TOWNER, N.D. -- An early snowstorm dropped 22 inches of wet snow on my freshly weaned calves, socked in three-fourths of my hay bales on soft fields and diminished any hope for extended grazing to save a bit of the half a hay crop we got this year.
The surprise was that those little setbacks were terribly trivial on the Taylor Ranch. When it came to worries, we had bigger fish to fry.
A week before the storm hit, Mom had been diagnosed with late-stage ovarian cancer. The local doctors referred her to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., for major surgery to try and help her rid herself of it.
The intense, six-hour surgery found most of the ovarian cancer but also found a colon cancer to try and fix as well. Days after the surgery, blood clots formed and tried to end her life. Days after that, complications with the colon took her back into emergency surgery. Throughout, fluid had been coming in around her lungs to complicate the basic act of breathing.
Twenty-two inches of snow? A couple of sick calves? Challenging hay hauling? Just take a number, you puny problems. You're not even a contender around here.
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Hard choices to make
Bad news came in pairs for my parents. Dad's condition plummeted when Mom left for her initial diagnosis. Parkinson's is not something that gets better, but I didn't know how quickly it could get worse.
He already was bound to a wheelchair, needing assistance for every move away from it. For a man who spent his entire life on a horse or a tractor or his own two feet, it was heartbreaking to see.
Harder yet was the confusion and dementia that settled in like a rain cloud on my always-sharp dad. And his diminishing ability to speak because of the Parkinson's stole our conversations together.
There were too many risks for us ever to consider leaving Dad alone, yet we still needed to work the ranch, raise our babies and help Mom fight for her life 600 miles away.
On one of those mornings when I "had Dad" -- my real Dad before the day's dementia overtook him -- he asked, "What are we going to do, Ryan? I can't stay here. There's too much for you to do."
As always, he was honest, and he was right.
So we began to talk about the thing that most farmers and ranchers always hoped to avoid: living in a nursing home. I learned that what we had been doing for Dad was called "skilled care," with his needs well beyond the "basic care" provided in most nursing homes. We had kept Dad on the ranch years longer than many would have, a fact that gives me a little solace.
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When Dad and I went to the long-term care center, he granted me four clear, fatherly words, saying, "I'll be OK here." Still, leaving him there and walking out the door was the hardest thing I've ever done as his son.
The next morning, I flew to Rochester to see my mother hooked up to a dozen tubes, lines and monitors in the intensive care unit, yet able speak a little through her oxygen mask. Sitting with her in the ICU wasn't nearly as enjoyable as the mornings we used to spend drinking strong coffee together across her table on the ranch, but it was precious time.
You see, it is hard to think about cattle and snow and hay, or even columns. Someday, those will seem like big concerns to me again. Not now, but someday. . . .
