The screech pierces my ears. What little protection my earbuds offer is a gift. The music is on very low, but it shields me from the banshee-like sound that would damage my eardrums. There’s a bang and the saw kicks back. The wood is wet and swollen and hard to cut. I pull an earbud and I’m greeted by the sound of mowers bagging leaves and leaf blowers running in the darkness. I’m bathed in a swath of light from halogen lamps in my backyard. The air smells of decaying birch and elm leaves and a slight hint of stench from rotting mushrooms.

 

My camper is parked on wood to keep it level through the winter. The wood decays into the ground. The decay is aided by the bacteria in the earth and when conditions are right, those bacteria sprout up those tiny tendrils that reach up to the sky to greet the day light, producing the mushrooms that surround my camper. Their life is short, but they produce more spores that go into the ground and will lay dormant until conditions are perfect yet again. For now, they’ve done their deed and consumed the wood that’s in the earth and are now collapsing back into the ground.

 

 

This is fall in New England. Darkness creeps in early and my chores are not done. Therefore, as night falls, I cut pallets with a circular saw to use as kindling. The wood is dry and hard. It lights easy but burns hot. This saves me from splitting up good hardwood that’s used to fuel the woodstove that heats my house. I’m Scottish so I know somewhere up in heaven an ancestor is smiling down on me; pleased that I’ve saved a dollar and not wasted my good fire wood.

 

 

My neighbor gets closer with his lawn tractor. It’s a beautiful orange Husqvarna and he’s bagging leaves as he rides. Its LED headlights cut the dark like a scalpel. He comes through my yard as a favor. He knows I’m cutting wood so he tells me to stay and finish while he does the rest. I am fortunate to have Frankie as a neighbor and a friend.

 

 

I still have to winterize the camper. There’s no antifreeze in the lines. The water heater is not emptied, and the freshwater tank may still have a few gallons left in it. I’m behind schedule on this task. I don’t have to cover it yet, but it should be prepared for freezing weather. My chores never stop. My daughter calls to me and it’s time to rush inside.

 

 

“Dad, how do you make this thing work?” My daughter is trying to make hot chocolate from the Keurig. I want to raise my voice and ask her why she would interrupt me for such a foolish task. Years ago I may have.

 

 

But I am different now.

 

 

I am not a perfect husband, and I am not a perfect dad. I have a string of failures behind me a mile long, but I am trying. So, I show her where the switch is on the side and show her how to change the cup size and change the temperature. Heather is learning to make her own hot chocolate. She’s young but industrious. She is strong and she is beautiful, but I’m her dad so I take these things for granted. Fortunately, tonight I have caught myself and I’m correcting my errors. She beams with pride as she makes another cup and offers one to me. I decline and tell her to give it to her younger sister instead. She bounds away cheerfully, proud of her accomplishment and the new thing she’s learned how to do.

 

 

I hurry back out into the cold to continue the wood cutting. My wife will need kindling to keep the house warm now that she’s going to be working from home most of the time. The camper is still waiting for winterizing and the cord wood needs stacking. Someone has a fire and I can smell the oak wood burning as the soot and smoke drift up through the air and traverse the neighborhood.

 

 

It’s time for the chainsaw and I rip the cord to fire the engine. You drop the saw and give a quick upward yank on the cord to spin the crankshaft and start the combustion process. Three years ago, I was still healing from two previous surgeries. Three years ago, I was a month away from my third surgery. Three years ago, starting this saw would have been pure agony. Use of this tool was an impossibility that humbled me and made me feel useless. My rib cage would have screamed, and the soft tissue would have cried out in pain.

 

 

Today it’s just a saw. One of several that I use as tools to make work easier. How lucky am I? Three years ago, I was unable to do the chores that were necessary. Today I look forward to the chores. I look forward to the ones that are hard. I use them to build strength and cardio. I use them to prove I’m still here.

 

 

The darkness engulfs me as my work continues. I think about how I was afraid that I had no future. As I work and cut, I think of how I feared that I had lost the ability to take care of my family. I feared I would not be able to provide.  I feared I would not be able to guide. I feared that I would not be able to teach.

 

 

Tonight, was my opportunity to fix that. It’s not just cutting wood to heat my home, and it’s not winterizing a camper or installing running boards on my wife’s truck. It was about that stupid coffee machine. One silly little coffee machine, but that silly little coffee machine was everything to my daughter in that moment. That was my make-or-break moment. Was I going to do everything I said I wanted to live for, or was I going to get lost in some stupid chore that could be continued in another 15 minutes? The right thing was to pause and put my current task on hold. The few minutes with Heather were more important than anything else I had on my plate today.

 

 

I’m back outside and sawing like a mad man. The time passes and wood is cut and stacked. With my chore complete for the night, I reek of two stroke chainsaw exhaust and premix fuel as I enter the house. My oldest daughter is singing in her bedroom, the hot chocolate is long gone. My youngest still has a half cup of hot chocolate, now cold from sitting. She’s watching Mickey Mouse on the couch but jumps up and runs to me to give me a hug as I enter the living room. A cloud of sawdust bursts from my jeans as she hugs me. I want to tell her she’s covered herself in debris but that’s not the right thing to do.

 

 

She was born 4 days after I returned home from my CABGx3. She was still in my wife’s belly when they wheeled me into the room to try to fix me.  I said a silent prayer that I would see her grow up. So now is not the time to scold her. She’s done nothing wrong. I am the fool who traipsed into the house covered in debris and bringing the acrid stench of outdoor work. She hugs me hard around my neck and says, “I love you Daddy!” The debris and the odor are no barrier. They are no match for the bond between us. For I am her daddy, and she is my window to happiness.

 

 

This is the moment I longed for 3 years ago. To still be here. To have chores. To do them. To support, to lead and to teach. And yes, to get a hug and hear, “I love you!”

 

 

 

There are dishes in the sink and I can’t wait to do them. It probably sounds silly, but it’s a chore. The average person cannot appreciate it, but a heart patient fully understands. I have a chore. I have a glorious chore that I am here to do. I am still alive and there is work for me to do. I don’t hate it. I am grateful for it. It’s silly to write it and it doesn’t even make sense, but it’s how I feel. I am still here and there are still things I can do. How wonderful is that?

 

 

I head back outside to complete the cleanup. I’m bathed in darkness as I return the chainsaw to the shed. Mowers and leaf blowers still sing out in the night telling the story of an Autumn evening in New Hampshire. The chores beg to be done. I wonder to myself if there’s anyone else out there in the night that is so happy to have a task that they can do?

 

 

Are these noises in the distance emanating from places where people are thankful to still be here? Are these people rejoicing in their opportunity to get something done? 

 

 

As I close the shed door I am surrounded by cool air and darkness, but my soul is drenched in light. Fall is upon us, and I am reminded once again how fortunate I am. I am an open-heart surgery survivor and yes I wield that chainsaw, and I’ll cut that wood by swinging that ax, and I’ll use the air tools and put the running boards on the truck, I’ll paint the house and I’ll do the dishes. I will do the chores and I will take the hard tasks. I have been given another day to get things right and I am thankful for it.

 

 

I think about the mushrooms as I walk past my camper. When the conditions were right, they reached up out of the earth begging for daylight only to live a brief life. Their chore is done and the wood in the earth is broken down, but when conditions are right, they’ll be back again.

 

 

If you’re new to this fear not.  Recovery is slow and painful, but your future can be bright. Post surgery I wondered what my world would entail.  Would I ever be able to approach the man I was before or was I doomed to be a feeble shadow of my former self? I was so wrong.  I have been granted the ability to be far more than I ever was.  More grateful, more humble, but stronger and with more resolve than ever.

 

Tomorrow I’ll reach out for daylight, thankful for the day and grateful for the chores and tasks that I can accomplish. If the conditions are right, I’ll be back again.  Doing my chores. Performing my tasks. Reading your stories and celebrating your victories. I will be thankful for the day above ground.