His Creativity Her Inspiration

Julie Thibault will die when she has the time.

But right now, her husband needs help running the business he started at home so he could care for her. Joe Thibault opened Northwest Metal Designs in his Rathdrum, Idaho, garage in 1994 as Julie lay dying from a rare, terminal disease. His compassionate move helped both Thibaults discover new life.

“Watching the metamorphosis of Joe has been totally cool,” Julie says, unbothered by the yards of clear tubing that leash her to a ventilator. “It gives me something else to focus on. Without the business, I’d be in bed on a respirator.”

Instead, she boxes Joe’s “battling moose” coat racks and “grazing bison” wall hangings for delivery to stores in 25 states.

“If you told me five years ago I’d be doing this, I’d have said flat out, ‘No way,”’ Joe says. “It just shows that if you exercise your mind, you can do anything.”

Julie was so healthy in 1986 that she caught Joe’s attention in a beachside gym. He was a buff, 23-year-old former U.S. Marine in Daytona Beach, Fla., for the winter to body build. She was 35, stunning and a dedicated body-builder from Miami.

Joe admired Julie’s focus and strength as much as she appreciated his kindness and passion for life.

By winter’s end, Joe had convinced Julie to follow him home to New Hampshire. He promised to show her the world. She had never traveled outside Florida.

They worked, saved money and planned for three years. In 1989, Joe hooked a trailer to his Honda Goldwing motorcycle and they took off to tour the country for six months.

They camped from Florida to Alaska, rafted through the Grand Canyon and climbed Mount St. Helens’ snowfields.

“I’d never camped before, slept in a sleeping bag, cooked outside,” Julie says. “I was a real princess when we started, but by the time we were done, I was a real roadie and a half.”

They’d hoped to find the perfect place to live, but ended up returning to New Hampshire. Joe found work with a welding supplier, then used his new skills to build his own body-building equipment. Joe and Julie married in 1990.

A year later, doctors found a tumor in Julie’s neck. Surgery was immediate. The tumor was benign. The surgery wasn’t.

“As soon as I came out, I knew something had changed in my system,” Julie says.

She shrunk from 145 pounds of solid muscle - her biceps measured 14 inches around - to 135 pounds in two weeks. Weights no longer interested her; she couldn’t muster the strength to open cupboards.

“I had worked so hard to get this beautiful shape,” she says. “When it started melting away, I was devastated.”

Three months later, doctors diagnosed her with scleroderma, a mysterious disease that prompts the body’s immune system to produce connective tissue non-stop. That tissue hardens skin, muscles and, sometimes, internal organs. “It turns the body to stone,” Julie says.

Julie’s case was severe and doctors had no answers. They theorized her surgery had triggered the scleroderma, but the cause and cure are unknown. Doctors estimated she’d die within five years.

Finding the perfect home suddenly became imperative for the Thibaults. Joe read an article that identified Boise as the most liveable place in the nation. In 1993, he and Julie quit their jobs and drove west. They only paused in Boise.

“Boy, were we buffaloed,” he says. “Boise was not at all like the pictures Realtors sent.”

They found their paradise two days later in Coeur d’Alene. By December, they’d bought a home in Rathdrum and Joe found work building log homes.

Julie’s disease hit hard in 1994. Her weight dipped to 115 pounds. She couldn’t dress herself or hold down food. “I knew I was dying,” she says.

Doctors sent her to Hospice of North Idaho, which offers home care to people during the final six months of life.

Joe searched for a way to stay home and care for his wife. He’d noticed the popularity of metal art and decided to give it a try. He had the skill and the tools from building gym equipment.

He began with simple designs he copied from their vacation slides and incorporated them into bookends and welcome signs.

Julie rebounded under Hospice’s nurturing and began helping Joe. She advised him to personalize the welcome signs, then she sold them to real estate agents to give to clients.

The purpose of his work filled Joe with a newfound creativity. He cut running horses and Canada geese from the black metal sheets in his garage, then Conestoga wagons with tiny wheel spokes, and loons with every feather defined.

He experimented with decorative racks for towels, and pots and holders for napkins and toilet tissue. What began as animal cut-outs evolved into elaborate outdoor scenes and detailed stories.

Joe recreated in metal the vacation he’d taken with Julie.

“As I cut the metal, it reminded me of what we did, our exciting, memorable times,” he says.

Country Clutter at the Factory Outlets in Post Falls offered to sell Joe’s artwork.

Sometimes, Julie’s struggle for life drained all the fight from her burly ex-Marine. Joe would cry and tell her not to leave him.

“He loves me so deeply,” she says. “I won’t leave him.”

Julie cut off her Hospice care after a year rather than deprive someone else of the service. Joe’s success had strengthened her and given her a mission. Joe couldn’t keep Northwest Metal Designs going alone.

Now, Joe sells his art in 25 states. He still cuts and welds everything himself, but subcontractors finish and, sometimes, paint it.

He’s expanded into delicate three-dimensional designs and coffee tables in black, rust or green. A powder is fused onto every piece for a mildly rough finish. Joe’s confident his work will last for generations; that longevity comforts him.

Scleroderma has hardened Julie’s esophagus and is cementing her lungs. Her fingers are stiff and purple, her skin tighter than a snare drum.

Her symptoms are unpredictable. She vomits one day and breaks out in hives or has seizures the next. Some days her vision is blurred. She’s no longer strong enough for a lung or bone marrow transplant.

“It really sucks,” she says, and laughs without bitterness. She’s seen so many people in worse condition that she won’t complain.

She still shuffles around her home with purpose, feeding on the compliments visitors pay Joe’s work. His pot rack hangs over the kitchen and his lamp lights the living room where his coffee table and end table bring gasps of appreciation.

“Joe’s trying to make my life as beautiful as possible,” she says, turning her armchair for a full view of her husband.

“That man over there, that’s how I keep going.”

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: Color Photo