Hospice Harpist (@charkin) header
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Hospice Harpist, Therapeutic musician, Author of “Where the Tree Falls, the Forest Rises: Stories of Death & Renewal”, rural life, persister. Now on Blue Sky

Wisconsin
Joined September 2008
Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)Photo by Hospice Harpist (@charkin)
The wind was playing along with me at Clearwater Lake.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
Democratic TRIFECTA! That means our Governor is a Democrat, our State Senate has a Democratic majority, and our State Assembly has a Democratic majority. With a Democratic trifecta we can move forward with getting Wisconsin clean water, legalizing marijuana, lowering costs for families, funding education, and so much more that will make your life better.
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Nine years of working night shifts in hospice care taught me something I’ll never forget: People nearing the end of their lives rarely ask for the things you’d expect. Sometimes, they don’t ask for God. They don’t ask for miracles. Sometimes, they ask for something so small it breaks your heart. Room 4 belonged to an 86-year-old man named Walter. He had lung cancer. His wife, Dorothy, had died in 2019, and he hadn’t had a single visitor in eleven days. One night, around 2 a.m., he waved me over. “Are you married?” he asked. “No,” I told him. He nodded slowly. “Then you probably don’t wear perfume.” I smiled and told him I had some in my locker. “What kind?” “Nothing fancy. Just something cheap from the drugstore.” He shook his head. “Dorothy wore White Shoulders. Every night before bed. Not for church. For bed.” He chuckled, but the laughter quickly turned into a coughing fit. When he finally caught his breath, he looked at the ceiling and said something I still think about. “I used to tell her she was wasting it on me. She’d say, ‘The good stuff isn't for God. It’s for whoever has to look at you in the morning.’” Then he smiled. Not the polite smile people give strangers. The kind that belongs to someone remembering the best years of his life. I finished my shift at seven that morning, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Dorothy. So I drove to three different pharmacies until I finally found a bottle of White Shoulders. It was tucked on the bottom shelf, behind the nail polish remover. $18.99. That evening, on my night off, I went back to the hospice. Walter was asleep. I didn’t wake him. I sprayed a little perfume on the inside of his pillowcase, then sprayed a washcloth and gently folded it across his chest. I sat beside him for a while. He never opened his eyes. But slowly, almost painfully slowly, his hand rose from the blanket. He reached for the washcloth and rested his palm flat against it. Then he held it there. His breathing softened. His face relaxed. For the first time in days, the tension seemed to leave his body. I've watched many people die over the years. Nurses learn to recognize the moments when someone stops struggling against what is coming. That night, I watched Walter settle into a memory that was bigger than the room he was lying in. Maybe he was remembering Dorothy getting ready for bed. Maybe he was remembering the way she smelled when she climbed beside him. Maybe, for a few precious minutes, he wasn't an 86-year-old man dying alone. Maybe he was simply a husband lying next to his wife again. Walter passed away on Thursday morning. Nobody came to collect his belongings. His room was cleaned, his bed was remade, and eventually another patient moved in. The world kept going, as it always does. But I never forgot him. People think hospice care is about managing pain, administering medication, and making someone comfortable during their final days. And yes, it is. But sometimes, comfort isn't a medication. Sometimes, it's a familiar song. A voice you haven't heard in years. A hand holding yours when the room goes quiet. Or the smell of the person you loved most in the world. We spend our entire lives building what we call home. We fill it with furniture, photographs, clothes, and all the ordinary things we barely notice until they're gone. But when everything else is stripped away, home can become something incredibly small. A familiar scent. A remembered touch. A voice saying your name. Sometimes, home is the person you keep expecting to find beside you when you wake up. And sometimes, when you can't bring that person back, the kindest thing another human being can do is help you remember them one last time. I've worked nine years of night shifts in hospice care. If there's one thing I've learned, it's this: At the end of life, people don't always need someone to save them. Sometimes, they just need someone to remind them that they were loved.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
💔🇺🇦 C’est un enfer sans fin. 37 morts dans la région de Kyiv. 72 heures d’attaques non-stop contre Kyiv. Une fille de 2 ans tuée dans un parc en pleine journée. La Russie est entrée dans une logique de destruction totale de la vie en Ukraine. Mes amis, ma famille n’ont jamais eu aussi peur qu’en ce moment, depuis le début de l’invasion à grande échelle de l’Ukraine. De nombreux civils s’interrogent et pensent désormais à quitter le pays pour se protéger. Selon le gouvernement ukrainien, la Russie a détruit, au cours de cet été, 90 % des entrepôts modernes des supermarchés. Certaines entreprises craignent des pénuries importantes. Les prix de certains produits pourraient drastiquement augmenter. Des dizaines d’usines, de centres logistiques annihilés. Des millions de livres détruits par la Russie. Hier encore, une imprimerie a été attaquée : plus de 60 000 livres ont brûlé. La Russie a anéanti tous les hypermarchés « Epicenter », l’équivalent ukrainien de Leroy Merlin, à Zaporijjia et à Odessa. Elle en a détruit plusieurs autres dans les régions de Kyiv, de Dnipro et ailleurs. Depuis 2022, une trentaine ont été détruits ou endommagés. La Russie a détruit le centre commercial « Halereya » à Kryvyi Rih le 21 août. 16 personnes ont été tuées, 130 autres blessées. Une semaine plus tard : un autre centre commercial. Cette fois-ci à Kharkiv, le « Karavan ». Une personne a été tuée. Début juillet et hier, la Russie a attaqué des dépôts de munitions dans la région de Kyiv. En juillet : 9 morts, des dizaines de blessés, des rues entièrement réduites en cendres. Hier : 37 morts, des centaines de civils évacués. La plupart des victimes étaient des retraités et des personnes handicapées, tués dans un EHPAD local. L’une des pires attaques contre les civils cette année. Le gouvernement ukrainien a promis de sanctionner les responsables de cette faille de sécurité dans un quartier résidentiel. C’est la deuxième fois que cela arrive en deux mois et, malgré les promesses, les leçons n’ont pas été tirées. Le gouverneur de la région de Kherson a appelé la population à évacuer en raison de la destruction de toutes les infrastructures énergétiques de Kherson. Depuis 72 heures, il y a des alertes toutes les deux heures à Kyiv, parfois toutes les heures, parfois toutes les demi-heures. Les drones à réaction touchent tout ce qu’ils peuvent : des restaurants, des stations-service, des quartiers résidentiels. Tout. Et la liste continue. Et elle continuera à s’allonger. L’Ukraine a besoin de moyens de défense EN URGENCE ABSOLUE ! La Russie est en train d’anéantir tout ce qu’elle peut, et le nombre de victimes civiles augmente mois après mois. Parlez de l’Ukraine ! N’oubliez pas cette guerre ! Oui, cela fait 4,5 ans qu’elle dure à grande intensité, mais ce que vit le pays en ce moment est extrêmement difficile. Je n’ose imaginer l’hiver à venir. Nous, médias, avons une responsabilité : CONTINUER à traiter ce sujet !
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1/ I'm a cardiologist. I've practiced for twenty-five years, through a lot of "breakthroughs" that turned out to be press releases. So understand the weight of what I'm about to say: I have never seen a single week in medicine like the one we just lived through. In the span of a few days, four separate scientific breakthroughs landed. The stock market treated them as four unrelated stories and sent a handful of biotech companies soaring. But that's the shallow read. Look closer and they are not four stories at all. They are four faces of the same story — the biggest shift in medicine since the discovery of antibiotics. Medicine is becoming programmable. Individualized. Written for one human being instead of the average of millions. Let me walk you through exactly what happened, in plain language, and show you where this is actually headed. Because the future arrived quietly this week, and most people scrolled right past it.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
If you didn’t zip a single body bag during covid…I want you to be quiet. Unless you worked during covid I don’t want to hear what you think about Dr. Anthony Fauci…
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
THE FOUR PILES by Michael Whelan After Rebecca died on March 5, 2026, I couldn't bring myself to touch a single thing. Her toothbrush was still beside mine. Her slippers were still by the bed. Her favorite sweater still hung in the closet exactly where she had left it. Every room felt like she had simply stepped outside for a few minutes and would be walking back through the front door at any moment. People think the hardest part of losing your spouse is saying goodbye. It isn't. Sometimes the hardest part is deciding what to do with forty years of a life you built together. I couldn't do it alone. So my family flew across the country from California. Not to clean out a house. Not to empty closets. They came because they knew I couldn't carry that weight by myself. Together, we stood in front of a lifetime of memories and slowly began creating four piles. The first pile was for me. These were the things that still felt like part of my heartbeat. Her photographs. Her jewelry. The clothes that still reminded me of the woman who filled this house with laughter, compassion, and unconditional love. These were never simply possessions. They were pieces of our story. The second pile was for my family. I wanted everyone who loved Rebecca to choose something that would forever remind them of her. A photograph. A favorite sweater. A keepsake that would allow a small part of her beautiful spirit to continue living in their homes and in their hearts. The third pile was for her sister. It is still waiting. My family has returned several times. They cried. They laughed. They shared stories about Rebecca that made us all smile through our tears. Her sister has never come. I don't know what is in her heart, and it isn't my place to judge. Grief asks something different from each of us. Still, every time I walk past that untouched pile, I whisper to myself, "Whenever you're ready." The fourth pile was the hardest. The giveaway pile. At first, I couldn't imagine anyone else wearing Rebecca's clothes or holding something that had once belonged to her. Then I realized something Rebecca spent her entire life teaching me. Love doesn't end when a heartbeat does. Perhaps one of her sweaters will keep someone warm. Perhaps one of her jackets will comfort a woman going through a difficult winter. Perhaps something that once brought Rebecca joy will now bring hope to someone she never had the chance to meet. Even now... she is still giving. There is another part of this story that still feels impossible to me. Rebecca's mother is now ninety-five years old and has been in home hospice for nearly four years. Who could ever imagine that a mother would outlive her daughter? Life has a way of rewriting the ending we thought had already been written. As I looked around the room that day, I realized we weren't sorting belongings. We were gently deciding where forty years of love would continue to live. Maybe that is the final responsibility of those left behind. Not to hold on to everything. But to make sure the love our person gave this world never stops reaching other people. Because in the end, that is what remains. Not the clothes. Not the jewelry. Not the photographs. Love. Love is always the last thing left in the room.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
The threat of AI-takeover is simply the end result of the belief that the pursuit of wealth completely unguided by any other values can result in happiness. It is, quite simply, the logical result of a system that has devalued the human being. The only way to change it is to create a society whose primary value is love instead of money. And that seems naïve and impossible only because you've been trained to think it is. By an indoctrination in cynicism masquerading as "practicality." By the mockery, even in your earliest years, of anything in you that chooses spirit over Caesar. By money. And because we've forgotten that the gifts that make us wholly human—empathy, interconnectedness, self-actualization, love—are joyously hard at first, and instruct us in delayed gratification, and lead, along the way, to a happiness experienced only by those who are working to become all of what they are.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
When @TomTiffanyWI says he's going to stand up to AI data center developers, I know Wisconsin voters are too smart to believe those Washington lies. I've had a plan since day one to lower costs for working families and protect our natural resources.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
Chronic illness and daily exhaustion don't happen overnight. They are built slowly over years. ​As a doctor, here are 6 daily micro-habits I wish patients adopted long before they reach the hospital bed. 1. ​Wait 90 minutes for your first coffee.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
On @MSNOWNews with @chrislhayes last night, I shared how the fight to unrig Wisconsin gives us a roadmap for how to unrig the country. That's the plan in my book This Is The Plan, out on Tuesday. @allinwithchris
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
To everyone so eager to cancel someone for a tattoo they got at age 22, a drunk text, a selfie they took in the middle of a mental health crisis: Show us your laptop. Show us your iCloud. Open your entire digital life to your worst enemy. No context. No filter. No explanation. You won’t. You won’t because you know what I know. Any one of us, frozen at our worst moment, photographed in our lowest hour, looks like a monster. Looks like a stranger. Looks like someone who deserves to be cast out. That is not who we are. My mom and baby sister were killed in a car accident when I was just a kid. Cancer took my brother Beau, my best friend and my rock. I battled alcoholism. I battled addiction. I chose the coward’s way out more times than I can count. For years I believed the defining chapters of my life were written by tragedy, loss, and shame. I no longer believe that. Pain can shape us. Loss can humble us. Failures can leave scars that never fully fade. But none of them have the authority to define us. And it sure as hell ain’t the critic that counts. That authority belongs to us alone-the person in the arena. Every setback presents a choice. Play the victim, or cut the bullshit and take ownership for who we become next. Life does not determine our character. It reveals it. Again and again we are asked the same question. When shit happens, what next? We are not defined by what happened to us. We are not defined by the worst photo, the worst text, the worst tattoo, the worst night. We are defined by the person we choose to become. And by the courage to choose that person, every single day. So before you reach for the gavel - show us your laptop. You won’t. The whole world saw mine. And I am still here. Still becoming. Still choosing. Still standing. That is the only definition that matters.
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Our Wisconsin Revolution is honored to announce our endorsement of FRANCESCA HONG for Governor of Wisconsin.
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
A Norwegian neuroscientist spent 20 years proving that the act of writing by hand changes the human brain in ways typing physically cannot, and almost nobody outside her field has read the paper. Her name is Audrey van der Meer. She runs a brain research lab in Trondheim, and the paper that closed the argument was published in 2024 in a journal called Frontiers in Psychology. The finding is brutal enough that it should have changed every classroom on Earth. The experiment was simple. She recruited 36 university students and put each one in a cap with 256 sensors pressed against their scalp to record brain activity. Words flashed on a screen one at a time. Sometimes the students wrote the word by hand on a touchscreen using a digital pen, and sometimes they typed the same word on a keyboard. Every neural response was recorded for the full five seconds the word stayed on screen. Then her team looked at the part of the data most researchers had ignored for years, which is how different parts of the brain were communicating with each other during the task. When the students wrote by hand, the brain lit up everywhere at once. The regions responsible for memory, sensory integration, and the encoding of new information were all firing together in a coordinated pattern that spread across the entire cortex. The whole network was awake and connected. When the same students typed the same word, that pattern collapsed almost completely. Most of the brain went quiet, and the connections between regions that had been alive seconds earlier were nowhere to be found on the EEG. Same word, same brain, same person, and two completely different neurological events. The reason turned out to be something nobody had really paid attention to before her work. Writing by hand is not one motion but a sequence of thousands of tiny micro-movements coordinated with your eyes in real time, where each letter is a different shape that requires the brain to solve a slightly different spatial problem. Your fingers, wrist, vision, and the parts of your brain that track position in space are all working together to produce one letter, then the next, then the next. Typing throws all of that away. Every key on a keyboard requires the exact same finger motion regardless of which letter you are pressing, which means the brain has almost nothing to integrate and almost no problem to solve. Van der Meer said it plainly in her interviews. Pressing the same key with the same finger over and over does not stimulate the brain in any meaningful way, and she pointed out something that should scare every parent who handed their kid an iPad. Children who learn to read and write on tablets often cannot tell letters like b and d apart, because they have never physically felt with their bodies what it takes to actually produce those letters on a page. A decade before her, two researchers at Princeton ran the same fight using a completely different method and ended up at the same answer. Pam Mueller and Daniel Oppenheimer tested 327 students across three experiments, where half took notes on laptops with the internet disabled and half took notes by hand, before testing everyone on what they actually understood from the lectures they had watched. The handwriting group won by a wide margin on every question that required real understanding rather than surface recall. The reason was hiding in the transcripts of what the two groups had actually written down. The laptop students typed almost word for word, capturing more total content but processing almost none of it as they went, while the handwriting students physically could not write fast enough to transcribe a lecture in real time, which forced them to listen carefully, decide what actually mattered, and put it in their own words on the page. That single act of choosing what to keep was the learning itself, and the keyboard had quietly skipped the choosing and skipped the learning along with it. Two studies. Two countries. Same answer. Handwriting makes the brain work. Typing lets it coast. Every note you have ever typed instead of written went into your brain through a thinner pipe. Every meeting, every book highlight, every idea you captured on your phone instead of on paper was processed at half depth. You did not forget those things because your memory is bad. You forgot them because typing never woke the part of the brain that would have made them stick. The fix is the thing your grandmother already knew. Pick up a pen. Write the thing down. The slower road is the faster one.
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Such a beautiful poem, now illustrated. Take a listen. Save your soul.
An artist named Monica Raven made this with my poem "Instructions for Having a Soul," and I love it so much. ❤️
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Hospice Harpist retweeted
I'm astonished by the response to my poem "Instructions for Having a Soul." Here it is in my voice, from one human to another.
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David, an African American caregiver, shared a touching story about his 91-year-old client — a naval veteran who marched for civil rights in his youth. Now, years later, David feels deep joy and fulfillment caring for him. Their bond reflects a beautiful spirit of kindness, mutual respect, and love that transcends generations. ❤️
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