Five years later: Kim's birthday, death make November a month of reflection

Kim (Polzin) Melius would have turned 63 this Nov. 15. It was that brief couple weeks in which she and I were the same age. My birthday comes Dec. 1. 

But just eight days after Kim's 58th birthday, just a couple months after an amazing wedding celebration of daughter Ambryn and her partner Alex at Flying Horseshoe Ranch near Cle Elum, Washington, northeast of Seattle, our world was dramatically altered. Kim died Nov. 23, 2015, at Fairview/University of Minnesota hospital, a terribly unexpected death that rocked the Melius family, our friends, and the Winthrop community. 

Kim with grandchildren Juniper and Myles in Sept. 2015.

For the next year, I blogged my thoughts once a month. It was tough, often repetitious, always emotional. Every time I'd write -- even today -- I would remember son Andrew's early thoughts: "I'm so afraid I'm going to forget what her voice sounded like."

That first holiday season might have been the most difficult period, other than the dozens of telephone calls I had to make the night Kim died. How do you start the conversation that your wife of 36 years, your partner through the ups and downs of 40 years together, is gone? 

"This is Dana. Kim made it through the surgery just fine. But when I got into her hospital room, she started having trouble breathing and they couldn't get oxygen too her in time. She didn't make it."

I called Mikell first. She was working at the St. Peter Herald with me at the time, and she was the first to make it to the hospital. And then it was one by one to the other five kids. Ambryn, living in Seattle, didn't answer right away so I left a voicemail and said to call immediately. Andy, who had just visited Winthrop with the kids a couple weeks prior to Kim's death, was back in Traverse City, Michigan. And to Ben, Billy and Matt.

Each call brought immeasurable pain and emotion. Still does as I look back. 

Then it was Kim's sisters, my brothers and sisters, then Kim's friends.

And finally, to Pastor Bob Miner. Bob, like everyone else I called, was in disbelief. This was supposed to be as routine as you can get they told us. Kim was in for a hysterectomy, less than a couple months removed from invasive brain surgery for a benign tumor. That was the one we worried most about, but she handled it so well. But during all that prep and testing, it was found Kim also had uterine cancer. It was in its early stages, and a hysterectomy was scheduled to be safe.

The chances of dying after a hysterectomy is less than 1 percent. Still, she made it through the surgery. Later, the autopsy provided no answers. Never knowing, always questioning, wondering what in the hell really happened doesn't leave you. Nor does the 45-minute stretch during which medical personnel tried to save her.

With the four Melius kids living in Minnesota all arriving and joining me in the hospital room to say goodbye to Kim, we called Pastor Bob and he did his best to not swear, to provide some grace in this toughest of moments. He's the best at sizing up situations and putting some words to it, no matter how tough.

Is it still tough writing about it? Sure is. But it's important for me, for the Melius clan. One doesn't want to forget Kim, and remembering even the tough times remains important. Nothing's tougher than saying a forever goodbye, particularly one this unexpected.

We are all going through this journey in different ways. But I do believe we're growing because of it. I do know that we're not taking anything for granted, that we're doing our very best to move on with deep memories of Kim and what she brought to all of us, to others.

Kim was an amazing hospice social worker. It was her gift to so many. As I've written a few times, a past co-worker of Kim's said she could be as hard as a nail or soft as a marshmallow, often at the same time. That pretty much summed up Kim. Following Kim's death, many of her co-workers through the years provided some of the finest words of remembrance. It was really the first time our kids had heard such praise of Kim's hospice work and dedication. It meant so much to them.

So, as we all move forward, November 15 through the 23rd is kind of like "Kim's week" for the Melius clan. I've moved away from the Winthrop community, the house that was home for much of our 36 years together. There are now 8 grandkids, four more than Kim was able to hold in her arms. Kim was meant to be a grandma, and each new birth is both a reminder of what she's missing as well as an emphasis to not take anything for granted.

I'm sure we're all stronger for what Kim brought to us, gave us, and continues to provide us, with memories and unique messages from time to time. After five years, I believe we are taking her with us as we move along on our respective journeys.

Peace to all. Live and love.

Daughter Ambryn and Kim getting some "RESPECT" in 2015 at the Flying Horseshoe Ranch near Cle Elum, Washington.

(This next post first appeared December 2015 in the St. Peter Herald, one month after the death of Kim (Polzin) Melius.)

Wife’s unexpected death brings community support, change

My life partner of over 40 years died Nov. 23. Kimberly Ann (Polzin) Melius had just turned 58 and died unexpectedly following complications from cancer surgery. She loved Christmas with family and will be dearly missed this year and beyond.

Life’s journey can be difficult at times, and this is certainly one of those. But nobody knew better than her of life’s circle and the reality of it all. She was a gifted hospice social worker much of her life. Still, for our six children and four grandchildren, Kim’s death hit hard.

I promised myself I’d put together my thoughts one month later, for the days move by so quickly, and life tries to return to some sense of normalcy. But it will never be the same.

Kim was more than a gifted social worker. She was tough. Death isn’t an easy path nor very often welcomed. Kim was gentle and compassionate to those individuals and families, blunt and pointed at times when needed. Her days providing hospice care were her finest, and she touched lives from St. James to Waseca, Arlington to Mankato and beyond.

On the few occasions families allowed me to tag along, I was so impressed with her passion, her ethics and her advocacy for the dying.

A past co-worker of Kim’s said she could be as hard as a nail or soft as a marshmallow, often at the same time. That pretty much summed up Kim.

The kids understood both sides, too. Family life isn’t always simple or easy. Six children and their differing personalities add to the sometimes dysfunctional nature of a large family. We weren’t perfect in our parenting skills and differed often on the right touch.

Marriage, too, can be difficult, and Kim and I struggled at times. But love evolves; it rarely adheres to the same design through the years. As Kim battled through some health issues over the past few years, she and I again became best friends. That might sound raw, but it’s so important.

The kids noticed, too. Nearly every night, Kim would place her head on my shoulder and thank me for helping her through the battles. She had undergone parathyroid surgery in May, invasive brain surgery for a benign tumor in October, and was staring at a third surgery Nov. 23 to address uterine cancer. This one was supposed to be rather routine, if surgery ever is. We’re still waiting for answers as to what went wrong.

I had become her caretaker in many ways. And I was perfectly fine in that role. It’s what you do for your life partner. I had often joked with Kim, sometimes to her sharp eyes, that 36 years of marriage wrecks one’s search for a soulmate. The joke sounds harsh, but there’s some reality to it. And as we both came to understand it and accept such reality, we relaxed and enjoyed life together.

One’s life partner, the love of it all and the great experiences and journey, prompt change. Love evolves and changes with it. Such was our relationship and marriage. Through all the ups and downs, we grew close. And I am so damn grateful for that.

Our jobs through the years often placed us on separate paths, with different friend networks. But this diverse group of friends, as well as those unique networks of our children, surfaced at Kim’s memorial service in Winthrop, our hometown. This overwhelming support, as well as touching words and thoughts on social media, was so appreciated by my family.

My presence in St. Peter over the past 18 months has also brought me into an entirely new network of friends. It was, and is, becoming my community. Kim and I had been discussing a move to the area, our first-ever discussion of leaving our hometown.

You know, when you’re caught between communities, one can feel a bit disjointed. And a sense of community is so important. So I am pleased and humbled the St. Peter community has become such a key part of my life.

That life has been forever altered. But it remains an amazing journey. And there is a great deal of good ahead. Kim would want us all to know that and move forward. And she would remind you to hug your loved ones, tight and often, and never be shy to tell them so.

And we will. Peace to you, my dear.

Christmas 2017

It's Christmas Eve morning. It's quiet in Winthrop. I've got coffee, my thoughts and music.

Yesterday was so special, I don't really need much more. Ambryn and Alex moved into their first house in Minneapolis. Enough of the Melius clan and a new friend were able to help and we capped off the venture with pizza and cans of Coke.

Kim would have liked it. Particularly the Coke. And she would have loved the character of this new home. I'm thinking a lot of new family memories are going to take place here.

I've not written on this space for over a year. It was a calculated choice I made after the first anniversary of Kim's death. One, I needed to take a breather from those deepest of emotions. Blogging regularly, each month, about some of my most personal thoughts wasn't easy. But it was important to me to honor a promise to both myself and to Kim's memory. Two, I've been writing tons in my job and I'm still working on balance.

Today, it still feels like yesterday. And light years ago. It's that complex process which I'm guessing many who experience loss feel while coping with both memories and the challenges of moving forward. We deeply want to remember; we desperately want to move on.

This last year has been one of great importance to me and my family. Grandchild number five, Louis, joined us. It was the first grandchild Kim missed, so I'm hoping there's some spiritual presence allowing her to look in. I do know that there will be so many of these experiences she'll miss. It's truly been the most difficult thing for me, experiencing these special moments without her. It has hit the kids hard, as well. It's a guilt complex that I'm told I shouldn't have to experience, but I do. I'm working through this one.

But the fact that Sarah and Andy and Juni, living in Traverse City, Michigan, thought enough of my dad, Puddy, to bless us with yet another Louis Melius was stunning, special. It means these generations of the Melius family live on in many ways. The year brought Ambryn and Alex back to Minnesota, into that new home. Mikell joined them in a move to her own place in Minneapolis. It moved on with Matt and Krystal as homeowners in St. Peter, just as Billy and Jess and Myles continue to call this special community home. And the oldest grandkids, Bryce and Brynn, amaze with their talents. Ben and Brooke are raising two special youngsters in Mankato.

For me, my Winthrop roots remain, however distant, even while I am privileged to meet new friends and community leaders in St. Peter, Waseca, Le Sueur and Le Center. Managing four newspapers means a ton of time away from my hometown and plenty of late hours. I still struggle to find balance and while I miss the tightest bonds of community, I love to keep learning and growing.

Those who know me best understand I'm a bit complicated, always searching for answers, always wondering what's next. There's a touch of being grounded while lost in space.

What I do know is this: Most people have good in their hearts. Sometimes it takes a moment to understand it; sometimes the common good is a trifle distorted; sometimes it's lost in the madness.

But it's there. And if that thought ever escapes us, look inward. Surrounding oneself with those who are special to one's heart is all it takes for me.

Yesterday was one of those days. Earlier in the week, at the 318 Cafe in Excelsior, was another. Twin sister Neesi and I took in a Keri Noble show in that intimate setting. Another simple, special moment in time.

Life is moving on. Who knows what's next? But I do know that my six children and five grandkids will add to the Melius family memories. And those old memories will remain dear to all of us.

Merry Christmas. Spread the peace and love. Kim would like that, too.

One year: A lasting love letter

I made it. Kim died Nov. 23, 2015, and I vowed to write a monthly blog about this journey. Today, it ends. But will it ever?

It still seems like yesterday. Yet, the memories are fading. It's that odd roller-coaster of emotions and feelings which consume you, battle to push you on, restrict you from letting go.

The nightmares are gone. Guilt is easing a bit. But this sense of remorse, of knowing what she is missing, remains strong. Kim was meant to be a grandma.

That might be the most difficult of all. I know how she would have loved the grandkids already here, those yet to come. She would be embracing that role with vigor.

That's what dominated my thoughts standing a year ago in that hospital room. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, darn near everyone on the floor seemed to have packed into that room. Nobody really in charge, nobody with an answer. Nobody. And I watched efforts to get oxygen to her fail.

I asked them all to leave. Kim's head was tilted toward the door side of the room, where I stood. I kissed her one last time on the head saying, "I'm so sorry." She was gone so very unexpectedly at the young age of 58. I was stunned. Finally, after watching efforts for almost 45 minutes, I was alone, I was able to cry.

The many calls home, to kids, to Kim's sisters and friends, to my siblings, to Pastor Bob Miner, were the most difficult thing I've ever experienced. We were all stunned. This was supposed to be the simple surgery. She had passed in flying colors the brain tumor surgery six weeks earlier. And now my wife of 36 years, companion for 40, was gone.

Marriage is not easy. It sure wasn't for Kim and I. But as I said several times over these past 12 months, we'd become best friends once again. In that hospital room, and now, I'm so thankful for that.

But it doesn't change the fact that one regrets not being a better husband. I should have told her more often how I loved her. I should have kissed her more often. I should have held her more often. I should have argued less. There's so much more I could have done, could have been. I could have, and should have, been a better husband.

Love changes over time. The early passions often turn to the reality of parenting and how damn hard work it is. But it was an area where Kim and I had tried our best -- we wouldn't have had it any other way. Our kids were Kim's life, and mine. And they remain her legacy.

There were times in our marriage when both of us wondered where the love had gone. Kim and I often went different directions and developed separate friend networks. It pulls one away from each other. Often, there's little time for one another.

I think both of us took way too long to understand how love evolves, how it's shaped by the events, good and bad, through the years.

But we loved. Deeply.

I've turned to some close friends during this past year, asking for guidance and advice and support. And that support has been amazing. I've shared my pain, how surprising the depth of it hits the soul. Many have stated simply that the amount of pain correlates with the amount of love lost. I now smile when I say this, for tears tell that story of both pain and love.

**********

Over the past 12 months, there have been some key moments in my attempt to move forward. My move back into community journalism at St. Peter and Le Sueur meant the world to me. I was blessed by great co-workers who became special friends. I can't say enough what fellow journalists Suzy Rook, Pat Beck, Alex Kerkman, Nancy Madsen, Philip Weyhe, Dan Ring and others along the way meant. Thank you for your support, patience, understanding and friendship.

Leaving the company and them was tough, but the right thing to do, at the right time. But I will never forget them or what good journalism means to the common good.

After Kim died, I knew a departure loomed down the road. I just wasn't sure when. After a week off for the funeral, I was back at work and logged some pretty long hours. It was my sanctuary. But there were also special people I met along the way. First, I was able to rediscover a special St. Peter community. It's hard to put a finger on, but it's this island of progressive, diverse thinkers who made my years there so special and contributed mightily to my heart and soul.

When a rural Minnesota native stumbles upon such special places like River Rock Coffee, the St. Peter Food Co-op and the Arts Center of Saint Peter, it adds to the blessings.

I also found a bit of family and community in the Le Sueur-Henderson softball team. That might sound odd, but at a time when I was drifting, I saw a program which cared both about direction and purpose beyond the playing field. And I vowed to follow them through another state tournament run.

After the Giants softball team wrapped up a disheartening final two games, I watched some special people tearfully end their amazing journey. And I was honored to have covered it.

On my walk back to the car, I broke down. I had made this benchmark and knew I was closing in on the end of my work at the newspapers.

Following a three-week break in July, I targeted the November elections. And that would be it.

What's next? I'm not certain. But it's sure to include family. I have Kim's legacy to hold close.

**********

When I gaze at the picture of Mikell and Kim shortly after her brain tumor surgery, it pretty much epitomizes what we now can only hold in our thoughts. Kim was changing, going through some tough medical times, but still embracing a love of family, and hope.

I remember vividly how she approached her final surgery, a "simple" hysterectomy to deal with uterine cancer. I asked her if she was ready, and she was. I pinched her toe, of all things, and said I'd see her after the surgery.

I did. Only for minutes. Weeks later, the pathology report came back: the surgery itself was successful and had removed all Kim's cancer, which she had been fearing. It was a tough call to handle.

Not being able to say goodbye is a difficult part of this journey. Not officially knowing what happened is an equally difficult burden. Still, truly understanding what she is missing remains the most difficult.

But Kim's history of hospice/social work service, in its own way, prepared us. Her dedication to the field was respected and admired. And those professionals who worked with her and beside her during those years brought such meaningful messages to my children in the days and weeks following Kim's death. It might have been their first deep look into their mother's work. It made them, and me, proud all over again.

Kim was a great hospice social worker. It was a gift, for it's difficult work. She was soft when she needed to be, tough when it was deemed necessary. I can't begin to count the people who've come up to me since her death and told me what Kim's service meant to their families.

**********

So, this is it. This was our Kimmer. She had eyes of gold. And a spirit I could never quite figure out.

But that's OK. Love isn't supposed to be easy, with no pain. Living together is even more difficult. Shared space and community doesn't always connect well.

Yet, there hasn't been a day since Nov. 23, 2015, in which I haven't looked into those eyes and wondered a thousand different things.

I wonder what she'd be thinking about our growing family. About what I should do next. About that damn election.

I wonder what lies ahead for all of us.

But I don't wonder what role she played in my life and in the lives of our children. She was hard on all of us at times. Yet, we can still share those experiences with smiles and laughter and love.

We can also share that love over and over again. The diversity of the Melius children -- Ben, Ambryn, Bill, Matt, Andy and Mikell -- is something friends have admired about our parenting. I think they're just giving us kind praise, for there's always been this element of dysfunction in all our journeys. Maybe that's what makes it all so right.

This journey moves on without Mama Melius. Kimmer, we will continue to look into those eyes, ponder your guidance. And we will never forget your love.

All my love, Dane

P.S.: I finally watched another episode of NCIS. It contained a great message, one which would have made you smile. But it wasn't the same without you. I'll keep working on these things.

(Nearly) 11 months: Kim's Nov. 8 vote

Kim isn't going to be able to cast a vote this election. I'm guessing she's just a little bit upset about that, among other things. I'm pretty darn sure she's shouting at any TV which might be available. And she's probably pissed there's no Facebook to click and comment.

And reload. And like or love. (She likely wouldn't have figured out all the options.)

Kim's Nov. 23 death has put our family on this yearlong journey of reflection. And for those of you who have followed this blog, your kind words and support have been truly amazing.

But this month, besides a bit early, I have to veer off a bit and give Kim a voice. She would have wanted me to do so, for she was not one who wished to remain silent.

Going back to last November, among one of Kim's last Facebook posts was her sadness over the refugee crisis in Europe and the Middle East. But it was America's response --  the lack of it, the hate and fear -- that prompted this mother of six and grandmother to scold.

It was a good scolding.

Had she survived, Kim would not be happy with the emergence of one Donald Trump and his ongoing message of hate and fear. (Some of you may want to leave at this point. Kim would likely have never removed her Trump-supporting friends from Facebook, but her messages would have been clear.)

But the latest news about Trump's narcissistic, sexist and demeaning ways with women would have been the final blow. She would have, putting in words the Trumpers can understand, been unshackled.

Any mother should be able to understand. The vulgarity, the over-the-top language, the bragging of affairs and girlfriends and agreeing his daughter was a fine "piece of ass" and eyeing a 10-year-old girl as his future girlfriend...and so on. It would have long ago tipped Kim's scale of decency.

She would have asked all of you to look into the mirror and ask yourself if that's who you would want representing this great nation. This already great nation. She would have asked you to talk with your daughters and see how they felt about Trump's ways and words. She would have asked fellow mothers about the times they were whistled at and touched and treated as objects, then asked again how your daughters have too often been objectified, groped at a bar or worse, turned upside down at a wedding dance.

She would not have listened to arguments about eight years of an Obama presidency, for she would have asked you to truly listen to Michelle Obama's amazing, powerful words and asked you to compare the contrasting messages and directions of the two campaigns.

Kim would not have tolerated the bashing of one Hillary Clinton, nor the criticism that she stayed with a wandering husband. She would have noted the difficulties women continue to face in the workforce, having to be that much better, that much more productive, that much more balanced than male counterparts.

She would have called a horse's ass a horse's ass.

And then she would have taken it one step farther and called her four sons. She would have asked them if that was typical "locker room" talk. And Kim would have heard from the boys that, no, it wasn't. And this proud mom would have known she did her best to teach her men to be better, to respect women. And they do.

That would have been Kim.

We all make mistakes. I made many more than Kim during our 36 years of marriage. But it's always been about moving forward, trying to do better, learning along the way, and then trying to do good again. It continues to be our family's journey.

Kim would sometimes roll her eyes at my stories of days gone by, of having visited with Hillary on two occasions, of having sat at the table with her in Washington, D.C. to help work on ideas and policies dear to us. (And she's probably rolling those beautiful eyes again.)

But as direct and unforgiving as Kim could be at times, she was a great assessor of the good in people. And she saw that in me, thankfully.

Say what you want about the Clintons. But that's the difference in this campaign. Moving forward with a sense of direction. Of hope, not fear. Of the potential good in all of us.

It was Kim's message as a social worker. It was Kim's message as a mother. It would continue to be Kim's message today.

(Note: Four years ago, I had intended this to be my final words on the late Sen. Paul Wellstone, who died in a plane crash just prior to the 2012 election. But I've been surprised at how many young voters know little about the man and his message. I'm reposting it..one last time.)

One last tear for Paul Wellstone 10/25/2012

“The politics of conviction is a winning politics.” – Paul Wellstone, The Conscience of a Liberal, 2001.

Ten years ago, I served in St. Paul as co-executive director of a non-profit co-founded by Paul Wellstone, the Minnesota Alliance for Progressive Action (MAPA).  Two staff members had attended a meeting that morning with Paul and Sen. Ted Kennedy, then moved on to a fundraiser with the legendary Massachusetts senator while Sen. Wellstone headed north for a funeral of long-time Iron Ranger, Martin Rukavina. Wellstone was scheduled later that evening to debate Republican challenger Norm Coleman in Duluth.

I remained at our University Avenue office with three other MAPA staffers. As the noon hour closed in, word spread that Wellstone’s plane was missing, and fears mounted. About the same time I received a call from our Duluth office, Minnesota Public Radio news confirmed: Paul Wellstone and seven others, including his wife Sheila and daughter Marcia, died just outside Eveleth.

Stunned, saddened and wondering what next to do, I was struck by how mad our communications coordinator, Steve Share, appeared. 

“They killed him,” he said.  His immediate assassination conspiracy was not alone, as others also viewed it a possibility.  A 2004 book, American Assassination: The Strange Death of Senator Paul Wellstone by Don Jacobs and James Fetzer, expanded on those thoughts.

I never believed it, but that anger and suspicion highlighted the passion of both supporters and opponents of Wellstone.  I had met Paul several times but was not close to him and his family, as others were at MAPA.  And I did not know at the time of my hiring, as the organization tried to beef up its rural Minnesota support, that Paul had grown somewhat disappointed in MAPA’s efforts, which had moved away from a series of key progressive issues, particularly on the environment, and focused almost exclusively on campaign finance reform.

Still, his presence there was strong. And MAPA was one of the organizations which were asked to assist at Wellstone’s memorial service four days later in Williams Arena on the University of Minnesota campus.  All very informally, I greeted and assisted at one entrance, then decided to station myself near one of the rickety emergency exits on Williams’ south side. There were no formal instructions, but standing there by an uncontrolled exit seemed to make sense.

Wellstone’s surviving family members, sons David and Mark, had made only simple requests: No VIP treatment and no heavy security.  Remember, this was just over a year after the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York and nearly all sitting United States senators would be in attendance, as was Minnesota’s surprise Gov. Jesse Ventura and former Vice President Walter Mondale, who had agreed to place his name on the ballot, replacing Wellstone.  And the Secret Service would be heavy around former President Bill Clinton.

So, at my entrance, I watched as actor Michael J. Fox, already struggling to walk, moved into the arena alongside us regular citizens, all likely uncertain as to what would follow.  For some reason, I most vividly remember a handshake from former Minnesota U.S. Sen. David Durenberger, a moderate Republican who I had interviewed on a couple occasions previously as a community journalist.  His vision and support for health care reform had placed him in disfavor with many fellow Republicans but welcomed by his friend, the late Paul Wellstone.

From my emergency exit post at the top of the first deck, I watched the elevated TV screen zoom in on U.S. senators as they entered the arena.  Immediately, you knew this wasn’t going to be your normal memorial service. President Clinton drew huge applause as he entered, but some Republicans – particularly Sen. Trent Lott of Mississippi, then Senate Majority Leader – were booed. Gov. Ventura and his wife, Terry, drew applause, but would later walk out due to the political nature of the service. And every once in a while, I’d open that old emergency exit door, amazed by the lack of security, uneasy but not surprised by the mounting emotions.

It peaked as Wellstone friend, Rick Kahn, launched into a fiery, emotional tribute.  Former St. Paul Mayor George Latimer, who I had grown to respect and know, served as memorial service host and years later spoke candidly about his sorrow over how the event became so political.  He wished he would have done more to defuse it.

Seven days after this service-turned-political rally, Coleman defeated Mondale by two percentage points. Most political analysts, me included, attributed Coleman’s narrow victory to the tone of Wellstone’s memorial.  Most agreed that Wellstone would have likely won a third term.

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“The health and vitality of rural communities is based not on the number of acres farmed or the number of animals owned but rather on the number of family farmers who live in the community, buy in the community, and contribute to and care about the community.” – Paul Wellstone.

My first close glimpse of this short, fiery progressive activist was in 1982.  No DFLer had stepped to the plate and accepted the tough task of taking on popular State Auditor Arne Carlson.  So, as the Minnesota DFL convention closed in, Wellstone literally jumped on to the stage at the district convention in Willmar and later the state convention in Duluth.

For those of you who’ve attended such conventions, we know they can be very long and boring.   Wellstone electrified us.  Gov. Mark Dayton, who as the DFL U.S. Senate candidate lost to Durenberger in that same ’82 election, recalled that convention speech recently in an October 11 remembrance of Wellstone at Macalester College in St. Paul.

A now-forgotten young gentleman was set to be the DFL sacrificial lamb to Carlson, but Wellstone emerged from nowhere. 

“The very earnest young man spoke first and gave a very earnest description of the auditor’s responsibilities,” Dayton said, as reported by writer Doug Grow for MinnPost.com. “He reminded everyone that the definition of an auditor is a bank teller without the charisma.”

“Then Paul spoke…The convention went wild. The fact that Paul’s issues had nothing to do with the job of state auditor meant nothing to DFLers who had just heard the most electrifying speech of their lives.”

It was.  Paul went on to give many more electrifying speeches on issues dear to him and most Minnesotans.  Wellstone’s progressive passion mounted during the Midwest farm crisis of the early to mid-‘80s and his strong support for a southwestern Minnesota protest movement, Groundswell.  His fire burned for small, family farmers.

That passion and those speeches were not forgotten by rural Minnesotans, and despite vast political differences, these far more conservative citizens found a friend and fierce advocate.  Wellstone went on to one of the most stunning upsets in U.S. political history, narrowly defeating folksy Sen. Rudy Boschwitz, the lone incumbent United States senator to lose in that 1990 election.  Six years later, Wellstone’s populist image had grown as he won a Boschwitz rematch by nine percentage points.

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“I told Minnesotans I was for universal health coverage –Medicare for all, living wage jobs, the right of workers to organize and bargain collectively, more investment in children and education, more environmental protection, and campaign finance reform…I tried to never equivocate on the issues. I was a liberal and proud of it!” – Paul Wellstone.

Paul Wellstone was very liberal, often considered the most liberal of all 100 U.S. senators.  But he won because of his values and convictions, and people liked and trusted him.

In the introduction to his autobiography, The Conscience of a Liberal: Reclaiming the Compassionate Agenda, he opened:

“There is one lesson I have learned that I hold above all others from my experience as a father, teacher, community organizer, and U.S. senator: We should never separate the lives we live from the words we speak. To me, the most important goal is to live a life consistent with the values I hold dear and to act on what I believe in.”

Wellstone’s final two years in the U.S. Senate coincided with President George W. Bush’s first term and Republican control of the White House and Congress for the first time in a half century.  He was saddened by the conservative turn and noted the irony of Bush’s “compassionate conservatism,” which said “there is little that government can or should do about the most pressing issues of people’s lives.”

“That is a fine philosophy if you run your own corporation and are wealthy,” Wellstone stressed. “It does not work for most of the people.”

The last time I saw Wellstone and was ab;e tp shake his hand once more was at a 2002 Labor Day rally near the shores of Lake Superior in Duluth.  What struck me was how rough Paul looked, how he had aged since his electrifying emergence in 1982, with that afro-like haircut and finger-pointing style of speech.  In Duluth, he had some difficulty walking, then calling it the remnants of an old wrestling injury.  Later, it was revealed that Paul really suffered from the early stages of multiple sclerosis.

What always struck me about Paul was how much a regular citizen he was and remained. He rarely wavered from that role, in one sense amazed he became a U.S. senator, in another encouraged by what community organizing and activism could produce.  One of my more simple remembrances of Paul was in St. Peter at the American Legion, early in the 1990 election season.  Wellstone and a few others sat at the head table as caterers readied plates and announced that the honored guests would eat first.

Surprisingly, Paul became visibly upset at that notion and announced to the caterers and the small crowd that everyone would be served together. And we were.  That was Paul.  He knew he was one of us, and those he touched knew it, as well.

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“I have dedicated my life to the cause of economic justice and equality of opportunity for all Americans.” – Paul Wellstone.

These words by an amazing man, a life cut too short, resonant strongly as the Election of 2012 nears.  Wellstone made an abbreviated run in 1997 for president in preparation for that 2000 election which eventually sent George W. Bush to the White House.  While many have speculated what might have been had Wellstone survived, his loss no doubt left the progressive movement floundering. 

His passions were many, particularly on the environment, education, health care reform, issues of poverty and campaign finance reform. But it is the areas of mental health and domestic abuse where the Wellstone legacy – both of Paul and Sheila – remain most firm.  His legislation calling for insurance companies to treat mental health coverage similar to physical ailments was championed in the House by former Minnesota Republican Rep. Jim Ramstad and Democratic Rep. Patrick Kennedy of Rhode Island, both recovering alcoholics, and Sens. Ted Kennedy (D-Massachusetts) and Pete Domenici (R-New Mexico).

And Sheila’s behind-the-scene work on the issue of domestic abuse produced similar success and results back home in Minnesota.

Paul was also one of just 11 U.S. senators to cast votes against authorizing the use of force in the Persian Gulf War of 1991 and the Iraq War of 2002.

That plane crash near Eveleth on October 25, 2002, rattled the world of Wellstone supporters.  Wife Sheila, daughter Marcia Wellstone Markuson, campaign staffers Tom Lapic, Mary McEvoy and Will McLaughlin, and pilots Richard Conry and Michael Guess also died.

As I began to pull files of old Wellstone stories, knowing I would have words to share on this date, and as the Minnesota media started its story-telling earlier this month, I was saddened again.  Doug Grow’s MPR story, interviewing Walter Mondale, brought back tears, as I recalled those days.  But Gov. Dayton’s remembrance speech often made me smile.

And Paul would not be happy with those of us who sulked and withdrew from the progressive cause.  So the tears should finally stop, while the memories should never fade. 

And the work should never end.

10 months: The nightmares return

I'm not really certain what prompted the return of nightmares, the reliving of my wife Kim's final minutes in the hospital room. I've some ideas and have reached out to those I trust to try and bring some peace to it all.

And while it's been unexpected and painful, I've kind of needed the look back. It's all we've got now, holding on to all those memories, good and bad.

I'm guessing they returned because I still hold deep guilt. Guilt over not speaking out that maybe Kim wasn't strong enough for another surgery, that Kim would've preferred a different hospital, that I didn't shout loud enough that she was in trouble.

And for as many times as I've told myself that I'm not at fault, that we had to trust the medical doctors who approved the surgery, that no matter what decisions were made, I shouldn't be feeling such guilt. But I do.

I'm working through that. Yesterday, on the 10-month anniversary of Kim's death, I needed to reach out again to a friend who's also experienced trauma, in a much different way. And we both cried again.

She looked me in the eyes and said bluntly: "Dana, you shouldn't feel guilty." And she knows she shouldn't either. But trauma, at all sorts of levels, can hang with you.

My recent nightmares might have been prompted by our lawyers' decision not to pursue a medical malpractice suit. It's a firm filled with people I know and respect, and they simply felt they couldn't prove negligence.

I know what I saw. Proving that in the courts is an entirely different issue. And I accept that reality.

I'm also guessing that's why I keep writing about it, making that promise to compile thoughts at each month interval through the first year of not having Kimmy around the Melius house. I still gaze at her picture each morning, rub my hand over the urn, and move through each day.

But it takes a toll.

My past couple years with the St. Peter Herald and Le Sueur News-Herald have been cherished. I'm surrounded by people I care deeply about and they return the favor. I've made new friends, met amazing people. It was a perfect fit for Kim and I, we thought, despite the 35-mile commute. I'd traveled much farther in other jobs.

I had actually hoped to retire at the Herald office. And because the Adams Publishing Group continues to buy up papers, there's probably an on-going need for old-school journalists like me.

Kim's Nov. 23, 2015 death changed all that. I knew almost immediately it would. There's that loss of current purpose, loss of half of the household income, the need for change. It's why I asked to shift away from the St. Peter community a few months ago; I had grown too close to many there and it was an ongoing, emotional roller-coaster.

At Le Sueur, I targeted mid-June as a critical point to make it through -- the LSH Giants softball team was likely going back to the state tourney and I wanted to be there for it. Sounds odd, but that program gave me a sense of community that was so important at the time. The coaching staff and members of that team welcomed me; others appreciated the coverage.

But after the Giants' finale at Caswell Park in North Mankato, I broke down walking to my car. I had made it to through that special point. And it was over.

I took nearly three weeks off in July to decompress. I wasn't really sure what the end result might be. Now I do.

Recently, I gave my notice. I'll be done at this wonderful place Nov. 11. It was a difficult decision but the right one. The St. Peter Herald needed me when I joined them in 2014 and I needed them. That's a pretty darn good match. And it brought me back into a profession I love and hold deep pride.

What's next? I have no idea. But this remains a grand journey. And I still have more in the tank and more to give, And more love in the heart.

Peace friends.

9 months...Almost 

Some of the memories fade away. I guess it's both human nature and part growing older. It's inevitable yet not something any of us wish.

Over the past few months, I've struggled to come up with just the right words to express my feelings or relay what's going on in the Melius family, almost 9 months since Kim died.

This month, the words come easy.

August 20 is oldest son Ben's birthday, born in 1979. Kim and I would joke that Ben's was easy to remember -- 7 months after our wedding!

Kim was hoping for a September wedding and we had things pretty well set for a late summer event. But some Thanksgiving weekend celebrating in Mankato changed that a bit.

Initially, when we found out Kim was pregnant, it pretty much not only threw plans for a September wedding into some chaos, our college studies were going to be a bit more challenging. I had just one semester left at the University of Minnesota; Kim had a full year left at Mankato State.

We decided to move things up to March 24, which became quite a day in the Melius household. Our anniversary, Grandpa Mel Polzin's birthday, and down the road, third child and second son William's birth date.

Thirty-seven years later, the first-born memories have not faded. Ben was a beautiful baby with big eyes, curly hair right out the chute. Kim, I'm thinking, probably wouldn't like how that's phrased, for I was just a spectator. She did the hard work. Six times, too.

That first-born experience is so special, not that the other five Melius children weren't, but the fear of the unknown, the amazing emotions of holding that creation of ours, the fear and excitement of what's ahead when Kim and I drove away from the Arlington hospital. Precious, lasting memories.

Kim was such a trooper. After a very brief honeymoon which included a small Bloomington hotel. (We actually watched the Ten Commandments the first night, but that's another story.) She went back to MSU for spring quarter; I went back to 1104 South Eighth St. in Minneapolis, rooming with Gary "Gigs" Saxton.

Kim never liked the Twin Cities. It might have been the location of our duplex, on a busy street which then turned into Hwy. 55 East. It might have been that evening when we looked out our window to see a burning mattress on the front yard. Whatever the reasons, Kim never really warmed up to the metro area.

On weekends, we'd come back to Winthrop and stay at Kim's parents' house. She continued her social work studies, growing bigger by the day, even taking some summer classes to get ahead. I was so proud of her and should have told her that more often through the years.

Ben's presence in our lives drastically changed Kim and my plans. We really weren't certain what those plans might be, but we never truly imagined living in Winthrop all our lives. The old, fading black and white picture of Ben's first T-ball score has always been one of my favorites, as the park became a key part of our lives.

We made Winthrop home and, for the most part, was good to us, especially the 1980s emergence of GFW schools. And while there are always times one wonders what might have transpired on a different journey, there are no regrets. And looking back never changes the road ahead.

Kim and I were honest to one another -- had we not settled into the old hometown, we might not have had six children. We might not have even managed to stay together for 36 years, for our personal journeys were so completely different.

But we did. And we cherished the diversity of our children and the joys they brought to our lives. I have said it often since Kim died -- our six children are Kim's living legacy. I am not just proud of that fact, I am honored. They have often held me up when I should have been shouldering their needs. I will never be able to thank them enough.

The Melius family has journeyed together through some ups and downs. There will be more. Kim's death sidetracked all of us, stunned us. But we are stronger because of her.

Some memories fade, like old photographs. The legacies left by Kim in the eyes of her children, in her passion for hospice and families dealing with death and dying, and now in our grandchildren, will never die.

Matt and Krystal's Aug. 6 wedding was another special time for all of us. Kim would have loved to have been a part of it. We continue to miss her dearly. Hopefully, she's smiling. Pissed she missed it. But moving us on.