And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
I’m sorry this is posted so late. But part of what I’m going to be writing about is why it’s so late.
I was sleeping.
So one thing I haven’t talked about much on here is that I am in the middle of a six-week hiatus I’ve taken from teaching. In 21 years of running AllWriters’, and in 31 years total of teaching, I have never taken this much time off. I’ve always said that work is my therapy. For the 21 years of AllWriters’, my work week has been a steady minimum of 85 hours. It’s what I do, it’s what I love. Writing and teaching writers are my two primary passions in my life. When you love what you do, the hours don’t feel as if they’re taking a toll. But eventually, the body tells you what’s going on. And hey, I am 65 now.
Michael’s accident, the five months he tried to recover, and his death and the time since have been the hardest time of my life. I’ve tried to come up with a better, more concrete way to explain this – I’m a writer, donchaknow – but in the end, all I can say is from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep to troubled dreams, it’s been hard. And hard isn’t even the word for it.
I am a strong woman, and I know it, and I’ve been told so by innumerable people. When I got dressed today, I pulled out a favorite sweatshirt. It says “Strong women come in all shapes.”
But sometimes, that strength can just bite you in the ass. I felt like it was an expectation, and if I wasn’t strong, if I didn’t push forward, I would disappoint everyone in my life, my kids, my students and clients, my readers, my friends. And so I kept pushing.
I only took two weeks off when Michael died.
Since Michael died, I’ve had three books released: the novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, which I finished the final draft of while sitting in Michael’s ICU room, reading out loud to him; a poetry collection, Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing!, which I put together during his attempt at recovery; and now, The Birth Of A Widow, released at the end of February, comprised of poetry that I didn’t plan to write about this whole experience.
Three books. Teaching a minimum of 85 hours a week. All while trying to figure out what the hell just happened and just what I was supposed to be feeling and doing.
I’ve been sick throughout this winter. And when I wasn’t sick, I was falling. One fall led to me cracking my head open and injuring my trapezius muscle, earning me my first stitches and introducing me to a muscle I didn’t even know I had. The second fall, in the experience with the homeless man, left me with a possible broken kneecap and a body that felt like it was tossed in a concrete mixer.
Sick and falling. That’s not me.
But it was my body, telling me, Hey! Take a break!
The ironic thing is that I have been a lifelong insomniac. I rarely got more than a few hours of sleep at night, and I didn’t care. But since the night of the accident, I’ve fallen asleep almost before I hit the pillow, and I just crave it.
And then, on February 23, I tested positive for Covid, the newest form of Covid. I hadn’t had my Covid booster or my flu shot, because every time I was set to go get them, I fell ill. When the Covid hit, it hit hard.
I originally took a week off. Tried to return, and couldn’t. Took two weeks off, and realized there was no way. Had a conference with my doctor, who has known me for 42 years (and he’s my age!), and the therapist I’ve been seeing who specializes in traumatic grief, something I never knew existed, and something I’m living now. They both said that I needed more time off, that I hadn’t been giving myself time to recover, physically and emotionally, from January 17, 2024, to now. They both said six weeks.
And I, of course, said no way.
But I felt the drag. I felt how hard everything was. And one night, I heard myself thinking, Well, at least it won’t be too long before I’m with Michael again.
I swear, I absolutely swear, he reached out and shook me by the shoulders.
So the thing is, of course, I’m self-employed. There are no paid sick days, no paid vacation days, no nothing. And because I’m on my own now, I couldn’t fall back on Michael’s income either.
I sat down with my ledger and my calendar and I figured out what bills would need to be paid over the entire six weeks, including the two I’d already taken. And lo and behold, I discovered I could do it.
And then, true to form, I nearly didn’t. But then I did.
When the break started, while I was neck-deep in Covid, I was sleeping at least twelve hours a night. It’s decreased now to eight to ten hours. At first, I would wake up, be awake for a couple hours, and then go back for a nap. The naps are rare now.
I am spending my time reading absolutely lovely books. I built a typewriter out of Legos. And I’m writing consistently again, starting a new book. Not a novel this time. I’ve returned to my first love – the short story. I’ve always said that if I could only write in one genre, it would be the short story. Most of my novels include short stories. And now, I’m immersing myself in them.
And I’m working hard (while not working) to figure out just who the hell I am now. I was the Kathie part of Kathie And Michael for 27 years, 25 of them married. And now I’m Kathie Without Michael. That’s different than who I was before I knew him. Now it’s Kathie Without Michael While Knowing What It Was Like To Be With Michael.
Just me.
So why was I late with this blog? Because my night-owlishness has come out in force, and I was up until almost five in the morning, and then I slept until three in the afternoon. I had a leisurely breakfast in my recliner with the next lovely book and a fresh hot cup of coffee. And now I’m here at my laptop. I haven’t even read my emails yet.
And what is the Moment Of Happiness? First, that I’m feeling better. And second, that I took this break. That I realized (with help) what I needed, and I put myself first, and I’m doing it.
I return to teaching on April 13. I am so looking forward to it. But in the meantime, I am resting.
Just me.
I’m going to end this piece with one of the poems from The Birth Of A Widow. It was written on June 20, 2025, the day after the first anniversary of Michael’s death.
THE FIRST DAY AFTER THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF YOUR DEATH
When midnight struck on your death anniversary,
I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was over, this first year.
It was done.
But when I woke on this morning,
the first day after the first year,
You were still gone
and I still wore grief like a cloak.
It wraps around my throat sometimes.
And sometimes, it drapes my shoulders.
If it falls off, I catch it tight,
throttle it with both fists.
I drag it behind me
or I wear it upon me
and I wonder when my fingers will open,
all on their own, and let it go.
Leaving only you and me
who you were
and who I am
now that you’re gone.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
