Tom Ryan's Blog, page 2

Saying Goodbye to the Sweetest Soul

A friend of ours died this week. Her time had come and while I could not help but celebrate her life, for it was full of love and fellowship from beginning to end, the loss we all feel when one we are fond of leaves this earth haunted me. Her last breaths came with loved ones nearby, while Samwise and I were in the forest. 

I timed it this way. I wanted to be away from people, and in the company of those who listen and speak gently. That’s what sent me into a village of trees that see more bears than humans, with Samwise by my side. 

Memories begat prayers. Sadness and beauty and grace and deliverance enveloped me. The last time I saw her was less than a week ago. I was visiting her home, staying outside to drop off some food to my friends Jill, Jeremy, and Jasmine, and Islay (pronounced eye-la) lay down on top of my feet and asked me to rub her belly. 

Islay was diagnosed with the same beast inside her that ended Atticus’s life. But due to the care of the three J’s, and Rachael Kleidon, they had another eight months with her. It was remarkable to see how frail she looked then came the rebound. A face that had been hollow, filled out again. She went from not looking right, to beaming. And she truly did beam. She was singular in this way.

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(Photo by Jill Hope.)

Her final turn came quickly. For that I’m grateful. 

I got a call from Jill night before and I knew. 

So Samwise and I took the trail down to the Ellis River beyond the high grass and the trees in our backyard—Aragorn’s path. We waded across to the ski trail. In winter, it’s a rush of flashing colors and skis and poles and puffs of breath against the cold air. But on early August morning’s it feels like we are entering autumn. We dip into the golden mountain waters, luxuriate in their chill and gentle swirls and trek for miles without seeing another human. 

Phone reception disappears quickly, as it should when entering a mythical realm. Samwise is more alert on this route. His nose picks up the scents of the wilds who passed this way and that during the night, or maybe just before we arrived. We saw bear and moose scat, a neighborhood of chatty peekaboo chipmunks, a murder of crows who follow us whenever we pass that way—we even glimpsed a fisher cat on a branch. 

Each morning we begin these walks in fall, and by the last mile or two, it’s summer again. The sun stretches toward the tree tops to the east, bejewels the river, casts shadows and heavenly shafts of light. Samwise dips down to the water, even as we gain elevation, for an occasional drink. When we get to the turnaround point, I cut down through the trees, too. There’s a good sitting rock there. It’s lays among the boulders once carried that far by a glacier. The water nymphs sing as they ride the current, and we watch the churning, glistening, mountain waters pass. Shadow and sunlight play with one another.

I knew Islay closed her eyes for the last time while Samwise and I were sitting at that place, for the first red leaf of the year came fluttering down and landed on my lap as I prayed. Then, what could only be considered fitting, occurred. Three miles beyond where I’d last had reception, a text message came from Jill.

Islay was gone. 

She slipped away on the grounds of North Country Animal Hospital, in the same spot I last held Atticus.

Writing that sentence brings me back to that moment. It was brutally sudden and I was near death myself that day. As the darkness fell, I was still in the parking lot, an empty husk of a human some forty-five minutes later. One of the two doctors who took Atti from my arms (Rachael was out of state at the time) was on her way home. She stopped by my car to check on me. 

Through the tears I said, “I’ve never gone home without Atticus.” 

It is said that there is both a curse and blessing to lose a loved one unexpectedly. I choreographed Will’s passing. With Atticus, I did not have that chance. 

Checking in with Jill, now that it’s a couple days later, she is grateful for the extra time she had with Islay. Selfishly, I’m happy to have been with her recently. I shall never forget that sweet gal, who was the nicest dog I’d ever met.

We are never the same for having had a friend. The same can be said when they are gone, but remain within you. Saying goodbye is hell on those who stay behind. 
There are never the right words. There are only thoughts. I’ll use Aeschylus’s: “In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.” 

PS: I know two readers out here who had to go through this same primal loss recently. My prayers go out to Sonia Arias and Jan Hemenway Greene. 

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Dead Man Walking

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When I see old hiking photos of Atticus and me, the first thought is, "Who is that guy?"

 My friend Sarah refers to that version of me in the photos as Dead Man Walking.

 I no longer relate to that fellow. In these shots, I'm a hundred pounds heavier than I am now. For the decade Atti and I hiked together, I mostly weighed between 250 and 286 pounds. How …

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A Health Update

The dizziness still comes. It is not as often, but when it arrived yesterday, I almost collapsed. My head spins, nausea begins, and I know to sit. If it is bad, I lay down. Yesterday was laid down.

Doctors don’t know why this happens. It’s the only thing they could not figure out in my five weeks in the hospital. The best explanation came from a cardiologist at Maine Med.

“Your body went through a house fire. Unlike a house, though, we cannot replace your wiring and plumbing. Parts of you were damaged beyond repair, unfortunately.”

This same fellow, when pressed, admitted no one knows why I lived it all, and predicted I had between five and ten years left.

It’s been four years. The spells used to haunt me two or three times a week while I was doing something as basic as chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter. Twice it happened while signing books after speaking at an event. A half dozen times, I passed out. Three times while hiking. Yesterday’s attack was the first in at least six months.

My blood pressure, usually around a healthy 98/64, plummeted to 79/60.

I’m 140 pounds lighter than I was when I had my stroke, my heart and kidneys failed, sepsis and blood clots and anemia set in. The weight loss has come over the last two years. This photo, taken by Ken Stampfer was two years ago. I do not have an up to date picture, but trust me, I look nothing like this.

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There is no end goal, but by the way things are trending, I expect to be about 155 lbs. on New Year’s Day.

I recently joked to Ken, “I’ll be less than half the man I used to be!”

Following Dr. Michael Greger’s How Not to Die guidelines before graduating to Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn’s strict Prevent and Reverse Heart Disease program, I’ve reclaimed my life. Gone are the blood pressure and beta-blocker medications. Gone is the five to ten years left to live, most likely. There is no more sleep apnea. No more erectile dysfunction—this, by the way, guys, is the canary in the coal mine for coronary heart disease. If those tiny arteries are blocked, it tells you what is happening elsewhere. (Yes, this happens in women also.)

I stopped eating animals because I love and respect them. This, despite how much I relished the taste of all meat. But to save my life, I switched from too much vegan junk food (Impossible Burgers, Oreos, Fritos, Twizzlers, Pop-tarts, Earth Balance vegan butter) to a whole-food/plant-based way of eating. This means no animal products (including dairy), and no processed foods, which includes all oils. That was tightened up with Essy’s program by excluding all nut butters, nuts and seeds (other than flax and chia), avocados, and coconut. My daily total fat calories are ten percent or under. Sodium stays below 1,000 mg a day.

I aim for six servings of greens a day. This prescription helps my damaged endothelial cells lining my blood vessels through the production of nitric oxide.

Breakfast today included an enormous mango before our walk, and steamed broccoli sprinkled with mustard powder to enhance the sulforaphane content and a plate of no oil hash browns with red onion and minced garlic after the walk. (The broccoli counts as a green.) As I type, I’m snacking on a bowl of golden and red beets. (These also count as nitric oxide producing greens.)

Looking down at my Fitbit, my heart rate is 54 beats per minute.

I’m healthier than I’ve ever been. Food tastes better and is more enjoyable than it was before I limited what I ate. Strangely, although I follow strict guidelines, the variety of foods I eat is astounding. Eating a diversity of a minimum of thirty different whole plant foods a week tends to my gut microbiome.

Taste buds change, you know. Once a Coca Cola man, I drink only water or green tea. No longer do I have food cravings and the sure-to-follow food hangovers.

The only thing limiting me now is what I did to my body in the past. The dizzy spells remind me I cannot outrun it all.

On mornings like today, when the dizziness lingers, I’m reminded how fortunate I am to have improved my quality of life. Yes, I’ll never completely undo the damage I did to my body with the Standard American Diet, with a love of meats and sweets. But I have given myself a good life with a fighting chance for many more years.

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Comment Section

Thank you, everyone, for the thoughtful comments of the three posts of the last week. Between Samwise’s run-in with the porcupine and Emily’s continued recovery in the last post, I appreciate your words. When it comes to health updates like today’s, I find it’s best to turn off the comments. They will return for the next post, however. Thanks for reading!

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Congratulations to Dr. Rachael Kleidon

Our dear friend means the world to us. Yesterday, she celebrated a decade at North Country Animal Hospital. If you’ve read Will’s Red Coat, you understand what a remarkable soul she is.

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Our Evening Ritual

“Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.” ~ Henry James

Goodness knows I am married to the autumn, but my spirit begins to rise in August. Especially at this late hour, when the busiest portion of the day is spent, and shadows creep across the countryside, creating delightful p…

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August Refrains When Needed Most

Dear friend,

As summer eased beyond its halfway point, the gentle refrains of early August are noticeable. The deep green of July is beginning to fade. It’s not much, just a trickle, but the softer side of the season is upon us. You can see it when you look at the mountainsides. Goldenrod is yellowing fields. The Christmas-red berries of the staghorn sum…

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Samwise and the Porcupine

Emily has reached the point in her knee rehab, where she takes three fifteen-minute leashed walks a day. This started on Thursday. We walked to the Thompson House Eatery and back. The first stroll came with apprehension and caution—by both of us. (Samwise stayed at home.)

Her hips swayed more than usual, a muscular imbalance that’s to be expected. She w…

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How a Little Black Dog from Texas Helped Save My Life

Do you believe in magic?

I do. It’s out there, but we often overlook it.

Tonight, I ate beets because of a little black dog from Texas. There’s magic in this.

In the late spring of 2017, Samwise and I set out on a cross-country road trip. We left after a Saturday afternoon book event for Will’s Red Coat at Porter Square Books in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We spent that first night outside of Philadelphia. Over the next few days, we worked our way down the coast until we arrived in Savannah. We stayed for two nights because I wanted to visit Bonaventure Cemetery. Most tourists stop there because it was in the book and movie Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

I had a different reason. One hundred and fifty years earlier, John Muir walked from Indiana to the Gulf of Mexico. It was in the wake of the Civil War. It was the first of his grand adventures. By the time he reached Savannah, he was out of money. He wrote to his family but had to wait for its arrival. Being broke, he could not afford food or a place to stay. So he slept in Bonaventure Cemetery atop of one of the raised graves.

I did not have a plan for my first road trip; I merely wanted to see America and touch the Pacific. But the idea of stopping where Muir stopped, intrigued me. I feel an affinity for the writer and naturalist, and we share a birthday.

From Savannah, we drove west to Atlanta, had dinner with friends. The following day we drove through Alabama. We stopped in Selma and walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. I was a year removed from the hospital but weak, and I nearly fainted.

The next day, we began a long drive across Texas. At one point, I don’t even remember the location, but we were on a congested four-lane highway that seemed like a racetrack. We were speeding along, and I noticed a small black dog sitting beside the freeway.

A dog? That was a dog?

It was sitting calmly, hopefully, as if waiting for a ride.

My first thought was that someone had abandoned it. I tried to stop, but it was impossible, and we were four lanes away. I took the next exit, doubled back, and drove in the right lane. When we came to where the dog had been sitting, we pulled over.

We spent an hour in the trees to no avail, and I realized that there was no neighborhood or businesses close. It was clear someone had indeed ditched the dog.

My heart broke, and repeatedly broke, throughout the remaining seven weeks of our trip whenever I thought back to whatever could have become of the dog.

We returned home in July, and my dreams often took me back there, seeing him or her waiting for a ride that would never return.

My health continued to be iffy, and my hands were full with young Samwise. It became clear that while I might not last a long time—a doctor told me five to ten years was reasonable—Sam needed more than just me.

In October, when a hurricane threatened Houston, the shelters needed room for the homeless animals sure to be delivered to them. Our local humane society received several of these dogs. Every one was snatched up quickly. Every one, save a little black dog from Texas.

For some reason, no one was interested in her.

I contacted Virginia Moore, the director of the humane society, and suggested that we help six-month-old Millie find a home. Samwise and I would pose with her, and post the photos on the Following Atticus Facebook page. It was something Atticus and I had done together in the past, and it was effective.

When we met Millie, she was out of control, with boundless energy. No wonder no one had adopted her, I thought.

But looking in her eyes, I thought back to that little black dog we could not help.

Fuck.

The last thing I wanted with my unstable health was a handful I could not keep up with. And yet for reasons beyond my understanding, I asked Virginia if we could take her for a drive to Thorne Pond. Millie was leashed, but once we began walking, she was responsive to me, and I decided to trust her. I unhooked the leash, and she stayed with us for the entire hour.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

I knew.

But what was I doing? I understood that Samwise was the first dog I’d lived with who would outlive me.

Now I had two dogs I would not outlive. Arrangements were made for the inevitable.

After adopting Emily Binx Hawthorne, ten minutes into our ride home, she wrapped one of her paws around my wrist and fell asleep with her head on my arm. That reaffirmed everything.

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Over the next nine months, my health did not improve; it worsened. My weight was up to 320 pounds, sixty-five pounds heavier than when I left the hospital. I was on medication for blood clots, high blood pressure, a beta-blocker, and a diuretic for my heart and kidneys.

Samwise, a former street dog, though close to me, belongs to himself. He is independent and will continue to thrive if something happens to me. But Ms. Emily is a different story. When I die, she will be lost, for I am her world.

I carry immense guilt for not being there for Atticus in the five weeks I was in the hospital before he died. It’s the one regret I have from those years.

When he needed me, I was helpless and in Maine Med for five weeks fighting for my life, trying to get back to him.

He waited, and, as you know, died in my arms twelve days after I returned.

That guilt will forever haunt me. Trying to untie it is why I changed my life. If I could not be there for Atticus, I can be here for Samwise and Emily.

I revolutionized the way I was living, trying to live for Emily. First, I read Dr. Michael Greger’s How Not to Die. By the time we returned from our second cross-country trip a year ago, I had lost a hundred pounds. I stopped taking the beta-blocker and the blood pressure medication.

I then began Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn’s Prevent and Reverse Heart Disease program. It’s a whole-food, plant-based approach to eating with no oils, minimal fats (even healthy ones like avocado and nuts are skipped), and six servings of greens a day.

I’ve now lost 140 pounds. My resting heart rate is in the fifties. My blood pressure is 96/68.

There is no guarantee I will be here to the end for Samwise and Emily, but I now have a fighting chance. And our quality of life has improved beyond measure.

Tonight, I ate beets, because they are a nitric oxide rich food that helps people like me who have danced with death. Beets and cauliflower, broccoli, kale, spinach, asparagus, and other leafy greens. I used to hate them. Every single one of them. But beets especially.

My life has changed so much; I now crave them.

So you see, magic happens. It can appear in many forms. It calls to us and our job is to pay attention, invite it in, and grab hold with all we have.

I’m grateful for a little black dog in Texas who may or may not have survived. For I chose to live after that briefest of encounters set a series of possibilities in motion.

Here’s to magic.

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A Visit from Sweet William

It's been six years since sweet William graced our backyard and enjoyed his garden, a patch of wildflowers measuring four feet by twenty feet. He could not see or hear worth a darn in the two and a half years he lived with us, but that magnificent nose never lost its ability to appreciate the finer scents in life.

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Stillness in the Storm

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Determined to stay local in the summer of COVID-19, I find myself daydreaming about traveling. This past week alone, while knowing we aren’t going anywhere, did not stop me from looking at rentals on the Cape, in Stowe, Vermont, even out in the Southwest. Patagonia, Arizona, anyone? Moab, Utah?

It’s interesting that I’d never taken a road trip out of the Northeast until three years ago, and yet these days if I stay put too long, I fall into that sensation Anaïs Nin wrote about, “I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.”

Restless. Yes, that’s part of what I’m feeling.

Strangely, I’m also enveloped in a grounded peace simultaneously.

The Mount Washington Valley is currently insane with those who decided not to let the coronavirus keep them at home. I’m not sure we’ve ever seen crowds like we have this week. (We came across more out of state license plates than from New Hampshire today.) Their angst and anger, their rowdiness, and entitlement are palpable. The Conway Daily Sun ran a front-page article about how things are out of control. But here the three of us sit in our little hobbit hole, rarely venturing out of the yard, and I feel tranquil.

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Samwise and I do get out on our morning walks. Not in Jackson, though. We haven’t done that since Will was alive. We drive to Bartlett, Intervale, or Albany for discreet trails where the only souls we see are our brethren the trees; the only voices we hear belong to the birds and frogs, or rivers and streams. (Did you know that the reason frogs become vocal before a rainstorm is because it means they are going to have sex? They do it in rain puddles.)

Tom Ryan @TomandAtticusI know a place.

July 25th 2020

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Today, heading north above the notch, we encountered our first moose of the year. A female who could not be bothered to turn from the tree she was nibbling on, even though we pulled off the road and were right behind her.

Around noon and again just before dinner, we take a leisurely drive, so Emily gets to escape the house. We don’t go too far, usually. But even these forays have been fantastic.

I avoid the tourist traffic and prefer country roads rutted and uneven. We move slowly with the windows down so Emi can inhale the world from her window. Why rush pleasantries like this, especially when she is mostly refined to home? Looking in the rearview mirror, I enjoy watching her chin resting atop the open window, ears flying, eyes relaxed.

Yesterday, we saw our first bear of the year. A male, maybe two or three years old. Not very big. He was crossing the in front of us and slowed to watch us approach. I stopped the car; Sam and Emi sat upright; the bear lingered.

He was gawking as much as we were—interspecies curiosity. When he left the road, he stayed in the trees and watched, and we visited for a while. Black bears are inquisitive, and almost always harmless.

I am grateful Emily and Samwise are calm and not barkers in these kinds of encounters. Pretty sure, Mr. Bear was appreciative of that as well.

Today, heading north above the notch, we encountered our first moose of the year. A female who could not be bothered to turn from the tree she was nibbling on, even though we pulled off the road and were right behind her. Oh, if you could have seen Emily and Samwise’s nose working overtime then!

As I type, Zelenka’s Capriccio No. 1 in D plays, and Samwise accompanies it with soft snores. He’s only four, but he sleeps like an old soul. Emily is curled around my foot beneath the desk. I cannot see her, but knowing her well, her eyes are closed, but she’s always aware of my presence.

Today, between reading, writing, and rides, I’ve been in the kitchen. This also brings me peace. Even as I looked out the window and watched the backed-up traffic in our town with a population of only 800 residents. We used to only have one traffic jam a year—on the night of Fourth of July fireworks.

I experimented with the Almond Cow and made chocolate oat milk. I cannot tell you the last time I had healthy chocolate milk. What pleasure that brought me. (Don’t you love it when you learn something new?) Better yet, it didn’t have any of the gross chemical additives.

I stood by the sink and chopped red onions, stalks of celery, and cucumber for a three-bean salad. In between, I nibbled on pieces of chilled watermelon, tart cherries, and sliced pluots.

I’m in the middle of Dr. Will Bulsiewicz’s book Fiber Fueled. It’s a fascinating study of the microbiome. Studies report it’s healthiest if we eat a diversity of thirty different plant foods a week. I’ve never bothered counting, but this week I began keeping a journal.

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For the record, today I ate the following: a whole wheat everything bagel, blueberries, dates, pluots, celery, black beans, kidney beans, cannellini beans, whole oats, kale, spinach, baby bok choy, tomatoes, arugula, cucumber, celery, red onion, watermelon, cherries, beets, chia seeds, and ground flax seeds.

He also points out that while people often wonder where a person like me who doesn’t eat animals gets my protein, 97 percent of Americans eat far more protein than they need, while that same number does not eat the bare minimum requirement of fiber. About three percent eat the daily minimum of fiber.

Heck, when I was living on bacon and eggs, McDonald’s, and Chinese take-out, with a side of Ben & Jerry’s and Coca Cola for decades, the closest I came to eating vegetables and fruit were the gross lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes on a Big Mac. Oops, almost forgot the French fries.

Meanwhile, Emily and Samwise continue to eat a diet that includes meat and gnaw on bones. Folks often ask what they eat. I alternate foods for them every three months. When Atticus had a cancer scare, we worked with a nutritionist. She suggested rotating foods.

Samwise and Emily have different nutritional needs than me and different desires. Although I’ll admit, when I smell someone grilling out, I still enjoy the smell of burgers and BBQ chicken.

Emi’s rehab continues to go well. She’s placing more weight on her leg daily. It won’t be long before she is allowed to take leashed ten-minute-long walks three times a day. It’s nothing compared to what she used to do, but it’s much more than what she’s been doing. Progress will be slow but steady. I know she will not be running free until the middle of November, so I don’t worry about it. There’s no hurry.

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This morning, after a stop at Big Dave’s Bagels, where Samwise visited with Dave and Sue and was given roast beef, we walked in the Albany Town Forest for the first time in more than a month. It was good to be back there. As much as it’s good to be off on long walks now that Emily is okay with staying home, we both will be thrilled to have her back with us.

My thoughts go out to those who have been seeing the worst of COVID-19 in your areas this week, and those who are about to lose unemployment. I fear since we did not get on top of the virus from the beginning, and stay on top of it like other countries did, we’ll be haunted by this dreadful virus for the next couple of years.

Please, folks, hold onto yourselves.

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“Do not wait for life. Do not long for it. Be aware, always and at every moment, that the miracle is in the here and now.” ~ Marcel Proust

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It Been a Good Day

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It's been a good day, a productive one—a cool mid-summer day carrying hints of far-off September. No humidity. No bugs. A low traffic day. It almost felt sleepy here in the upper valley.

It's now been three weeks since Emily's surgery. She's recovered nicely, in every way. She is wonderful about letting me put her through her range of motion exercises t…

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