then they ask why I don't tape it shut during the day!
When James Nestor’s book Breath: The New Science of a Lost Art came out in 2020, I read it from cover to cover, completely engrossed, my mouth hanging open.
Nestor paints a grim picture for people who breathe through their mouths: from sleep disturbances and low energy to anxiety and heart problems. His main point is that mouths are for eating and noses are for breathing.
After reading his book, I started taping my mouth shut at night. (A small piece of medical tape placed vertically over the lips works well,) I noticed results immediately. Being claustrophobic, I thought it would be impossible to sleep with my mouth taped. But I started thinking about Ruben, my youngest dog, who is fearful of the vet. If we put a sling over his mouth to hold it closed and a mask over his eyes, he calms down immediately. Sleeping with the tape and breathing through my nose had a similar effect on me. I slept better, my mouth wasn’t dry nor breath stinky in the morning, and I had more energy during the day.
According to Nestor, when we breathe through our mouth, the muscles in the cheeks work harder and become tauter, causing an external force on the jaws. In children, this can lead to crooked teeth, poor growth, and mouth-breathing face, an elongating of the jaw and chin, and a narrowing of the mouth, which can result in crowding of the teeth and tongue.
A common problem for adults who mouth-breathe is that the gums and tissues lining the mouth dry out, leading to bacteria growth and resulting in gum disease and tooth decay. Breathing open-mouthed when sleeping can also cause the tongue to slip back in the mouth, obstructing the airway.
Our noses are designed to filter, heat, and treat the air we breathe. Our tiny nose hairs, called cilia, help prevent us from inhaling allergens, dust, pollution, and even small bugs! Our nose heats the air we take in, bringing it closer to our body temperature, allowing the tissues to absorb it more efficiently. Lately, I think of this when I’m doing chores. If I run around on frosty mornings breathing through my mouth, my throat gets sore. Letting my nose do its job of warming the air I’m inhaling by as much as 40 percent makes a noticeable difference.
Bony structures in the nose, called turbinates, keep the air we inhale moist, so our tissues incorporate the air more efficiently and our lungs and throats function better. Nestor says if athletes breathed through their noses they wouldn’t need to carry water bottles. He calls nose breathing the secret key to better performance.
Nestor goes on to say 75 percent of people, including him, have a deviated septum. Many have the surgery and live happily ever after, but some don’t get the results they hope for. Nestor chose not to have the surgery and instead worked on changing his breathing skills. Cat scans from before and after show remarkable changes. He feels it’s the same for people who struggle with congestion. Changing their breathing habits often clears up the situation.
With nasal breathing, the lungs absorb more oxygen and stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system, aiding in stabilizing the heart rate and decreasing spikes that lead to increased oxygen consumption. For me this has been a game changer. Last year, I started hiking in the hills to prepare for a backpacking trip that would be physically taxing. Learning to breathe through my nose as I exercise was a challenge. By paying attention to my breath while hiking and leading fitness classes, I’ve been able to retrain myself to use my nose. I’m unable to nasal-breathe 100 percent of the time, but I’m more aware of when I’m mouth-breathing. I’m inspired by a friend who has trained herself to run around Sidie Hollow Lake twice (4 miles) while breathing only through her nose.
Nowadays, my interest in nasal breathing goes deeper. In interviews and in his book, Nestor links heart problems, anxiety, and even ADHD with open-mouth breathing. After Dane’s recent widow-maker heart attack, we were surprised when the cardiologist asked about his sleep patterns. Upon finding that Dane breathes through his mouth at night, the cardiologist explained the association between poor sleep, heart disease, and heart failure. He then scheduled a sleep evaluation appointment for Dane.
Nestor once did a breathing experiment with a friend. They each spent ten days with their nose plugged, and another ten days with their mouth closed. All other factors remained the same—what they ate and when, how much they exercised, when they slept. The results were astounding. Nestor doesn’t mince words when describing how awful they felt when breathing only through their mouths, and the scientific research they derived from recording their stats three times each day.
Most astonishing was the high level of stress and anxiety they experienced with their noses blocked for ten days. That alone makes me want to continue this nose-breathing journey. The idea that people crippled by anxiety might be helped by changing the way they breathe is promising. After the trauma of Dane's heart problems, we both could benefit from breathing exercises to help deal with the anxiety of lifestyle changes.
For now, I’m committed to continuing to work on keeping my mouth closed . . . while breathing.
Something to Write About
Something to Write About
I once said during introductions at a writing workshop, “I want to learn to write with as few words as possible.” As a weekly newspaper columnist for the Crawford County Independent & Kickapoo Scout, I keep striving to learn the art of telling a story from beginning to end in 800 words.
Dane likes to tease that it takes me 800 words to set the scene before I start the story.
Today, reflecting on writing weekly for over ten years, there are a few things I know to be true.
The first is that column writing is unlike writing a novel or a great memoir. There isn’t time. A weekly columnist has seven days to turn in her next piece of work.
Sometimes, when I’ve been writing well and getting a few columns ahead of schedule, I’ve found myself in a pickle. I was once seven stories ahead and thrilled, but it didn’t end well. Animals that were stiff in real life, waiting out winter in the Snake Shed, were still alive and kicking when the column about them appeared in print. Worse was when my sister was dying, and my new column was about our epic bingo game weeks earlier.
This isn’t a problem when writing a memoir, but it’s awkward in a small community when I’m at the local Co-op, explaining, “Yes, thank you, Luna the goat did die in winter—we buried her this last spring when we smelled her rotting in the shed.” Or “Yes, it was my best day ever with my sister since she had become ill. She died yesterday.”
There are also less dramatic but still confusing events—such as my never-ending bad car karma, newest camera mishap, or latest malapropism—that can seem contradictory with a badly timed column.
For example, trying to explain in the Co-op parking lot, while getting into my newest previously owned car, that it was actually two months ago that I hit a guard rail and totaled the Ford Explorer, then the purple PT Cruiser blew up, and now I drive this white one.
Another source of awkwardness is the fact that what one person loves about my writing, another despises. There are people who can’t believe I write about personal issues, such as illnesses, accidents, alcoholism, claustrophobia, abortion, or that Black Lives Matter. They like to make sure I know that they would never share such intimate thoughts.
Of course not—they aren’t columnists.
Michael Perry, the best-selling author of Population 485, used to write a weekly column for the Wisconsin State Journal. The last time Dane and I saw Michael was on Washington Island, where he happened to be doing a show and we happened to be vacationing. We bought our tickets and sat up front.
I laughed louder than was polite when he spoke about the day he was on deadline to turn in his column and he had “nothing”—until the phone rang. It was his sister-in-law calling to tell him that his brother had cut off his finger and was on the way to the hospital.
Michael smiled. “Now I had something to write about.”
There are two camps of people when it comes to having my animals narrate a story. Charley, the editor of the paper, loves those stories best. Pat, my old neighbor and friend, didn’t—not in the least. “Animals don’t talk,” she’d say. But I’d argue that they do. They must, because they are still telling stories.
When I sit down to write, I remind myself that for the most part a columnist has free rein. They are sharing their own views, ideas, and stories. We don’t all feel, think, or experience things the same way. I choose to share tidbits of my real life because for every person who may be offended, another is probably saying, “My family also had hot ham and hard rolls on Sunday,” or “I thought I was the only one who left her car running all night.”
For the record, Charley has turned down numerous versions of a story I called “Something Fishy,” about a long-overdue gynecological visit that went south. It was a good call.
Lastly, what I know to be true about column writing, perhaps any type of writing, is that as long as I pay attention to living my own life, I will have something to write about. My best ideas come from solitary hikes, interacting with my community, caring for my animals, teaching fitness classes, getting out of Dodge, and eavesdropping when dining out. The time may come when I won’t be able to do those things. Accidents, illness, and emotional setbacks can happen to even the most accomplished columnist, and life can become narrower.
Then again, that’ll give me something to write about.
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.