Anything But a Happy Ending

Warning: This post verges on a rant, and it will deal with the natural, and, for some folks, the gruesome process of death. 

Corporate stepped in. Due to mom's "stable" condition, she cannot remain at the hospital. Translation: she's not dying fast enough. 

The hospital can make more money on another patient, so it's time to check out. Just not the way we all expected last weekend. Our options are to return her to the nursing home to live out her days or arrange home hospice. 

On the surface, both options seem viable. However, if you read my previous post, home hospice would be akin to dying in a third world for us. There is no air conditioning, and the house is now infested with rodents. Given the house's location in rural Appalachia, there's only spotty internet access and no cell coverage so the caregiver -- me -- would be completely cut off.  Furthermore, my family endured home hospice with my father in January, and the reality is that it is not as warm and fuzzy as it sounds, especially if your loved one defies expectations and undulates toward final breaths. 

Returning her to the nursing home makes much more sense from a medical and care standpoint. However, with COVID, no visitors are allowed, so my mother will end her days alone. I fully recognize how fortunate we have been to have this week with her and know that way too many brave souls -- currently 182,000 in the US -- have died alone this year because of the pandemic. All of it just seems cruel and unnecessary. We have to come up with better ways to help our loved ones navigate their last days. 

For my mother, she has already outlived one hospice; however, the result has been 22 months of being mostly bed-ridden and alone. It is heart-breaking. I've managed to visit her 5 times, but I can't communicate with her in between visits due to her significant hearing loss. Now, in this second go-around, she cycles through ups and downs. These undulations do not portend of miraculous recoveries but rather a delay of the inevitable. Sometimes it just takes the body a while to shut down. 

My parents both seemed to defy odds and the medical teams' expectations and meander toward the end. Since she has been bed-ridden for two years, my mother's plumbing is malfunctioning. Officially, she's been diagnosed with a perforated bowel and resulting abscesses. Fixing this requires major surgery, a colostomy bag, ventilator, and feeding tube for at least a short while and potentially, the foreseeable future. She has an advance directive and "do not resuscitate" instructions on file (as we all should!), so in consultation with her doctors, we chose not to operate. 

Cards from housekeeping notch our days.

The medical team calculated that the perforated bowel would soon result in widespread sepsis, and she would pass relatively quickly, with the process eased by a cocktail of medications. Not only has that not happened, but today (Saturday -- a week since foregoing surgery), she has also been surprisingly cognizant of her situation, including her pain and the inevitability of her demise, and communicative, wailing "please let this end" all day long. The med team has ramped up the pain meds but to no avail. Her doctor was shocked to see how alert she was after seeing how much morphine she'd been given, and it took him some time to come up with another plan. At this moment, that plan is working, and she is now resting comfortably while we wait for the final call to transport her an hour away to the nursing home.

As her caregiver, this has been agonizing. All I can think is that we treat our pets way better than this. When we know the quality of life has run out, and we are looking at death's door, I think the most caring thing we can do is expedite the ending. I recognize that there is a lot of gray area on this subject. However, for many of our loved ones, it's a pretty clear cut case that a facilitated ending is much more humane than what we do now. 

Striving for a Happy Ending

It was well after midnight when I drove down the rural lane leading to the familiar house deep in a "holler" in Northeast Tennessee and pulled into the driveway.  As I entered the house, I was greeted with the must and staleness of a house that has sat dormant for way too long.  Mice have made themselves at home in cabinets and crevices.  The house has no air conditioning, and the humid summer has exacerbated the unpleasant smells. Even so, I dragged my stuff in from the rental car, climbed the stairs, spread my travel blanket on the bare mattress in the guest room and crashed. I was exhausted, having completed more than 1,700 miles of driving over two long days and stopping at the Abingdon hospital to check on the reason for this journey -- my mother. 

My mother's story deserves a book -- an epic one at that.  The last seven and a half years have been a story unlike any I thought I'd be part of, with the last 22 months being nothing short of surreal. I often think this story would sell better as fiction because so many parts of it are unbelievable -- even to me, and I've lived them.  

Each hospital floor has a COVID cart. 

But for now, I write about the present. This is a COVID story after all. I traveled alone across the country to say goodbye to a woman with whom I have had a rocky relationship from my time in the womb. My brother is mired in the economic trauma brought about by the pandemic, my daughter has just started her first year of college online, and my partner is minding the homestead and tending to our COVID puppy and aging feline. And honestly, this is a brutal and risky trip. So I travel alone to say goodbye. At least I think I'm saying goodbye.  

When I spent Saturday morning on the phone with a myriad of my mom's caregivers at the hospital they weren't sure she would even be around by the time I reached the hospital. When I checked in with the palliative care doctor while en route, she expressed surprise at how well my mother was doing. So when I entered my mother's room at the hospital, I actually wasn't surprised to see her watching yet another episode of "Bonanza." 

Since November 2018, I have sworn to never bet against that woman. 

Back then, we received a call that she was in hospital-based hospice, and she had mere hours left in this life. My brother and his family flew out on Thanksgiving; I followed the next day. We were greeted with a comatose woman who was completely unaware of our presence and hours from her demise.  I'll save the nitty gritty details -- really, it's a book -- but clearly, that was not the end of my mother's story. 

Fast forward to this week. Her dear friend, Walter, and I are tag teaming our time with mom. I know how fortunate we are to have this time. If she were at her nursing home, neither one of us could visit.  Given that she is on "comfort care," we are both allowed to visit. In this COVID world, many folks in their last days do not get the gift of loved ones at their sides. In talking with the medical team, that seems to weigh on them heavily.

On Monday night, when I first visited her at the hospital, I vacillated between staying and driving the final 30 minutes to her home so I could sleep. It dawned on me that this woman has not had visitors since my daughter and I visited her in January. I could easily afford to spend a couple more hours simply holding her hand. 

On Tuesday, the palliative care team and I discussed our options given mom's stable condition. In normal instances, they could just send her to hospice at her nursing home. However, that would mean that she would not only be alone and unable to have us visit, but she would also be completely quarantined for two weeks since she has been in a hospital. The med team agreed to prolong her stay at the hospital for as long as possible. 

On Wednesday, I walked into a different story. I heard her as I stepped off the elevator, and I walked into a room full of nurses and nursing students. "Bonanza" was still on the TV, but one look at my mother, and I knew that whatever progress she had made over the past two days was gone. 

There is a voice in the back of my head reminding me that I shouldn't bet against this tenacious woman, but...

She uttered at some point yesterday that she was done.  On "comfort care," there is no more poking and prodding. Just drugs. Morphine, specifically. And today it started flowing regularly. It eases her pain, but it doesn't eliminate it completely. She spent the day flitting between unconsciousness and agony. She still responds weakly to visitors -- whether in person or on video, but her eyes tell me that she grows weary of this life. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do to modify this process, but I have promised that I will be by her side for this last stage of her journey. 

Lessons from a Foster Dog

At the end of May, we got a call from the foster coordinator at our local humane society asking if we were still interested in fostering a dog.  We had submitted an application to foster in March, realizing our travel plans were falling by the wayside like dominoes, and we would have plenty of time on our hands. We heard nothing about our application until that May day, but we hit the jackpot with that one call.

Not only did they have a dog for us to foster, but she also had just had seven puppies. We'd have the puppies until they reached eight weeks and were ready for adoption, and we'd keep momma for an additional week to dry out.

We asked for time to consider this request, but obviously, we accepted the challenge. We accepted not knowing anything about momma dog or even seeing pictures of the pack.  Not that it mattered really. We were all in.

When we arrived at the humane society, the oh-so-adorable puppies were loaded into the car, but momma dog was slow to join her babies. Her handler ended up carrying her to the car. That should have been a sign of things to come. The foster coordinator had little to share about momma, except she was picked up on one of the surrounding Native American reservations. We'd just gotten ourselves a "Rez Dog," a most cringe-worthy term.

Sage's early days with us.

We had renamed momma "Sage" before we'd left the humane society parking lot. This young dog, estimated at about 2-years old, had just had a huge litter.  A large litter is tasking on all dams (yep, I have major issues with the term "bitch"), but Sage was probably already emaciated before birthing seven new lives, so she came to us with just skin on bones, and, as our 3-year-old neighbor tactfully stated, "lots of big boobies on her butt."

We set up the nursery in a tiled indoor space with access to an outdoor run. Sage seemed content with her new digs. She explored her space, did her business, and settled in the whelping box to care for her pups. While she was reserved, she was gentle and friendly enough. She even greeted us with a tail wag her first morning.

All was well for the first day or so, and then, she became frantic and tried desperately to escape from the outdoor run. As makeshift as the run was, it held Sage in, but we became equally desperate to figure out what was upsetting her. It was a rough 24 hours.

It dawned on me that she was likely used to doing her business at the place of her choosing -- somewhere far away from her living space. She didn't want to soil her run. Well, that was an easy enough problem to solve. I'd just take her for a walk, letting her relieve herself and giving her a break from her puppies. I was feeling like a veritable dog whisperer.

Then, I attached the leash to her collar.  You'd have thought I just lassoed a mustang.

Our sole instructions from the humane society were to make sure the puppies were well cared for, and they would work with Sage after the puppies were weaned. It sounded simple enough at the time, but all of a sudden, we're wondering how we are supposed to care well for the puppies if their primary caregiver is feeling tortured and doing everything she can to escape.

Lesson #1:  We will always be students so do your homework. We were quick to realize that this dog had never been on a leash. If she had any prior tangible link to humans, it was probably a catch pole, and she was clearly traumatized. Very quickly, we understood that we had a lot to learn about "Rez Dogs." We were dealing with a sentient being who had no concept of being a pet and certainly was not going to fit into our preconceived notions about the relationship between dogs and humans. We started reading. 

In the Southwest, Rez Dogs are ubiquitous. Anyone traveling through the region who stops for gas in the Navajo Nation has probably had one or more of these dogs brazenly approach you in search of a handout. To the uninformed, they are feral dogs.

However, we learned that Native Americans view them very differently.  While there are many dogs who have simply been abandoned, many of them are working dogs and viewed as partners to Natives. They are not pets though. They are "free range" in the most absolute sense of the phrase.  The general expectation is that these dogs live as nature intended, so they roam far and wide. They are rarely fixed or vaccinated.  Life in this region is hard.  It's a desert so it's dry. It's hot in the summer, cold in the winter. Acquiring enough food and water to survive takes a lot of work, so their lifespans are pretty short -- even for a dog.  However, if they do "belong" to a family, they are fiercely loyal and take their jobs very seriously. The takeway from our studies was that these dogs are not pets, they are partners.

The larger global lesson here is that we tend to default to thinking everyone should fit within our preconceived notions. This simply is not the case. We will always have something to learn about everyone (including ourselves).  Commit yourself to being a lifelong student. 

Lesson #2: Take time to truly hear others. I consider Chris and I to be sympathetic and accommodating people. Sage quickly showed us that we were acting from assumptions based on our experiences. We needed to slow down and actually comprehend what she was trying to tell us because it was vastly different than what we expected to hear. She is not a bad dog. Quite the contrary. But she has been thrown into a world that is completely different from the one she knew, and not only that, she also has a pack dependent on her. Everything in the past month was foreign to her. She desperately needed us to hear her in order to be her partner and help her figure things out.

Next global lesson: In this era of social media headlines, tweets, and memes, we so quickly react to what we think we hear, instead of what is actually said.  We all would be better served if we paused to actually absorb what we hear or read before reacting.  I'm constantly amazed when I see people share or comment on articles they haven't even read. Take time to read and think about new information.

Lesson #3: It is hard work. Be patient. Once we successfully got Sage on a leash, our lessons turned to walking while on it. We made this as positive an experience as possible. Rez Dogs are highly food motivated as they are never sure about their next meal. She quickly learned that leashing up led to relief and snacks.  At some point, though, we had to return from our walk to the puppies.  It took nearly a week to get her to willingly cross the threshold back into the house. It took significant patience and lots of treats.

I was teaching Sage to walk on a leash as #BlackLivesMatter protests ramped up across the county. I was struggling being in this rural corner of Colorado, spending most of my energy on simply trying to get Sage in and out of the house so she could pee. It seemed so insignificant. I couldn't help feeling that I should be doing more to support those amplifying the call for social justice. Then, it dawned on me that this wildly independent momma dog was reminding me of lessons that I needed to hear -- perhaps all of us need to hear.

Injustices have plagued this country since its early days. This is lifelong work. It will not be settled overnight. We need to be patient, determined, and willing to work hard. Above all, it is imperative that we work together for the benefit of future generations.  

Three weeks in, Sage and I have learned so much about each other, and we are starting to have fun. Together, we are providing her puppies a great start (along with lots of other friends). A month from now, Sage and her puppies will hopefully be in their forever homes, and then, I'll enter the fray on our larger societal issues. In the meantime, I'm going to keep listening to this wise and gentle soul. 

Sage Dog

One More Second

If you've known me for any length of time, you are also familiar with Fritz, my shadow for more than 11 years.  The 2 year mark of Fritz' death is just upon us -- May 5.  Perhaps it's the effect of sheltering in place for more than 2 months now, or maybe this is just an interminable grieving process, but I have been feeling his loss profoundly. I find that writing about persistently invasive thoughts helps to move through them, so I write about how I lost the best dog in the world.

Fritz joined our family in honor of my daughter's fifth birthday.  The rescue group had plucked him from death row as he had been deemed difficult and unadoptable.  None of those problems ever surfaced with us, and aside from getting anxious about being left alone, he never caused any issues.  He was my steadfast companion as I weathered a divorce and multiple moves. He was up for doing most anything -- as long as he didn't have to get too wet -- and so he went everywhere possible with me.

It was a glorious May Saturday in our corner of the world. Fritz and I had spent the morning at the Nature Center, pulling weeds in the parking lot, airing out our little welcome building and initiating the summer season at our living laboratory.

We came home in the early afternoon only to find our street packed with cars because it was the final day of our town's annual wine festival, and there was a big-tent event across the street. Someone had even parked in my driveway. I was miffed, but it was short-lived as a space on the opposite side of the street opened up.

After a quick lunch, I mingled at the event for a while and then, returned home to do some work.  As dusk approached, I realized I needed something from my car, so I wandered across the street to retrieve it. By now, the event was over, but there were still plenty of people milling about, and our street still had plenty of parked cars along it.

As I crossed the street back toward the house, I saw an SUV round the corner and was gunning up the hill. Our street is a well-known cut through to avoid traffic lights along Main Street, so this is a common occurrence.  Given my years of advocacy for pedestrians and bicyclists, I often wave at people to slow down. I did so on this occasion, too, only to realize that the SUV was actually a police vehicle. The officer stopped and asked what the problem was.

Meanwhile, Fritz had tired of my delayed return to the house and had nosed open the front door, which I'd obviously left ajar.  He was standing in the front yard as I started my conversation with the officer, but thinking that this must be a new friend, he wandered around to the driver's door to officially greet him.

The conversation between the young officer and I was simple and brief. I explained that I thought he was driving pretty fast given conditions. Plenty of pedestrians were still wandering about and in fact, several had stopped to watch the scene unfold.  He told me that he was on a call. I remarked that he didn't have his lights on, and he replied that he didn't need his lights on for every call.  He accelerated as he finished his retort, just as Fritz decided to return to me.

We needed just one more second...

In another second, Fritz would have been clear of the police car.  Instead, the officer's left front tire rolled right over the back end of him. The look on my beloved dog's face and the cry that he made will live with me forever. I remember clearly thinking, "Don't let me lose him like this." I immediately rushed to him, and in his anguish and shock, he bit me, but I just wrapped myself around him to calm him down.

The officer stopped and radioed in the incident. Things get a bit fuzzy for me at this point, but it seems that within minutes the street was full of emergency vehicles. It was chaos. Bystanders were yelling at the officer, asking why he was speeding.  EMTs unwrapped me from my dog, but he absolutely panicked as I was removed from him. They threw a fireman's jacket over him, and one EMT took my place and wrapped himself around Fritz to calm him, telling me he had several dogs of his own.

Fritz had done a fair bit of damage to me, and EMTs were tending to my wounds and wanted to get me to the hospital.  Anytime they tried to move me further from Fritz, he would again panic, and finally, I told them I could not leave my dog.  They treated me as best they could and wrapped both arms, but the wounds were bleeding pretty profusely.

The supervising sergeant was on the scene and asked me a few questions, and then, we made plans to get Fritz to the emergency vet.  Given the severity of my bites, the EMTs were wary of just picking him up, so three of them suited up fully in their fire protection gear, and they wrapped a blanket around his head.  They decided that the best mode of transport was the vehicle that actually ran over Fritz.  So they placed me in the back seat, and then, three of them loaded Fritz in next to me.  The seat was hard plastic, and every bump on our 1/2 mile drive jarred Fritz, and he cried.  So did I.

The vet met us at the car with a muzzle and a stretcher and carted Fritz off quickly. I was met by the supervising sergeant and an animal control officer as well. They interviewed me, and then, implored me to get to the hospital.  The animal control officer offered to drive me. By now, I had some of my wits about me, and I realized that I would need a way home from the hospital. It was getting late so I could not call on friends, so I asked him to just drop me off at home, and I would drive my self. He did.

In the end, I had a dozen puncture wounds and a total of 5 stitches.  Given that dog bites are prone to infection, they were reluctant to stitch up more.  They loaded me up with painkillers and antibiotics, and I returned home to two very confused cats.  The three of us endured a sleepless and distraught night.

The emergency vet had checked in a couple of times that night to let me know that the x-rays revealed a fractured pelvis, but she assured me that he was resting well with the sedatives, and she was optimistic that he might pull through.  By the time she called me in the morning she was not as optimistic, and she wanted me to transport him to the largest of our local animal hospitals for their assessment.

The drive between vet hospitals crushed me. The vet had laid him on a soft bed in the back of my Subaru wagon, but he was so desperate to be near me. He would try to crawl to me, and then, whimper in pain.  He still had a muzzle on so he couldn't actually yelp.

The assessment at Riverview was quick.  We could send him up to Denver to have a specialist try to repair the fracture, but at significant cost. Given that Fritz was 13.5, it was unlikely to be successful.  I had to say goodbye.

The techs brought him into the exam room, and set him on the floor next to me and removed his muzzle and left us alone for a little while. He was so relieved to have his muzzle removed. He just laid his head on my lap and whimpered.  The vet came in and, with the magic of a couple of injections, ended his pain.  That was it.  My shadow of 11+ years was gone.

It all seemed so surreal. There are so many "what ifs," but none of that matters.  This is one of those instances that changes life so dramatically. All it took was a second.

I miss you so very much, dog dog.

In the Thick of Things

We've been at this quarantine thing for seven weeks now. Friends and family in our state have been quarantined for five weeks.  Not that we're counting. Government officials are trying to figure out a plan to re-open ... well, the entire country.

My daughter is a high school senior in Virginia. She already knows that she won't be returning to school. Maybe commencement will happen, but it certainly won't happen as we envisioned it. While Saturday, June 13, has been sacrosanct in my planning for several years as "Graduation Day," it now seems like any other day. For years, there was no doubt in my mind where I would be on that Saturday. Now there is considerable uncertainty.

I think most of us have moved from the feeling that we can do this for the good of the country to recognizing that this isn't easy.  In fact, this is really fricking hard.  There is sadness, fear, doubt, and -- let's face it -- boredom.  The economic implications are staggering, and not surprisingly, the folks who could most use the assistance from the federal government aren't getting it.  The $350 billion targeted for small businesses has already been exhausted, and there are plenty of people (and many friends) who have gotten no assistance.

New TARDIS?

Ours is a family of doers, and there's plenty to do. Our house is pretty dang tidy now. We've waded through the copious amounts of linens that resulted from combining households and pared those down to the bare essentials -- for a family of six.  Our baseboard radiators are dust free, and we've even constructed a few new covers. Our solarium garden is well on its way, complete with a new dwarf lemon tree and some Centennial hops.  Our new cherry tree weathered the recent frigid temperatures with the help of a blue blanket that made it look remarkably like the next generation T.A.R.D.I.S.

A couple of weekends ago, I found myself sweeping off boulders. It seemed like a perfectly sane thing to do until the 3-year-old next door looked at me quizzically. Of course, he was running around with a kid-sized sword AND a broom, and that made perfect sense. He is three, after all.

We have been usurped in our spring
cleaning. This is not our pile.

My daughter has shared photos of her massive cleaning project -- scrubbing decks Cinderella-style.  It's pretty impressive actually.  My brother has taken to using toothpicks to clean the deepest nooks and crannies of his family's kitchen. As I walk through Durango's residential areas, I know we're not alone in our cleaning projects as neighbors pile the detritus of their projects into the streets for our City's annual clean-up.

Before Chris and I left for Italy, I facilitated the merger of my organization with another local organization, effectively merging myself out of a job -- and unknowingly, giving my full-time staff the best shot at enduring this new world.  Now I find myself without a day-to-day purpose.  Chris and I had big plans to travel this year. This was the goal: step away from the day-to-day management so that we could travel together. Over the next two months we had 4 regional trips planned, followed by the trek to the East Coast for Brenna's graduation -- all cancelled.

The "Plague Mobile' remains parked for now. 

Chris and I kept hope alive that we could slip away to the lonely places of Utah.  There's a lot of space out there and not a lot of people.  We would keep to ourselves, fully self-sufficient in the Plague Mobile -- aka "the Mother Ship."  But the hammer fell a couple of weeks ago.  The health department overseeing the region we had our sights on issued closures, and then, Governor Herbert announced that anyone entering Utah must fill out a self-declaration form --  a first for states, I think. It was rescinded on April 13, apparently.

Meanwhile, we've adapted to life at home.  Honestly, we could be much worse off.  Durango has so many trails to explore, and as of April 15, the seasonal wildlife closures ended, so we have access to even more of our favorite places. We have plenty of recreational opportunities available to us from our front door.

Not a bad place to be stuck.

We have it easy. We know how hard it is for so many.  Without Chris, I know my current situation would be dramatically different.  However, the fact remains that COVID-19 has shifted what is normal for the entire globe.  Not one person is immune to its effects, and we are all faced with what that means for each of us as well as collectively.  There is increasing agitation to return to "normal."
 Not surprisingly, many of Trump's supporters think this whole experience has been overblown, giving yet more evidence to the extreme chasm among Americans these days. This is what gives me greatest cause for fear.

For now, though, all we can do is navigate our days knowing that we will have highs and we will have lows.  We will feel hopeful and then, hopeless.  But there is no circumventing this process and so we dig deep to make it one day at a time.

Hang in there, dear friends.

It is Time to Heal

Over the past week, rather than emerge from our self-imposed 14-day quarantine, we've seen fellow Americans join us in "social distancing." However, it's gone much farther than I could ever have envisioned, with restaurants and bars being closed to in-house dining and imbibing, retail stores closing to casual browsers, recreational areas closing or cutting back staff, and schools extending their closures and moving to online lessons.  The message has been clear: stay home.

Collectively, we fear losing our jobs, depleting our savings, caring well for our most vulnerable populations, supporting medical personnel on the frontlines, and apparently, procuring toilet paper. There are numerous stories of deep tragedy and excruciating grief.  There is absolute and justified frustration with how our federal government has failed its people, and the costs will be exorbitant.  Both in lives lost and dollars spent.

But there is also light.

Social media has helped positive stories go viral.  The residents of an Italian village joined together from their balconies to sing the national anthem, residents of Wuhan have banded together to care for each other, and dolphins and swans have returned to Venetian canals to play. Even Congress has put aside bitter divisiveness and worked on bi-partisan legislation to assist those in desperate need.  And today, I found toilet paper stocked at my nearest grocery store.

While it's the first time in my 50 years that I have faced rationing (the store is only allowing customers to purchase one pack of TP at a time), and shelves still lack bare essentials (beautiful, fresh produce abounds, though), it seems we are adapting. No doubt there's the routine jerk who makes life difficult for workers busting their hineys to restock shelves, but I get the sense that the majority of the population understands that patience and adaptation must dominate this chapter of our collective lives.

Dino track

Adhering to our "vast places, few faces" mantra, Chris and I broke away from home with a couple of friends, Jo and Sarah, earlier this week to travel to Utah (see accompanying pictures).  This region of the world has a tremendous way of putting life in perspective. We walked along fins, through canyons, and around arches that have been shaped by water and wind over millions of years.  We traced the steps of dinosaurs, realizing that we have only been here for six million years while they walked the Earth for 165 million years.  In the grand scheme of Earth's history, the current disruption to our lives doesn't even register as a blip.

Not dismissing the pain and agony many throughout our world are experiencing from COVID-19, I do think that this period may help many of us reset our priorities and expectations. Maybe it will help us remember our humanity.

On this vernal equinox of 2020, I leave you with this passage from Pam Houston, from her essay, Breaking the Ice, written on the vernal equinox in 1998: "It's as though the snowmelt and the lengthening days have simply taken hold of us. As though we have tacitly agreed to accept the silence the mountains demand in this silent season. Summer is the time for talking, the mountains say, when the birds are singing, and the creek is gurgling and there are leaves on the trees that will rustle in the wind. Now is the time to sit silently together, to feel the ice break around you, to wait for the first bluebirds to return to the feeder; now is the time to heal."

Trying to Do the Right Thing

Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness

The end of our self-imposed quarantine is in sight.  Friday, the 13th, marks the end of our 14-days of isolation.  Thankfully, we're not the superstitious type. But.

During our 14-day isolation, we have had colds. Chris has been worse off than me. We don't feel bad.  No fevers for either of us. Just minor respiratory stuff. Now a lingering cough. That's how colds tend to go in each of us. Except.

We were in Italy. On trains and at festivals with significant crowds.  When we left for Italy, there were no cases of COVID-19.  When we aborted our trip, there were 650 cases.  Less than 2 weeks later, there are over 10,000 cases, and the government has shut down the entire country (or tried to).

We've done the prudent thing. We've kept our distance from others.  We've occupied ourselves with trips to places where the space is vast, and the people are few (see accompanying pictures).

With plenty of time on our well-washed hands, we've also been monitoring the news and tracking symptoms.  They keep changing.  There is too much conflicting information out there, and it niggles at us kinda like our coughs.

Great Sand Dunes NP

Late last week, after reading that fevers aren't an absolute indicator of COVID-19, Chris sent an inquiry to COHELP at the CO Department of Public Health & Environment, providing background and essentially availing himself to being tested if they thought he should be.  The response was ambiguous, at best.

After listening to CPR's reporting on COVID-19 and reading an article in the local paper regarding the state's efforts to identify where cases are, Chris reached out to our local health department.  A message directed him to call the state hotline.  He did. A recording at that number instructed him to call his doctor.  He called his doctor's office. They informed him that testing could only be done at the local hospital.  He called the hospital, only to be told that the local health department had to approve him before the hospital would test him.  He called the local health department again. Someone returned his call only to tell him he would need to talk to another staff member.  That staff member called in relatively short order, asked him a series of questions and upon hearing that 1) he'd been to Italy and 2) had a cough, recommended he be tested.  At the hospital.

Sandhill Cranes in Monte Vista NWR.  We kept our distance.

He called the hospital again and learned that testing is only available through a drive-by at the local hospital's ER.  He called the ER who confirmed they could do the test but at the cost of an ER visit.  He asked the obvious, "How much is that?"  They DID NOT KNOW, and referred him to hospital registrar.  He left a message. The registrar called back.  The COVID-19 test is free, but there's a cost for the ER visit.  Again, "how much?"  They DO NOT KNOW.  After several hours, we're still waiting for a call back with the cost.

This matters because there have been reports of people paying more than $4,000 in fees to get their "free" test.  For those who don't have insurance (or crappy insurance), this is prohibitive.  When we were still in Italy, we had a couple of discussions on the pros of potentially getting sick there -- the obvious being that the cost of treatment would be less.  Cost, in my opinion, should NOT be part of a discussion when we are dealing with a global health issue.

This whole experience neither inspires confidence in our medical establishment nor the ability of our country to handle what has now been declared a pandemic by the WHO.

I want to be clear: We don't think we're positive for COVID-19, but we figured if we could get a test to be absolutely sure, that would be a good thing - the right thing -- for everyone in our community.  It should not be this hard.  We may be free of our quarantine by Friday, but if we are not, it's only because we love our friends and our community.

Beauty still abounds in this complex world.

Carnevale di Viareggio

I've had a few requests to go into more detail on the Carnevale di Viareggio.  It was certainly one of the highlights of our amazing (though curtailed) trip to Italy.  I wasn't expecting the spectacle that greeted us when we got to this seaside town, although Chris, having done his research, knew what was waiting for us.

The story is that the first Carnevale parade was held in 1873. A group of wealthy noblemen from neighboring Lucca were wintering in the seaside village and wanted to have a parade of carriages adorned with flowers.  Locals took the opportunity to voice their dissatisfaction against increasing taxes and disrupted the parade wearing costumes and colored masks.

That marked the beginning of a tradition of making statements on the politics and culture of the day.  It also lasts the entire month of February, with parades on each Sunday of the month and the final parade on what we know as Fat Tuesday.

Today, the parade is highlighted by massive animated floats which tower above the buildings along the parade route -- La Passeggiata.  Each of these floats is accompanied by a troupe of dancers both on and preceding the float.  Music and choreography are unique to each float.  There are also clusters of smaller floats.  Prizes are awarded at the end of Carnevale in a variety of categories.

The floats travel along La Passeggiata -- a boulevard that is approximately 2km long so that spectators standing in the street's median are sandwiched between the floats.  Spectators can also move freely alongside and between the floats, too, providing a truly personal experience.  It is definitely a spectacle to experience if you ever get the chance.

I did a little bit of research on the meaning behind the 2020 floats. Here's information that I'm taking directly from this source on some of the floats I enjoyed most:

From the clip above:

1. "Hug me, it's Carnevale" - The float pays tribute to altruism, symbolized by an embrace. Neapolitan philosopher Luciano De Crescenzo used to say, “We are angels with only one wing, thus we can fly only if we embrace”. Inspired by this, the artist depicts his dreamlike vision of an embrace where two strands of DNA constitute the characters who symbolize universal knowledge: cosmos, music, love, art and literature. The sculpture representing the endless embrace is at the centre of the float, while on the stage the smiling King Carnevale invites us to hug one another.
2. "The Great Leap" - A robotic tiger sporting the symbols of the People’s Republic of China asserts its power over a well-known icon of American pop culture. A lotus flower, similar to Huawei’s logo, frames the tiger’s body while a scroll of apparently Chinese golden pictograms screens a wall made up of containers, the symbol of globalization in commerce. A faded portrait of the Great Helmsman hangs in the background, the Chinese pop icon so well depicted by Andy Warhol. In some parts of the world, globalization and free trade are still creating deep pockets of poverty and social inequality, whereas in the “most advanced” countries, economic and social stability have been undermined.
3. "Hunting for a Happy Ending" - Majestic, elegant and stunningly beautiful. With its strength, pride, grace and aggressiveness, the tiger is one of the animal kingdom’s icons. Once worshiped, today tigers are at risk of extinction because of man. The float decries this grave danger, telling the story of a family that fights with all its might to ensure a future for our planet’s biodiversity, in the hope that man will reverse his course and start hunting for a happy ending.

In the clip below: 

1. "Home Sweet Home" - While humanity seems to be swimming happily towards dire straits, the Earth – our sweet home as stated by the title, is swiftly heading to the point of no return. Following our brain, courage and heart is the only path to salvation, just like new scarecrows, lions and tin men. The characters of the Wizard of Oz become an allegory, warning humanity and committing to building a new possible world. Greta Thunberg is the protagonist at the centre of the float, our Dorothy on a journey towards a new awareness.
2. "Blessed Ignorance" - Knowledge and ignorance are the two sides of the same coin, which has the face of modern man. The Internet, our daily bread, is a great tool of knowledge but is increasingly becoming a vehicle disinformation. As the number of read books decreases, the number of views and likes goes up. The great Centaur at the centre of the float symbolizes the spreading of ignorance that is multiplied by social media, by reality shows, by school and politics. Wielding an axe in his hand, the Centaur slashes towers of books. Icons of centuries of culture are erased in an instant.
3. "if it were fire" The construction is a complaint against the devastating fires caused by human hands. The thoughtless gesture of a madman, depicted as a pig typical of nineteenth-century graphics, causes the destruction of entire woods. But what is behind the hand of the arsonists? Crazy craze, crime or a desire to feel powerful? 
4. "In Wonderland" - Social-media mania narrated through the lens of Alice in Wonderland. However, the world of likes, posts and stories is not as wonderful as it seems. It takes away our desire of friendship, of social life and of building relationships with others, giving free rein instead to the Ego that feeds on a fabricated reality.
5. "Robotika" - The future is here. Robotics already monitor every moment in our everyday lives. What will tomorrow bring? Will artificial intelligence take over every aspect of human activity and thought? The allegorical float is a warning to all of us: a large figure with a human face is at its centre and reveals its complete internal robotization. A positive message however shines through: robots can never have the feelings, at least until today.
6. "Idol" - The powerful God-making factory never stops and a new idol is ready. A new gigantic, speedy, and imposing object of idolatry is born. Created by the people for the people, the Frankenstein-like new idol advances and dominates the scene, influencing our daily lives. The Idol is my slave of which I am a slave.
7. "Our Great Geniuses" - Great inventions by Italian geniuses have changed humanity! From the radio and telegraph to the compass and telescope, green-white-red inventors have lain the foundation for exploration and communication. Having untied ancient bonds, we hope that our contemporary “geniuses” will strive to make the name of Italy fly in Europe and in the world.
8. "Ole" - The float takes a stand against bullfighting, a traditional spectacle that in some locations is considered cultural heritage, but that for the artist represents a macabre ritual, a liturgy of death. This time, the bull is the main protagonist of the float as he wields a red cape and shows it to the petrified bullfighter, who now understands that the show has no magical and epic dimension, but that it is only a one-way journey to a bloody death.

Stephanie Weber · 2d

Starting a Self-Imposed Isolation

The trip home was smooth. Too smooth. We flew from Florence to Frankfurt to Denver to Durango.  It was about the time that we landed in Denver that the CDC raised the Travel Notice for Italy to Level 3 -- Avoid Nonessential Travel. But as we entered Germany and then the US, there were no temperature scans, no mandates to wear masks, no recommendations on how to interact with thousands of other travelers en route to all parts of the world. The only question we received was from the US customs agent asking if we brought any good Italian wine back (We did not. We consumed it all there). Ironically enough, the only country to scan our temperatures was Italy upon our entry, and that was before they even had any known cases of COVID19.

So we have come home after being in multiple areas in Italy with known cases of this new disease. As such, we've decided to impose our own quarantine for two weeks.

Of course, the mere suggestion of cutting ourselves off immediately from others ignites the desire to get together with friends. I so want to go out for a beer and burger at our favorite brew pub or tacos at our favorite Mexican food restaurant. With our friends. Never had a poker party at our house, but now it sounds like a really fun idea. Dance party? Yep. Book club? Most definitely. Any activity with friends that we haven't seen in oh-so-long sounds great right now.  Never mind the fact that we wouldn't have seen them for another two weeks anyway.  We can't see them now, and that makes the longing that much more significant.

Friends have been grateful that we've decided to self-quarantine and have offered to bring in food.  Fortunately, online grocery shopping exists. And online books and streaming videos.  Now I admit that I have scoffed at the idea of online grocery shopping.  Who doesn't have time to procure their own food at a store? It's not like we grow it ourselves anymore. Besides, I like picking out my own produce.  However, breathing on produce clearly violates our effort to protect our fellow Durangotangs, so this morning we ordered our groceries online.  It was easy. They did a great job picking produce for us. We won't starve during our sequestration, and I certainly won't judge anyone using this service.

The Vernazza seaside trail

We are going to allow ourselves to get out and exercise. I would go absolutely stir crazy without this allowance.  Chris would simply combust.  We feel fortunate that a hike in our part of the world won't look anything like the hike we took in the Cinque Terre on the supposedly-closed trail between Vernazza and Monterosso. It was packed, and this was low season. People were all over the place.  That's not the case here, so we should be okay.  And so should our neighbors.

Losing Out to a Bug

Vernazza, one of the Cinque Terre villages. 

We won’t keep you in suspense. StephFest is losing out to Coronavirus. We’re cutting our trip short and planning to return to the US on Friday because of the escalation of cases in Italy. We became cognizant of the rapid rise in diagnosed cases after spending an awesome day on Sunday at the Viareggio Carnevale, a spectacle that brings hundreds of thousands of people to this coastal community in Tuscany for a one-of-kind parade and celebration. Packed trains brought many of us to the event.

The day before, we had spent a good part of the day on crowded trains en route to Cinque Terre, enjoying a positively gorgeous day along this series of small towns in the Italian Riviera. And of course, prior to that, we’d spent the week in Venice, wrapped up in its Carnevale.

We’ve had a week of celebrations unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Of course, these events also are the perfect scenarios for viruses just like the novel coronavirus, COVID19.  The nasty buggers love when a whole bunch of us vectors hang out together.

Carnevale in Viareggio

We are currently in a small Tuscan village, Radicondoli, so our exposure is much more limited than it was this past weekend.  Still, we’re watching the number of cases grow across the country and realizing we could find ourselves locked down in any community at any moment. Ahead of us is an 8-day trek through small villages in Umbria, so rather than push our luck and get quarantined in the middle of nowhere, we’re folding our hand in this low-odds, high-risk game.

San Gimignano, a Tuscan village

To be tourists in a country figuring out how to navigate a health crisis - a potential global pandemic even - is surreal. Chris and I are both planners, and we pride ourselves on figuring out complex logistics. But we are at the mercy of so many unknowns - just like thousands of others. All we can do is make decisions on what might happen. The risk of us getting quarantined somewhere away from home becomes more likely as this disease spreads.

The economic hit is significant. Both personally and globally. We’re bummed to miss out on the trekking portion of our trip, but the risk of further complications if we carry on as planned is more troublesome. The trip thus far has been grand so we will leave on Friday with many fond memories. There will be other long walks in our future. For now, we just want to get home without incident.

Elegant Decay

Some 400 bridges connect more than 100 islands in this historic municipal powerhouse. It’s wild to think that people have been navigating these streets since the 10th Century. This city has seen its fair share of highs and lows through its 1,000 years of existence. Its resilience is evident.

Today, we hear so much about the impending doom of Venice. Too many tourists. Rising seas. Pollution. Residents fleeing to the main land.  

It does seem to be a city where people toil just to live a simple life. Looking at furniture stores as we’ve walked the narrow, often crowded, streets, I wince at the thought of trying to move a new couch or refrigerator to a residence. Watching men unload produce from boats and navigate stairs on some of the city’s 400 bridges, one realizes just how much work is involved in procuring the daily necessities here. But people do it. Sure, fewer people now, but this is still a vibrant city.

There is a lot of graffiti, and cigarette smoke fills the narrow streets much too frequently, but the Venetian people are beautiful and well-dressed.

Chris and I have watched families navigate streets on their way to and from school.  Perhaps it’s just the bubbly aspect of the Italian language, but the children seem to love life. Perhaps, the fact that we’re in the midst of Carnival has something to do with their exuberance as they have access to copious amounts of confetti and silly string, remnants of which fill plazas throughout the city.

It is believed that the first iterations of today’s Carnevale di Venezia started in the late 12th Century. Today, it seems mostly a spectacle for tourists, although we don’t dare participate in the elegant balls that run €500 per person. Costumed couples and groups pose for photographers no matter if they wield a smartphone or a full complement of lights, reflectors, and lenses. No matter. It is beautiful and uniquely Venice.

It's been a while but I'm back

Wow. Nearly 7 years.  And low and behold, I find myself car-free again -- for over a year now actually.  Technically, I have access to Chris' car, but at least 90% of my travel around Durango is sans automobile.

Oh, yeah.  I've also moved from Williamsburg, VA to Durango, CO since my last post. I've been in Durango since June 2017.  While I may have been focused on living simply in Williamsburg, through a series of events, I live even more simply now, but that's a topic for another post.

Right now, I'm bridging the gap, resurrecting this blog (which I honestly forgot about), and getting ready to provide a platform for "Steph Fest 2020," an epic journey to Italy, courtesy of Chris, to celebrate just a few milestones in our life -- my 50th birthday and the transition from being the executive director of Durango Nature Studies to being a freelance consultant.  Steph Fest provides a clear demarcation between the two endeavors, and I am thrilled for the adventure.