the beauty of loss

I share these photos because even in our heartbreak and loss we saw the beauty and we want you to as well.

The evening before Andy died there was a song circle outside our bedroom window.  Beautiful voices of friends and family helping Andy find his way.

And in the morning after he passed we lovingly prepared our cabin to hold his body for two days and our farm to receive visitors to say goodbye.  An around the clock vigil was set up with friends and family taking shifts sitting inside the cabin and also outside at a fire that continuously burned.

And then food arrived and tents to protect from the rain and so many children and friends.  In the midst of deep ache there was comfort in our surroundings.  The girls and I walked many times from cabin to fire to house and back again.  Always held.

And on the last morning the beautiful box that Andy’s dear friends had built arrived and we placed him in it with cedar and pine and so many beautiful flowers and small tokens of love.

And as the children sang and collected more flowers his body was carried up the hill behind our house to the place his dad and brothers had dug one shovelful at a time.

And beautiful words were said, and another song was sung, and we took turns tossing sacred earth into the hole. And we stood in a circle and looked inward at each other and recognized that Andy was now there in each of us, and we turned outward and looked beyond at the greatness of nature that is now Andy.  And then out of nowhere the fawn appeared. 

Our hearts have much healing ahead but please know that each and every one of you who has held and supported us will never be forgotten.  Your comfort is felt.  We love you so.

Andy

Dear Friends and Family,

Andy passed peacefully and quietly this morning right around 8am.  He loved the mornings so it was no surprise he chose that time.  He was surrounded by his girls and me, his parents and two very close friends.  It rained quietly all night and this morning was fresh and full of beautiful bird song.  It was a morning he would have loved.

There will be a gathering to say goodbye tomorrow, June 21st from 1pm-6pm here at our farm.  Friends and family can come to visit anytime during those hours. (S3873 County Hwy H, Hillsboro, WI). 

We will also have a celebration of Andy’s life Sunday, July 29th at the Kickapoo Valley Reserve.  More details to follow.

Thank you for all your love and support.  If desired memorials may be given to our family, per Andy’s wishes.

With so much love,  Jonel, Iris and Elsa

andy watch

Dear Friends and Family,

This is the email I hoped never to write.  Yesterday Andy entered hospice here at home.  His decline since our return from Miami in April has been fairly swift.  He was able to take 3 rounds of immunotherapy treatment at Mayo, but the tumors in his lungs continued to grow.  Last week it was time to decide if he would try to pursue yet another treatment or work to minimize his discomfort and focus on each day.  The decision seemed clear and so we had a tearful phone call with his amazing oncologist who validated our desire to maximize quality of life from here on out. 

Andy is on supplemental oxygen and enough pain meds that he sleeps much of the day now (just in case you are a junkie you should know we’ve got armed guards and toothed dogs at the doors). His family and closest friends are here frequently.  The girls and I are never alone, which is good for now. 

The spring back here in Wisconsin was glorious and Andy’s wish to watch it unfold has been granted over and over.  From the daybed on our porch he was able to watch the warblers fly in, the bulbs push up from the ground and smell the sweetness of lilacs and locust buds wafting through the air.  The girls keep fresh flowers at his bedside, and I bring news from the gardens frequently.  He has had many beautiful and meaningful moments with those he loves.  Ten days ago, with his determined spirit, he took a canoe ride down his beloved Kickapoo River and though it tired him out greatly, there was not a moment of regret.  The sun shone on the sparkling water, the coolness of the bluffs touched our skin and the quiet of the valleys reached into our souls.  He smiled the entire way.

If you would like to reach out to Andy, I recommend you send a card, or write an email (to either of us) and I will be honored to read to him your words.  We ask that phone calls be kept to a minimum and of course no drop-in visits, please.  As Andy becomes less of this world and more of the next our circle tightens and my focus remains on him.  Thank you for supporting us on this path, as you have every step of the way.  

You all know and love this man, his gentle reach is far and wide.  Please hold his vibrancy and light in your hearts and minds, lift him up as he has done for us all.  His love is unending.

With so much love, 

Jonel and Andy

sunrise

There is no easy way to say it.  The CT scan didn’t bring good news.  The large tumor in in Andy’s left lung has continued to grow.  Because he had progression while on the medication he no longer qualifies for the trial that we have been doing here in Miami.  We’ll meet with the doctor again this Friday to get final details and to see what advice she has for going forward. 

What to do with this news?  How are we?  I’m not sure at all.  Fumbling, angry, heartbroken.  But not without hope.  And this is where you come in.  For some reason it’s hardest for us when it feels like people are feeling sorry for us or giving up.  Please don’t. We aren’t.  We aren’t feeling sorry for ourselves or giving up. 

This morning we woke the kids up at 6:30 am and drove to the beach to watch the sunrise.  It was fresh and wild and every color of hope you could imagine.  Then we went out for coffee and pastries just like everything was wonderful.  Because in that moment it was.

you too are stronger than you think

There are two things we hear a lot:

1.  You guys are so strong…I don’t know how you do it…You handle this with such grace.  Etc.

and

2.  It’s just not fair.  This shouldn’t have happened to you.

To number one I want to say this:  I truly believe you would do the same thing.  We have no super powers.  When you wake up the day after a doctor has said “you have cancer” and your life is forever changed, you have no choice but to eventually get out of bed.  I mean you can only stay there surfing endlessly through Netflix movies for so many hours before the kids want to be fed or the cat litter stench becomes so overpowering you find yourself thinking about that more than cancer or your concerned friends come over and threaten some kind of energetic cleansing ceremony that you really don’t have energy for.

Until the moment someone is actually dying, there is stuff to do.  Someone probably still has to work, and everyone needs to eat, and the toilet gets used (probably more often, if feeling scared scares sh*t out of you) and so needs extra cleaning, and there will be more appointments than you can ever imagine and all that driving will mean your car needs some kind of maintenance and if you have kids they’ll be needier than ever and at the end of the day there will be like 248 emails and texts to return.  (For the record, in the moment I am actually dying, my to-do list will be wiped clean so as to not distract me from the task at hand, and don’t plan anything otherwise or I’ll haunt you forever.)
But seriously, you’ll get up and put food on the table (there is no shame in popcorn for dinner) and you’ll take the compost out when someone finally says “what the heck is that smell?”.  You just will.  You don’t really have a choice.

If there is any “secret” to our strength it might be this:
I think by nature we are both wired to, most often, default to hope and wonder, not depression and darkness.  I know that’s not everyone’s story and we see our privileges clearly.  We also don’t hesitate to employ drugs (think prozac) and therapy and any other support we can think of (massage, wine, exercise, chocolate, mindless movies etc.)  You can do this too.

I also think we’ve made a conscious choice to proceed through the days (months, years) following that dreadful news with a kind of purpose.  A purpose to keep loving each other and being as kind as we possibly can and to keep finding joy in each moment. 

When your heartbreak comes, know that you will get up and put one foot in front of the other.  Not every day, but enough.

Thank you for thinking we are strong.  We are.  And so are you.

Which leads me to number two, the “it’s not fair, and why aren’t you angry” sort of comment.  Here’s the deal.  17 totally innocent kids just got shot in a school 42 miles from our home here in Florida and their families are grieving in a way no one should ever have to grieve.  And everyday that we drive to the clinic we see sad, slumped bodies lying in dirty bedding under the overpass.  People with their entire world packed up in a stolen shopping cart who have hopes and dreams and probably children, or at least parents, some where in the world.  And we just read an amazing kids book (Refugee, check it out in the sidebar) that follows the based-on-true stories of three refugee children from Germany, Cuba and Syria. And these people live war, and starvation and terror every day for years on end and there is nothing they can do but try and run for their lives.

We aren’t angry about Andy’s cancer because everyone has something.  Suffering is universal.  Some people have to suffer their entire lives.  Some of us never find love.  Some of us can’t forgive our parents.  Some of us work ourselves to death.  Some of us die of starvation.  Starvation!

This gives us some perspective. Andy has cancer and it’s terrible and scary and heartbreaking.  But we still laugh with the kids and drink coffee in the morning and watch the parrots fly over in the beautiful blue Florida sky.  We have resources enough to take them to rent rollerblades and eat McDonalds (ok, we have resources enough to feed them better than McDonalds, but what the hell, it was only once, I swear). We still see the kindness in others and feel really psyched when a stranger makes room for us to merge into the long line of traffic on the interstate on-ramp.

These things are important and worth noticing.  They make up the beautiful moments of our days.  In my opinion they are worth spending more time with than our little thoughts about why someone can’t put the butter knife in the sink instead of leaving it stuck to the counter, or who took up two freaking parking spaces in the completely crammed parking lot at Whole Foods.  C’mon guys, let’s all settle down a little bit and remember:  Be Kind.  Everyone you meet is fighting a battle.
It may be cliche, overdone, and found on cute little signs sold at TJ Maxx.  But still.

This week Andy got pulled off the trial drugs, again.  He had an echocardiogram which showed a decrease in his heart function and since we aren’t sure if it’s the drugs causing that or the crazy tumor next to his heart, he had to stop taking them until further testing can determine what the heck is going on.  Up, down, up, down… and we wait. In the meantime we plan to go check out some birds at Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary and probably eat some junky food and look for cool shells on the beach.  And if you look at us you won’t know that our hearts are breaking because we are still noticing all the beauty in the world and it makes us smile.

kickapoo love

Yesterday while I was in the living room working, the kids called out that a package had arrived in the mail.  It was long and slender with a return address of “The Goofballs at the Kickapoo Valley Reserve”.  We were intrigued.  When we opened it up we found a photo poster depicting the images above.  There were some tears.  Here’s the story as I know it.

On a January afternoon a couple of weeks ago, a bunch of our Kickapoo friends trekked out to one of our favorite places on earth to show our family some Kickapoo Love.  They all wore red, they stomped hearts in the snow, they held up letters of love and they even found a guy with a drone to capture it all.  I’m sure there was plenty of laughter and fun.  Can’t you feel it?  We sure can!

Even when the world seems dark and scary there are people out there holding up the light for you.  Giving you strength and confidence to carry on.  We feel the love from that little valley flowing like the river right here to the city of Miami.  Filling us up, carrying us along.  We miss you all and can’t wait to come home.

Cheers.

with photo credit to Jackie Yocum and Garick Olerud

Lily Louise 2001-2017

 

We returned home from the hospital on Wednesday after a smooth surgery for Andy to find that Lily (who had stayed home with my dad) was no longer able to get off her bed on her own.  She wasn’t in pain but it was clear she was ready.  So yesterday morning we called a friend/vet who agreed to come to our house to help her pass away.  Peacefully and gently she went with all of us holding and stroking her and telling her how much we loved her.  It was sad and beautiful and I’m so grateful she had us all by her side.

16 years ago we added her to our family of 3 (Andy, Frijole and me).  She was 4 months old, a border collie/coon hound cross.  Unlike Frijole who hardly ever got himself into trouble, Lily ate carpet, ripped open her belly on the barb-wire fence, destroyed many books and never got along well with other dogs.  She was quirky from the start.  She went crazy when we sang Happy Birthday to her.  She would let loose her hound dog howl at anything out of place, for example the laundry basket that got left in the yard.  She was unsure of the girls until they stopped toddling but as soon as she was sure she could trust them (and who can trust a toddler?) she loved them fiercely.   She loved to swim, was excellent in the canoe (riding rapids like a pro), and could find a stick you tossed in a brush pile a mile away.  She joined us on almost every road trip or camping adventure we ever took.  She slept under the covers in our bed until the girls came along.  Then she settled for sitting on my lap while I drank my coffee in the morning or getting belly scritches by the fire.  She was so, so loyal to her pack, which included us and a very few close friends and family.  Everyone else needed to steer clear.  She got shaky when she was scared and that was often.  Mosquitoes and flies were the scariest of all.  On camping trips she spent more than her fair share of time in the tent avoiding them.  

She was the light of Iris’ life from the beginning.  One of the first things Iris learned to say was “Dig it Ya Ya!” which would send Lily flying into snow piles to dig furiously while Iris laughed and laughed.  The two of them had a very special bond and I know that Iris (especially) will miss her for a long time.  

The house feels empty without her, but it’s hard to feel incredibly sad about an amazing dog life that lasted so long.  We’ll miss her soft ears that smelled so good, we’ll miss her chasing the cat around and laying by the fire for endless hours just waiting for us to lay down and snuggle her which we did so often.  We’ll miss her quiet company, her toenails on the stairs, the way she ripped up the grass and got crazy outside.  We’ll miss her deeply.  But we will love her forever and will never forget how lucky we were to share her life.

april

Old dog in the sun

it must be her last spring.

No chasing butterflies or balls

no splashing in the water.

Just sitting

staying close to her people.

Perfectly content in these soft, fine moments 

of April.

Andy’s scan of last week showed continued growth of the lung tumors but no new tumors elsewhere in his body.  We learned this on Friday and sat with it all weekend.  While we worked, while we played, while we slept.  Among the weekend’s moments there was joy and there was fear.  We know this path, we can walk it steadily, most of the time.  We turn to each other and need not say a word.  The girls seem to hold the knowledge like mist.  We watch them carefully and pray for strength.

two years

Last weekend I went for a walk by myself.  It was bitter cold and I just did the north loop around our property.  I followed Andy’s (and Elsa’s) ski tracks from earlier in the day.  His stride strong and sure, hers still wobbly, but determined. 

My walk was an awareness, a recognition, of the two years that have passed since Andy’s cancer diagnosis.   Scenes still easily pass through my mind of that moment after surgery when the doctor in the consult room told me it was cancer.  My pulse electrifies and my heart dives into mournful memory. 

I focus back on the tracks stretching out like a trail of hope. My mind lights on the beauty as I follow my loves back home.  I make room for it all.  Sadness and fear, beauty and light.  This moment right here, right now.  A gift.

This week and next we’ll joyfully celebrate the holidays with family and friends.  After that we face another scan, which we will try to walk toward bravely, knowing how much love is in our hearts.

When I look back to last year I know all we are learning continues to fuel our lives with compassion and understanding and for this I am thankful.

“Life can survive the constant shadow of illness, even rise to moments of rampant joy, but the shadow remains, and one has to make space for it.”  Diane Ackerman

remembering Molly

Last weekend found us back in the north.  First a night in Duluth where we enjoyed dinner out, holiday lights, swimming at the hotel and knitting in bed.  We tried to spend a little bit of time next to our beloved big lake the next morning, but that north wind was frigid, and we didn’t last long!  So it was on to:

This is the place where Andy and I met almost 18 years ago.  It is the place that has inspired so many paths in our lives.  It is a place of sweet memories and long friendships.  It is the place where our friend Dale (the director of Deep Portage) still lives and works.  This trip was to visit him, to finally show the girls this place that means so much to us.  And it was also a trip to honor our friend Molly, Dale’s amazing partner (both in life and work), and our mentor in so many ways, who passed away this fall.  

The girls LOVED Deep Portage.  They were in awe of its size, its beauty, the joy of running loose in a gigantic lodge that we had all to ourselves for the weekend. They enjoyed the hike to the outlook tower, the tour of DP’s wood heating system (it heats over 50,000 square feet–and hot water for all the showers and such–with wood!), they couldn’t get enough of Dale’s dog Lily, and enjoyed staying up and playing card games with Dale at night.  They loved the interpretive center and the climbing wall that was so graciously staffed for us.  They didn’t want to leave.

It was good to be in Dale’s presence, to feel his sadness and strength.  In ways it was also hard to be in a place that is so full of Molly.  Everywhere I looked there were memories of Molly.  For two autumns in a row I was part of the staff that gathered round her for training, to soak up her positive example, to find motivation in her enthusiasm.  How it was she, all those years ago, who insisted Andy and I take on some projects as a twosome (with her perceptiveness that the two of us had a life to lead together).  It was she that inspired the work we do today as we learned by her side the joy and art of engaging kids and adults in nature.  It was she who we looked up to as a caring, clever, lively, well-read, articulate, creative, and masterful naturalist. She was our friend, and our role model.  

It was good to talk to the girls about Molly, about all the things we so admire about her.  It was good to see and feel that Molly lives on.  She lives on in our lives as we continue to teach kids in nature, she lives on in our daughters who are growing to be strong and articulate and clever like her.  She lives on in the staff at Deep Portage who continue to honor her legacy with Molly’s 12 Rules to Live By and The Book of Molly. She lives on in her partner Dale who carries her light forward.  She lives on in the whisper of Aspen, the lap of the lake on the shore, and the sprinkling of stars in the northern sky.

  We are so honored to know and love her.