On Wednesday, March 6, 2024, a young woman died in a small town in Minnesota. Chances are you didn’t know her. I didn’t either. Her name was Dr. Noelle Marie Olson. She was just 29 years old. Noelle spent more than half her life courageously battling the eating disorder that ultimately claimed it – hers and, if the statistics are accurate, another every 52 minutes. Noelle leaves behind her mom and dad, a brother and sister, many aunts, uncles, and cousins, and, I’m quite certain, an equal number of friends and colleagues – all of whom are left with lots of unanswered and unanswerable questions – the “why’s,” the “what could’ve and should’ve been’s” – and gaping holes in hearts that will never be filled. Noelle was driven and strove for excellence in everything she did. She was an All-American athlete and a brilliant scientist. But what truly distinguished Noelle was her sweet, kind, loving, and other-centered heart. She had an old-fashioned love for family, their quality time together, and family traditions like annual visits to the State Fair. Noelle especially relished opportunities to escape from Minnesotan winters to Florida beaches – and she loved to read, puzzle, and bake. I know all of this only because Noelle’s dad is an integral part of the Office Services team in our Minneapolis office. Otherwise, Noelle’s life and death would have escaped me completely – and that’s a problem. In fact, I now realize it’s THE PROBLEM.
You and I stumble across stories of the “Noelle’s” of the world on late night scrolls through our social media feeds virtually every day. And maybe, when we do, we pause to think about the sadness and heartbreak that those who knew and loved them must be experiencing in the aftermath of their death, especially when, like Noelle, the death involves someone so young, so full of life, so gifted – with so much promise. Maybe, if the story is especially touching, we take a moment to comment, shed a tear (or two) or, if we’re a person of faith, whisper a prayer for the one who’s lost and their family. Maybe we don’t. But, inevitably, what all of us do when we see or hear about deaths involving those we perceive to be complete strangers is move on – on to whatever’s next, to whoever’s trending, to the “hot topic” of the day or, more accurately, the minute, to posts and Tik Tok videos of friends, family, and so-called influencers, to a live stream on any one of the zillion platforms that populate our electronic devices of choice, or to a favorite podcast. And, I get it, because I’ve done it and, I’m embarrassed to say, on occasion, I still do. I’ve been part of the “what-do-you-expect-me-to-do-with-news-of-a-stranger’s-death-in-a-small-town-in-Minnesota” crowd. The ever-expanding group that learns of news like this, concludes it really doesn’t affect them or someone they love, and essentially, though never audibly, says, “So what?” But, I just can’t do that anymore.
Because the truth is: Noelle was not a stranger. She was you and me and, given how indiscriminate eating disorders are, she just as easily could have been my or your daughter, sibling, closest friend, colleague, partner, niece, cousin, or even our mom. In fact, likely the only reason Noelle wasn’t your and my best friend was that the three of us never met. We simply didn’t grow up in the same neighborhood, go to the same schools, compete on the same playing fields, or attend the same church or summer camps. We never toiled together over those puzzles she was so obsessed with in search of a critical piece, spent an afternoon frolicking in the sun together on one of those Florida beaches she cherished, were on the receiving end of a basket of her highly-coveted baked goods, or sat down together at a local coffee shop and talked about a favorite book, our fears, our dreams – the desires of our hearts – over our blend of choice. We did, however, share a heart and, though we seem to have lost sight of it, we are (or in Noelle’s case were) all members of the Choir of Life. And, because we are, Noelle’s death does matter. It has to matter. Because if it only matters when it’s someone we know and love, we will continue to lose more “Noelle’s” – at an incomprehensibly alarming rate – to a deadly disease that has long deserved, but never received, our collective full attention.
What does “mattering” look like? For me, it looks like choosing to respond to an email from another of our “choirmates” that arrived just two days after I received word of Noelle’s death, a much older woman, who has been burdened with this disease her entire adult life. She was writing to say that she’s “thinking of giving up the fight,” of quitting the Choir, and asked “what I thought about physician assisted suicide.” Three days earlier, I likely would’ve found a way to sidestep the question, but Noelle would have none of it. “Dear Friend,” I began. “It’s impossible for those of us who’ve never experienced the unrelenting suffering you’ve endured to understand how you must feel, let alone comment on how you should respond to it. That said, I believe where there’s life, there’s hope. My faith teaches that. But, I’ve also witnessed too many lives redeemed from the brink of giving up to believe otherwise. I know, in this moment, you don’t see hope and that saying you’re ’tired’ of the fight is a considerable understatement, after all you’ve been through and all the work you’ve put in. But, I do. I see you showing up for yourself. I see you making the best of each new day. And, in every note you send, I see words of light. To me, all of those things are enough to be curious about what tomorrow holds. I only hope they are for you as well. Hugs Across the Miles, Don”
And so, hope it is – from the wilderness.
donblackwell 