Day 14…Minnesota family visit…The saga continues

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Our last dinner out with Rita and Gerhard while in Vancouver, Washington. I was sick the entire four days we were with them but it hadn’t quite manifested into pneumonia.

I am so sorry we have posted so seldom since we arrived in Minnesota and during the road trip that brought us here. It seems strange to look back and realize how much time has passed in a haze of coughing, fatigue, and days that blur together. Since I got sick on May 1, I have yet to recover fully. Tom has been dealing with it since we left Vancouver, Washington, on May 12. When we say it out loud, it hardly seems possible that we have been sick for this long.

Something is unsettling about an illness that lingers. At first, you assume it will pass in a few days, maybe a week at most. You push through, telling yourself tomorrow will be better. But then tomorrow comes, and it feels much the same. And then another tomorrow follows. Before long, you find yourself measuring time not by what you have done or where you have gone, but by how you feel when you wake up each morning.

Tom is ahead of me on the recovery path, which is encouraging. I can see small improvements in him each day, and that gives me hope. Still, I know I am trailing behind, and I suspect I will be lucky to feel fully recovered by the time we board our flight to South Africa on June 9, nine days from now. I am holding onto the hope that I will be much further along by then, even if not completely well.

Right now, the idea of two full days of travel feels intimidating. Airports, long flights, waiting, walking, sitting for hours at a time. Under normal circumstances, it is simply part of the journey, something we have done many times before. But in this weakened state, everything feels magnified. Even the smallest tasks require effort and determination.

At this moment, as I write, we are sitting in a laundromat, 12 minutes from our hotel. It feels like such a simple errand, something we would normally do without a second thought. Yet today, this has taken planning and energy, and we are not sure we have. The hum of the machines fills the room, steady and almost comforting, but even being here feels like an accomplishment.

The laundry equipment at the hotel is not working. They installed a new payment system, which doesn’t work. Of course it isn’t. It seems fitting in a way, as though even the smallest obstacles have become larger than they should be. We look at each other, tired and a little frustrated, but mostly just resigned. This is where we are right now. This is what these days look like.

And yet, even in the middle of all of this, there is a strong sense of perseverance. We are still moving forward, even if it is slower than we would like. We are still showing up for the tasks that need to be done, even when they feel overwhelming. There is something to be said for that.

We remind ourselves that this will pass. That there will come a morning when we wake up and feel like ourselves again. The energy will return, and with it, the excitement for what lies ahead. South Africa is waiting, and we want to meet that experience with open hearts and renewed strength.

For now, we take it one day at a time. One load of laundry, one short outing, one small step forward. It may not look like much from the outside, but from where we are standing, it is everything.

Tomorrow will be our first real family outing since arriving, and it feels like a milestone. We are heading to Miles’ graduation party at Lake Waconia, something we have been looking forward to despite everything. It will be an outdoor event, though we hope there will be some cover in case the weather does not cooperate. Today has been grey and gloomy. We missed Miles’ graduation ceremony a few days ago, but were able to watch it on a live stream on the TV. There was no way we could have been sitting there hacking, disturbing the atmosphere for the graduates.

Even with the uncertainty, there is an excitement about finally stepping back into family life. We have spent so many days isolated, focused only on getting through each hour, that the idea of being surrounded by loved ones feels both comforting and a little overwhelming. It will be, in a way, our first test of how far we have come.

Next week is shaping up to be full, almost surprisingly so given where we have been physically. There is something planned nearly every day. On Wednesday, we will head into the studio to record another podcast with Joe Soucheray and the Garage Logic crew, something we enjoy and look forward to. It will be good to sit, talk, and feel connected again in that familiar setting.

In between, we will spend time with Tom’s siblings, their children, and grandchildren, as well as my son Greg and his three kids. These are the moments that matter most, the reason we made this trip in the first place. Being present for them, even in a limited way, feels important.

At the same time, there is an undercurrent of concern that we cannot ignore. After being sick for so long, we both know how fragile our recovery still feels. It does not take much to tip the balance, and the last thing we want is to relapse just as we begin to reenter the world. We are aware of our limits in a way that is hard to explain unless you have lived it.

So we will move carefully. We will pace ourselves. We will make every effort to rest as much as possible between these gatherings, even if it means stepping away early or sitting quietly while the activity around us continues. It is a different way of participating, but it is the only way that makes sense right now.

There is a delicate balance between wanting to be fully present and needing to protect our health. We are doing our best to honor both. Perhaps that is what this stage of life and travel is teaching us: how to adjust, how to listen more closely to our bodies, and how to appreciate even the smallest moments of connection.

Tomorrow will be the beginning of that effort. Rain or shine, we will show up, grateful to be there, hopeful that our strength will carry us through, and mindful of every step along the way.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, May 30, 2016:

We spotted this large fishing boat in Bali. It was surprising to see how many people were on board. For more photos, please click here.

Day 11…Minnesota family visit…still sick…still coughing…What do we do about tomorrow’s upcoming grduation ceremony?…

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On Sunday, we will attend Miles’ graduation party held lakeside,

Today marks three days since that visit to Urgent Care, the one that finally gave a name to what has been settling deeper into our chests with each passing day. Pneumonia. It sounded heavy when the doctor said it, as if the word itself carried weight. In some ways, it felt like a strange relief to know what we were dealing with, but that feeling didn’t last long once we returned to the quiet of our room and faced the reality of what recovery would look like.

We had both started the antibiotics with a sense of cautious optimism. From years of experience, we’ve come to expect that familiar turning point somewhere around the 48-hour mark. That subtle shift when the body begins to cooperate again, when breathing eases, and when energy slowly returns. This time, that moment has been elusive. We wait for it, almost watching the clock, hoping each passing hour will bring relief, but the change has been far more subtle than we’d hoped.

Yes, there is some improvement. The coughing is not quite as constant as it was before. There are longer stretches of quiet now, moments when the room feels still and we can almost pretend we are on the other side of this. But when the coughing does come, it arrives with a force that reminds us we are not there yet. The intensity has softened, perhaps by twenty percent, but it still grips the chest, still leaves us catching our breath and holding onto whatever is nearby for support.

It is exhausting in a way that is difficult to explain. Not just physically, though that is certainly part of it, but emotionally as well. Each cough feels like a setback, even when we know, logically, that healing is not a straight path. We remind ourselves of that often. Healing takes time. The body works quietly, beneath the surface, even when we cannot feel it.

Far from our usual routines and comforts, we find ourselves adjusting to a slower pace, one that is not chosen but necessary. The days blend in a haze of medications, warm and cold drinks, and rest that never quite feels complete. Sleep comes in fragments, interrupted by coughing fits that pull us back into wakefulness. There is a certain loneliness in those early morning hours, when the world outside is still, and we are left listening to the sound of our own breathing.

We talk often, Tom and I, in between these stretches. Conversations that drift between concern and reassurance. Are we getting better? Shouldn’t we be feeling more improvement by now? Did we wait too long before seeking help? These questions circle our thoughts, never fully landing, but always present.

And yet, there is also gratitude woven into all of this. Gratitude for seeking care when we did. Gratitude for having the medication, even if it is taking longer than expected to do its work. Gratitude for each small sign of progress, no matter how minor it may seem.

This experience has reminded us, once again, how fragile the body can be. How quickly plans can change. How important it is to listen when something feels off, even when we are tempted to push through.

So here we are, three days in, somewhere between where we were and where we hope to be. Not fully better, not nearly as strong as we’d like, but moving, however slowly, in the right direction. And for now, that has to be enough.

Tomorrow is our grandson Miles’ graduation, a day we have been holding close in our hearts. We have not canceled yet, even as this illness lingers. However, there will be a live online broadcast we can watch from here. When I wrote to him last night, his sweet reply reminded us what matters most. He told us to keep getting better. I promised we would be at his party on Sunday at Lake Waconia, no matter what. Being outdoors will help, and with cool weather expected, we will bundle up, quietly present, grateful to share in his special moment, even if we are not quite ourselves.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, May 27, 2016

In Bali…in many ways, they’re so much like us. For more photos, please click here.

Memorial Day in US today…Day 9…Minnesota family visit…We went to Urgent Care…Here’s the diagnosis…

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On this Memorial Day, we pause to reflect on the lives lost in service to our nation. May we carry their memory with gratitude and live in a way that honors their sacrifice.

Unfortunately, we are too sick to share this special holiday with our family here in Minnesota. Instead of gathering around a table filled with familiar foods and easy laughter, we find ourselves tucked away in our hotel room, moving slowly through the day, doing what we can to recover from this dreadful illness that seems to have taken hold far longer than either of us ever expected.

Memorial Day has always carried a quiet significance for us. It is not just a long weekend or the unofficial start of summer, but a time to pause and reflect, to remember those who gave everything for the lives we are fortunate to live. There is usually a sense of togetherness, whether at a backyard gathering or simply sitting side by side with loved ones. This year, that feeling is replaced with something far more subdued. Our world has shrunk to this room, to tissues and water glasses, to the sound of coughing that has become all too familiar.

After reading about the tragic and early passing of a 41-year-old race car driver due to complications from pneumonia and sepsis, something shifted in me. It was a sobering reminder of how quickly things can escalate. I had been encouraging Tom for days to go to Urgent Care, but like many of us, he hesitated. Perhaps it was stubbornness, or maybe the hope that tomorrow would bring improvement. Yesterday morning, when he woke feeling no better, he finally agreed.

Even then, I had every intention of making this appointment all about Tom. I was still weak, still coughing more than I would like, but after three long weeks, I convinced myself I must be on the verge of turning a corner. This appointment, I thought, was for Tom. He needed it more. But Tom, in his gentle and persistent way, encouraged me to be seen as well, just in case.

While he was standing at the reception desk, filling out his intake forms, I made a last-minute decision to be assessed as well. It felt almost unnecessary at the time, but it turned out to be one of those decisions that matter more than you realize in the moment.

With our similar symptoms, they brought us into the same treatment room. There was something oddly comforting about that, being side by side in this unexpected turn of events. After taking our vitals and listening carefully to our symptoms, they ordered chest X-rays for both of us. I did not expect much from mine. I thought perhaps they would confirm what I already believed, that I was on the mend.

Instead, the results came back with surprising clarity. I have pneumonia. Hearing those words caught me off guard in a way I cannot quite describe. Tom’s X-ray was more difficult to interpret due to the scar tissue from his pulmonary fibrosis, but given his symptoms, they made the decision to treat him for pneumonia as well.

Suddenly, everything felt more serious, but also, in a strange way, more hopeful. We had answers. We had a plan.

They prescribed two powerful antibiotics for each of us and sent the prescriptions to a nearby Walgreens. When we learned they would not be ready for nearly an hour, we returned to the hotel to wait. It felt like a small delay in what had already been a long journey through illness.

After calling to confirm the medications were ready, Tom set off to pick them up using the drive-through. Not long after, he was back, moving carefully but with purpose. We sat together and took our first doses, each medication with its own schedule that quickly became too much for my foggy mind to manage. Tom, ever steady, worked it out for both of us.

That night brought me something I had not experienced in weeks. Rest. True rest. My coughing eased, even if only slightly, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I slept deeply. When I woke, I noticed a subtle shift. Not a full recovery by any means, but a hint that the medication was beginning to do its work.

Tom did not fare quite as well overnight. His coughing persisted, and the night was difficult for him. Given his existing lung condition, we know his path to recovery may take longer. Even so, there is a shared sense of cautious optimism between us now.

As I sit here, still tired but slightly clearer in thought, I find myself looking ahead. I am hopeful that I will recover enough to attend Miles’s graduation on Thursday, a moment we have been looking forward to for so long. There is also his graduation party next Sunday, and Tammy’s barbecue on Saturday. These small, meaningful gatherings feel especially important now.

So here we are, on a day meant for remembrance and togetherness, finding our own quiet version of both. We are grateful we chose to seek care when we did. It was the right decision, and one that may very well have changed the course of this illness.

For now, we rest, we heal, and we hold onto the hope that in the coming days, we will step back into the world a little stronger than we feel today.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, May 25, 2016:

While shopping at the Carrefour market in Bali, I couldn’t resist stopping to admire these colorful Dragon Fruit. For more photos, please click here.

Day 6…Minnesota Family visit…The days roll into another in a blur…

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We loved all the flowers that were beginning to bloom in Bali ten years ago.

As we make our way through each day and night, stomachs and chests aching from the constant coughing, we find ourselves asking the same quiet question over and over again. When will this end? It lingers in the background of everything, from the moment we wake to the long hours we lie awake listening to each other struggle through another coughing spell. There is no clear answer, only the passage of time marked by tissues, restless sleep, and the dull soreness that never quite fades.

It has been twenty-two days for me now. That number feels heavy, as if it should come with some sense of progress or relief. Instead, I am stuck in this strange in-between place. I am no longer at my worst, yet nowhere near well. Tom is only nine days in, and I can already see the road stretching out ahead of him. If this virus follows the same path it has taken with me, he still has a long way to go to reach this point, this frustrating plateau where improvement is so slow it is almost invisible.

The coughing is what wears us down the most. It is constant and unproductive, offering no sense of release or closure. Each cough feels like it should lead to something, some clearing or easing, but it never does. Instead, it leaves behind a sharp ache in the chest and a lingering irritation that builds until the next round begins. There is no pattern to it, not predictable in a way we can brace ourselves for. It simply comes, again and again, day and night.

Yesterday, we read that a cough from RSV can linger for as long as eight weeks. Eight weeks. The number felt almost impossible when we first saw it, yet here we are, already deep into that timeline. If that estimate holds, we will still be coughing when we arrive in Marloth Park in twenty days. That thought sits uneasily with me. I try not to dwell on it, but it is hard to ignore the reality of what our bodies are telling us.

I do not like to be negative, but there is a difference between negativity and honesty. We have learned over the years that acknowledging what is in front of us, even when it is uncomfortable, is often the only way to move through it. I do not believe I am still contagious, though there is no absolute certainty. Tom’s case is even more uncertain. His symptoms did not begin until over two weeks after mine, which leaves us questioning everything we thought we understood about the timeline.

Out of an abundance of caution, he has chosen to stay away from family. It is not an easy decision, especially when we are so close, but it feels like the responsible one. Instead, our days pass, one rolling into another. He naps on and off, his body clearly asking for more rest than usual. I find myself dozing here and there as well, though never deeply enough to feel fully restored. Sleep comes in fragments, interrupted by coughing and the discomfort that follows.

On Sunday night, I plan to go out with my son, Greg, to celebrate his girlfriend Heather’s birthday. He is picking me up at seven to take me to her party, about a half-hour drive from here. Even writing that feels like a small step forward. I know I will have to push myself. The idea of being out late, of making conversation, and being present feels daunting in my current state. Still, I also know that I need to begin reentering the world, however slowly.

There is a delicate balance between listening to our bodies and not allowing this illness to define our days completely. I am not sure I will get it right, but I am willing to try. More than anything, I look forward to the day when this is behind us, when the coughing fades into memory, and we can once again move through our days without this constant weight.

For now, we wait, we rest, and we hope.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, May 22, 2016

This close-up of my dinner in Bali, made by the two Ketuts, a few nights ago, appears to show there’s a lot of chicken on this plate. But once I dig in, there are only a few good bites on each leg and thigh section. Tom eats the two breasts, which are a little meatier, but the dark meat, which I prefer, is sparse because the chickens are locally raised and free-range. For more photos, please click here.

Sad and worrisome news about our friend…

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Three little piglets, nursing from their mom. I couldn’t get closer, or the piglets would have run off. Plus, I didn’t want the one with the bad leg to run needlessly.

It’s been a rough few months. Our friend Jeff passed away in bed in the guest cottage on September 21. A few days later, our friend Bruce died at his home in Marloth Park. And now, our dear friend Leon has been diagnosed with incurable cancer that no treatment can improve.

When Dawn and Leon spent Monday night staying in our lovely guest cottage for a short getaway, we made every effort to make it a peaceful and restful time for both of them with good food, love, support, and friendship. Little did we know that a day later, Leon would be admitted to the hospital in Nelspruit for a blood clot in his leg, a dangerous condition related to his illness. The next few days will determine what happens from here. Our love and prayers are with him and his devoted Dawn.

Of course, we are worried and devastated.  The party they’d planned for all of their friends for this Saturday has been canceled. Jabula remains open with all of their friends that traveled from near and far for the party, some staying at Jabula Lodge with others staying in other nearby holiday rentals. There is nothing we can do at this point.

Giraffes have been stopping by frequently.

Our hearts go out to Dawn when many friends will be flooding Jabula with the best intentions to eat, drink, eat and support the business. But this load falls on Dawn, David, and her staff with the number of people they’ll have to serve over the next several days.  She will spend as much time as she can with Leon at the hospital while managing the busy establishment at the same time.

In the meantime, we also worry about our friend in Hawaii, praying that he recovers from the terrifying diagnosis that prompted him and his dear wife to leave Marloth Park a year ago. We recall the day we drove them to the airport in Nelspruit, saying a sorrowful goodbye, wondering…

Is it our advancing age and the ages of our friends we love, who are leaving this world for the next, often with the dreaded “C” and other terminal respiratory illnesses? We knew these times would come, as they do for all of us who have been gifted with beautiful friendships and face the loss of many of those friends over time. Most recently, it has been too many in one short period.

We love seeing giraffes in the garden.

Our hearts are heavy while we still attempt to maintain a hopeful attitude for the future. Of course, it’s natural for all of us to question the longevity of our own lives and the potential of contracting some awful disease sometime in the future. No, we don’t obsess about this, but it’s hard not to think about it now and then, especially under these current circumstances.

This morning a light rain passed over the bush, brightening the leaves on the trees as the dust was washed away. After several soaking rains, the bush is beginning to sprout new leaves on the bushes and trees, and the animals can finally eat a little more greenery when it was so sparse the past many months.

In about a month, if the rain continues, we’ll be able to stop ordering lucerne and feed pellets as a treat for our visitors. This morning, chopping a bunch of vegetables, I made a big bowl of scraps for what I call “Norman’s Lunch.” He now knows when I ask him if he wants “his lunch,” his ears perk up, and it appears he has a smile on his handsome face. As do many bushbucks who stop by, Nina and Noah also partake in the vegetables.

This one looked at me when I called out.

Bad Leg, a bushbuck with a leg injury, has spent most of his time in our garden recovering. He’s begun to walk better. We brought food to him each time he visited, where he rested by the little wooden fence. We’d give him a mixture of lucerne,  pellets, cabbage, celery tops, apples, and carrots. It’s lovely to see him improving each day.

There’s a mom with three tiny piglets we’ve seen each day since they were born in Louise’s garden last week. One of the piglets has a very bad right front leg on which he hobbles to keep up with his mom and siblings. She tends to lie down when they visit to give herself a rest from the strain of walking and running. It’s so sad to see, and we hope she heals soon.

Norman was fluffed up when he spotted some Big Daddies in the garden.

Based on the number of warthogs in the park, the rangers and vet don’t spend time or money on warthogs and their offspring. It’s heartbreaking to see warthogs suffering from horrific injuries. But, if they lived in Kruger National Park, there would be no help for them. there either. It’s a sorrowful situation for wildlife.

Let’s face it; Life is hard. There’s no easy answer for those suffering, whether human or animal. We can only pray for the comfort and peace of those dealing with Life’s impossible challenges and do whatever we can to ease those we love in the process.

Be well.

Photo from one year ago today, November 3, 2021:

Often, other animals clear out when a Big Daddy arrives. For more photos, please click here.

“It’s always somethin’ Jane!”…

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Six years ago today, on November 19, 2013, we posted this photo when we visited the Swahili Beach Resort for dinner at Diani Beach, Kenya.

We can live anywhere in the world, and wherever we may be at any given time, life isn’t free from worries and concerns for ourselves and our loved ones. As we spend more time with family while in Minnesota, we have a first-hand opportunity to witness the trials and tribulations of those we love, often centered around health problems commonly found due to aging and other causes.

With our dear DIL dealing with cancer and similarly one of Tom’s sisters and with Tom’s sister, Sister Beth, in the hospital with some unknown illness, we find ourselves worried. Tom spent the better part of the day at a local hospital with DIL Tracy, who tests for a problematic condition, yet unknown, we feel like health issues are everywhere. We hope and pray Tracy will be OK.

No one is exempt from the risks of acquiring health conditions. When Tom met for lunch with several railroad retirees last week, more than half of the group was suffering from one serious illness or another. Railroad workers are often exposed to toxic chemicals in their line of work which may result in severe health conditions later in life.

When we’ve met with his family over these past several days, it’s evident that many are in the throes of recovery from surgery or illness or in the manifestation of a new condition in itself.

What’s happened in this world? Why are so many people getting cancer, heart disease, and a wide array of other life-threatening illnesses? When I think of my situation, I can hardly blame it on lifestyle or pesticides. I’ve spent a lifetime eating healthy, fresh foods, avoiding sugars, starches, and now in the past eight years, grains.

Of course, there’s no easy answer. For many, illnesses may be age-related, lifestyle-related, environmental, and as in my case, genetic, the most difficult causal factor to change. 

As research, unbiased of course, not funded by Big Pharma, continues in many of these areas, “they” are discovering more on the role genetics play in our health throughout of lives. Perhaps, not in our lifetime, but down the road, more discoveries will be made to attempt to avert some of these seemingly inevitable scenarios.

On this topic…as each day passes, I begin to feel a little better. My cough is about 20% better than yesterday, now day 4 of antibiotics and Prednisone. I can’t wait to be able to breathe more easily and sleep better at night.

They provided us with discount coupons for the meds! Amazing! Still, I remain grateful for the quality of care I had at the local Medexpress Clinic and, of course, the reasonable fees of $189, plus the cost of the various medications that weren’t too bad.

Next week on Wednesday, when I see the cardiologist for my early one-year heart check, it will be much more expensive, and we’re bracing ourselves for that. Since my heart feels good, I see no reason for a plethora of tests.

As one of the world’s worst patients, I tend to pick and choose what I feel is appropriate for me, not necessarily what the doctor may order. Many may disagree with this type of thinking, but we each have to be our advocates and do what we feel is suitable.

Taking drugs that cause me to be exhausted, in pain, and feeling ill is not on the horizon for me. Quality of life is of the utmost importance, and I continually strive to build and maintain such a lifestyle to enhance that possibility.

That’s it for today, folks. Please stay tuned for more mundane updates on family matters. In nine days, we’ll be in Las Vegas. Certainly, there will be a few more photos ops and forms of entertainment to share with our readers.

May you be well, healthy and content.

Photo from one year ago today, November 19, 2018:
Kudus in the garden. It was always important to feed the animals during the dry summer months in South Africa, during a drought. Vegetation was at a minimum, and they often depended on offerings from the visitors living in the bush. For more, please click here.