The Audacity of Hope (and Appendices)

There is a special kind of irony in being taken down by a vestigial organ. The appendix is evolution’s little prank, a biological participation trophy that does absolutely nothing until the day it decides to try and kill you. Following my emergency appendectomy, I found myself in a place that can only be technically described as absolute garbage. Medically, I was a wreck; emotionally, I was drained; and financially, I discovered that the world doesn’t press “pause” on bills just because you’re incapacitated. There is a specific, gnawing anxiety that comes from the inability to work—from the sudden, jarring halt of productivity while the meter on life keeps running.

I am not someone who asks for help. In fact, admitting I need assistance ranks somewhere between an unsedated root canal and listening to Yanni on a loop on my list of preferred activities. I prefer to be the stoic, the rock, the one offering the hand up, not the one grasping for it. But the universe, in its infinite and occasionally cruel wisdom, has a way of forcing humility upon us. And when I finally looked up from the bottom of that pit, I realized I wasn’t alone.

It started with Holly Stenshaug. Over twenty years ago, we met in a Krispy Kreme parking lot, as most enduring, life-altering friends do, and she has been a constant ever since. She started a GoFundMe when I was too stubborn to admit I was drowning, and quite frankly, she saved me. But the cavalry didn’t stop there.

I have to mention the woman who brought me into Optimist International just over two years ago Jo-El Perlman. She has evolved from a guide into a profound friend, and without her influence (and on demand medical supplies and equipment), I’m not sure I would have had the framework to process any of this. Then there are the people who blur the lines between professional and personal in the best possible way: my old boss Wendy Swenarski and Kristen Benjamin, a former customer turned friend. They showed up when it mattered.

The support from the Stenshaug orbit has been nothing short of humbling. Melanie Stenshaug, Holly’s sister, sent an extra special Christmas gift that hit me right in the chest. Barbie Stenshaug continued to help me even after the exhausting ordeal of helping me move, and her sister Cassie jumped in with support right when the walls felt like they were closing in. My bosses, John and Sheryl Ernst, who are Holly’s aunt and uncle but have become family to me, provided the kind of emotional and physical support that you can’t put a price tag on.

And I absolutely cannot forget my cousin, Jessica Halvorson. For months, she has effectively been the logistics manager of my survival, acting as an ongoing source of… well, literally whatever I needed. She has been the constant variable in a season of chaos, quietly filling the gaps I was too exhausted to even notice, let alone ask for help with.

Then there is the day-to-day reality of recovery, which is unglamorous and messy. My longtime friend Johnny Gliszinski stepped up to handle the household chores I physically couldn’t manage, keeping my world from descending into total chaos. And my friends in Optimism, Matt Eisenhauer and Janet McGinty, backed the fundraiser and reminded me that “optimism” isn’t just a club name; it’s a practice.

Perhaps the moment that broke me the most, however, came from a stranger. I was fighting through pain just trying to walk down the street to get my muscles moving, looking every bit as miserable as I felt. A delivery kid from the grocery store stopped and asked if I needed a ride. He didn’t know me. He didn’t owe me anything. He just saw a human being in pain and offered a hand.

To everyone I’ve named, and to the inevitable few my fog-addled brain has missed: thank you. You have forced me to confront the uncomfortable reality that we are a communal species. You have proven that religion, spirituality, and humanism are not just things we read about or debate – they are actions. They are a GoFundMe donation, a ride offered to a stranger, and a friend taking out your trash. You have carried me when I couldn’t walk, and for that, I am eternally, and reluctantly, grateful.

The healing continues…