The Dead Tree Across the Road

 

“Not sure how to reply to Jan's blog post (A World Without Din), so I'm doing it this way,” a long-time family friend wrote in his email.

I spent two days in the hospital in June and there was clearly something very wrong with me, but they couldn't figure out what. You can only count the ceiling tiles so many times--nine big squares each way. I wondered if this was the end of my story, and if so I was comfortable with that. I'd lived almost 80 trips around the sun, done many fun things, seen much of the world. It was a very reflective time.

Once I actually had the stroke, the diagnosis came quickly and I was soon at home, facing a lot of recovery, but recovery for sure.

Then there was the dead tree across the road. It did not change as I sat watching it from a recliner, and the first couple of weeks I was pretty disconnected from things. I could not hold a book or newspaper, and mostly dozed and watched the tree and thought about things. Melissa (Hortman) had been murdered the week before, and my close friends who knew her well were in the midst of terrible grief. I thought about her, her husband and their dog a lot. Who would shoot a helping paws dog? The dead tree had no answer.

There were rabbits. It seems like a bumper year for rabbits. And there are always squirrels. Birds at the feeder, lots of them. Probably feeding their young. And the dead tree, which has no answers.

It was a very quiet time.

Steve’s kids grew up alongside ours. Our children adored his daughter as a babysitter, and his son was part of our oldest son’s Lake Superior sailing crew during their high school years. When a storm brought down trees across our farm driveway while we were overseas, Steve spent days clearing them so we could get home. He was also a pivotal influence on our middle son at a crucial time, guiding him toward public service and outdoor work. In response to his note, I wrote:

Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts in reaction to one of my Substack posts. It was very moving to me, and I would welcome the chance to include it in the post.

The medical event you describe is, as Bonnie will attest, one of my greatest health disruption fears - right up there with cancer and ALS. In a recent bout of atrial flutter, it was offered as one of the possible outcomes if I didn’t accept the recommendation of a blood thinner. I can assure you I was never more disciplined in taking a medication after that advice.

Your description helps explain my fear a bit - the fact that it can so dramatically inhibit choice. My Substack piece postulated the choice of stepping out of the loop, of exploring the quiet. That choice, however, includes the option of stepping back in, allowing for re-immersion into the noise. Especially at this stage of life, that freedom to move between the two is precious. Imposed quiet is not the same as voluntary and self-directed quiet.

Fortunately, I don’t dwell much on fears, even health fears. But your comments help me appreciate the absence of health constraints even more. As I did when my father was confined to his apartment during the height of Covid, separated from any social interaction and limited to his view out the window. He would recover from that, too, but the frustration he felt had him likening it to being back in prison camp during WWII.

What I take away from your note is that while recovering from a stroke can be profoundly frustrating and isolating, recovery is possible - and so is retaining the ability to share your thoughts with power and clarity.

I’m guessing neither of us lets a day go by without reminding ourselves what a gift it is to experience whatever that day brings with appreciation and gratitude.