AUGUST 5, 2024 – As with many a plan that goes awry, its derailment or alternative can often produce a serendipitous result. Having booked a stateroom aboard the R.M.S. Titanic, for example, a couple misses the ship’s departure, and lo and behold, they get to avoid swimming with the icebergs.
Or in my largely unremarkable world, two giants of the forest, each 18-inches in diameter, crash across the well-established trail leading into my “tree garden” and uproot a third tree, which served as a post for my painted gateway sign, “BJÖRNHOLM TRÄDGÅRDEN.” Since the trees were too big for my chainsaw and too long to accommodate a practical workaround, I groused all spring and well into the summer about this state of affairs. How could Mother Nature have been so inconsiderate? Eventually, however, this altered condition inspired me to design and build a series of sturdy ramps and walkways up and over the giant logs, creating the start of a much grander plan for a nature walk. Except for the very ends of the long logs, they are well off the ground and thus will decay very slowly. One being an ancient white oak, full of tannin and hard dense heartwood, will last long after my remains are in (or, in the form of ash, scattered across) the ground, even if that inevitable fate occurs 30 years hence. The ramps/walkways (all made from treated lumber in my substantial stash of wood that can be repurposed), in turn deserve some decorative railings, for which I’ve already begun gathering white pine poles of suitable dimensions to cut, tool and install according to a pleasing design. And as to the gateway sign—I now have an opportunity to “spruce” that up as well.
As my boss at the bank would advise after hearing of someone’s screw-up, “Time to make lemonade out of a lemon.” We made great batches of lemonade out of some pretty nasty lemons.
I now find myself on the cusp of another set of things not going according to plan. For many months, my wife and I had been planning to join other family members for our grandson’s Big Bash—a multi-day celebration around the dual benchmark events of the little guy’s Christening—in the same centuries-old stone church in a tiny village in Portugal where our son and his wife were married—followed by his first birthday party. Family and friends from all over the globe will descend on the village, which has never seen such commotion . . . at least not since the three-day wedding extravaganza five years ago that topped anything that Steven Spielberg could dream up for a storybook-like film.
Meanwhile, we’d planned to take our granddaughter up to the Red Cabin for the weekend just past. High temps and sunshine were forecast, and we thought it would be fun for all of us to squeeze in a solid couple of days at the lake before Beth and I headed off to Portugal. To my considerable disappointment, that plan fell through; Illiana’s parents had different ideas for the weekend, and when Beth heard that, her back started to ache—reminding her that a few days after the three-hour car ride each way between home and cabin, she’d be seated on a long trans-Atlantic flight. She thus backed out of a weekend at the cabin. I decided to head north anyway; for company a sister and brother-in-law would be on hand at Björnholm and working the ramp-walkway project was an added enticement.
In the early hours of Saturday I was awakened by symptoms of an upper respiratory ailment. I immediately calculated the hours to our scheduled departure for Portugal: 100. Whatever was disturbing my system, could I lick it definitively within that time? My second thought was, given my limited in-person interaction with the rest of humanity, how in the world had I contracted anything? But then I remembered: on Wednesday late afternoon, Illiana had sat on the arm of my chair as we listened—at her request—to Carnival of the Animals on YouTube. She’d had a cold the week before and was apparently symptom free, but her breathing was mere inches from mine. My third thought was, whatever I’m coming down with, at least I’m able to quarantine from Beth—my primary goal should be to ensure that she can still fly to Portugal and attend the festivities. (We’d planned to travel with my sister Jenny, so Beth will still have a travel companion.)
After symptoms worsened throughout the day Saturday (two Covid-19 antigen tests came up negative), I grew skeptical that I could stage a full recovery in time. On early Sunday morning a temp of 99.7 made me even less optimistic, though a retreating temp (98.8) 90 minutes later gave me a glimmer of hope—until late afternoon readings hit 100.4, 100.6, and 100.7. By the third reading, I was ready to forget Portugal, baptism and birthday party altogether in favor of avoiding a neutropenic fever (a danger given my lowered counts due to the cancer medication I’ve been prescribed) and a trip to the ER in the middle of the Northwoods of northwestern Wisconsin.
I phoned my oncology clinic’s nurse hotline and received immediate attention and advice: stay hydrated, get lots of rest, suspend my cancer medication and monitor. This turned out to be right. The temp part was a yo-yo, dropping for a time below fever range but then toward dusk popping back up again to a “fever pitch” before settling back down. Ditto today. The cold symptoms—“gushing” faucets for nostrils and a cough that I’m sure disturbed people two miles away on the other side of the lake—have largely abated.
Late this afternoon I consulted with my oncologist’s nurse—someone as sharp as a tack with a ton of experience, a fathomless supply of genuine care, and extensive international travel experience—who was wholly familiar with my Portugal plans. She kindly and genuinely empathized, but after acknowledging my disappointment, she spelled out the upside of avoiding the considerable risks of traveling under my circumstances. She needn’t have done so; the risks are clear for any straight-thinking individual, yet she knew that what the situation really required was assurance that I shouldn’t feel bad, guilty or that I was letting people down; in fact, just the opposite—I was saving others as well as myself from a heap of trouble. She said she’d confer with my doctor and call again tomorrow at noon.
A subsequent temperature reading came in at 99.4, though it’s retreated since. By this criterion alone—so close to the time when I’d have to leave the Red Cabin to make the trip—there’s just no way that I can sensibly embark on the journey.
Of course, I’m terribly disappointed, but what’s a person to do? Get out of sorts? Kick the cat? Except, wait—we don’t have cats anymore. Swear? No, my only reasonable course of action is to stay quarantined from Beth so that she doesn’t get sick while away; to wish her a safe and pleasant trip and unbounded joy during the grand celebration.
I will enjoy it vicariously, and as I do, I’ll recall the wisdom of our favorite granddaughter: “Grandpa, it’s better to laugh at a situation than cry—it’ll make you feel better about it.” This she said spontaneously the other day after she’d accidentally knocked a cutting board with sliced scallions to the kitchen floor. Being the good kid she is, Illiana immediately apologized and helped me pick up the mess. We had a great laugh, and I told her what a gift she is to this crying world.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
