If it takes a village, this town stepped up for Carole MacDonald. In the spring of 2023, Carole fell from a garage attic two stories high. If it hadn’t been for Kerwin Creamer who was down below, she would have died. Perhaps if it hadn’t been for her medical team, or for her church and their prayers, or for the many people who looked over and in on her, she also might not be here. But she is. But to go back before her fall, Carole herself has spent much of her life taking care of others. By the time Carole had earned her master’s degree in audio-visual education, her father’s multiple sclerosis had debilitated him. To help out, Carole returned to live with her parents. Then her mother got cancer, and she was caring for both parents. When her mother died, she stayed on, tending her dad. Many might consider this a heart-breaking life, but that would shortchange Carole’s sense of adventure. With the assistance of her brother, a mechanical engineer (her father was an electrical engineer), they rigged a van with a bed and a ramp so she and her father could make cross-country trips, and later, trips back and forth between Newport News, VA and midcoast Maine where Parker Spofford helped Carole buy land in Waldoboro. When her father died, Carole stayed on in Newport News. She found work at Busch Gardens as a painter, a sign-maker and a visual merchandiser. As Carole would say, “Things change in life.” Busch Gardens was bought by an overseas company, and Carole left. It was her chance to live full-time here -- helping others, being part of the Waldoboro Republicans, and taking an active role in Word of Life Church. It’s now been about 30 years of life here.
I was down there trying to get a friend’s house ready so that she could sell it, because she had just moved into a nursing home.
Well, her house was down on Dutch Neck, and we were trying things cleaned out. All day we’d been sorting stuff – what would go to St. Paul’s Chapel for a sale and what we were going to bring to the dump for the next day. I was working in the attic area of the garage and my friend Kerwin Creamer was helping me down below. It was just the two of us, and we finally were packing it in for the day.
Well, I was reaching out to pull the attic door shut and a gust of wind caught it. And I flew out with it.
I don’t remember anything after that. Apparently, I landed on rocky ground in between an old mattress and boxspring. Luckily for me, Kerwin was there and able to call 911.
The medical records say that I was at Maine Medical from April to July and then they moved me to Marshwood in Lewiston for rehab. But I remember hardly anything from that time. I know I was at Marshwood for another couple of months, but even that is fuzzy.
I just have these strange little memories from that time. I was always thinking I was going to places, even though I wasn’t. And sometimes I’d hear one of the guys from our church talking to me every so often while standing behind my bed. But he wasn’t there. Who knows what medication they had me on?
All I know is that the day I went down, Kerwin thought I was gone. I wouldn’t be here, if not for him because nobody would have gone down that far down on Dutch Neck to find me, at least for several days anyway.
I still have a dent in my head from where I landed. I also did something to my aorta. And, I broke my neck, my back, and both of my wrists.
There was a lot of praying was going on at the church. Some singers visited and sang for me. And the church visited. And my brother stepped in and visited me quite often when I was at Maine Med. I don’t really remember anything.
When I was at Marshwood, Ralph Longoria, who’s got quite a longing for visitation, would faithfully show up just about every Saturday. And some of the clammers who have always come down here to dig sent me get well cards.
It was probably September when I got out of rehab, but I wasn’t in any condition to come home because I was still in a neck brace and back brace. That’s where the church said, “We have an apartment in the parsonage free for you.”
Somebody donated a hospital bed. Some brought a lot of other things, too. And a bunch of people brought food over the weeks. They were very supportive. I lived there for a month or two at Word of Life Church until I could manage on my own at home.
I’m in a place where the brain thinks, “You can handle all this mess.” And the body is saying, “Noooo, noo,” because my hands don’t work like they used to. I can’t grip things easily. So there’s lots I can’t do.
But I’ve never been a very emotional person. My father was like that, too – all those years. It’s more like, “This is life.” And there have been a lot of changes in my life. Each time it’s, “Alright. New phase of life. Change of plans.”
And I have angels. Like Tim Connolly, who’s now deceased. And Kerwin Creamer, for sure. Paul Griffin. Justin Creamer came down here a lot to help out. Jim Adams and his wife Sharon, from the church, they live down on Friendship Road, and he comes all the way here and brings me firewood and things like that. And she’s done a lot of the trimming down the driveway. And another day, a new neighbor took out my weedwhacker out and whacked all around the house so it’s not such a jungle. Gerry Hungerford has had me over for Easter and every day or twice a day, she would come down to let the cat and in, and to feed her. Things like that. I wish I could remember everything. I write them down and put them on the refrigerator. But I also sometimes forget.
Recently I’ve been going to the laundromat around 9 at night because that’s when Carolyn Harris is there cleaning, and Richard Parker’s around too. And for some reason, I end up being the millionth customer. It’s happened the last three or four times I’ve been there. And being the millionth means that Richard puts the money in the washers for me. They’re good people.
But I also take care of people in my own way, by driving them to where they need to go. I take Kerwin to his doctors’ appointments and to visit the people he needs to see. I give other people who need rides a hand, too. It’s my way of giving back to the people who have helped me.
But even before the accident, I wanted to give to our church. We had been singing the hymns, “The anchor holds, though the ship is battered,” and “There’s a lighthouse on the hill that overlooks God’s sea.” And that inspired the first big painting I made. Since then, I’ve painted three more, also from our hymns, and now they all hang in the church.
I’m not introspective, but I do think, “Okay, God. You spared me, and I’m still here. Let me make sure that I’m doing what it is what you want me to be doing.” And sometimes I feel that answered.
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