THIS BLOG IS VERY LATE TODAY. AND IT’S ALSO BRUTALLY HONEST. BUT HERE WE GO.
And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
I’ve been having a very hard week. It’s like when you feel that something in your body is out of whack – your knee is out of joint, or your back feels crooked, or you have a hovering headache that just won’t go away. Some people refer to it as walking around with a dark cloud over your head. I’ve been feeling that dark cloud, but it’s not just over my head. I’m walking through it.
It really started on Saturday morning. I was getting ready to head downstairs to teach one of my Once-A-Month Write-A-Book Workshop groups. Before I walked down, I booted my computer and got the usual windows open. Email – AOL and Yahoo. Instagram chat, where my family’s chat is set. And Facebook.
Now normally, I get a notification somewhere in the late afternoon, telling me that I have Facebook Memories available, and listing a few names. “You have Facebook Memories with Christopher, Andy, Katie, Olivia…” for example, all my kids. And then I can choose to click on it and see what the memories are. But for some reason, that morning, Facebook Memories was already there, and not only already there, but wide open on my screen.
With a photograph of Michael.
His very last photograph. Last Saturday was the date a year ago that Michael made it up to the third floor, used his walker to cross my office and go outside onto our deck. He sat in the sun for the first time since January, when he stepped off the curb in downtown Milwaukee and was hit by a passenger van. And for the first and only time, he said to me, “I’m going to make it.”
That was a Friday. The day after that, I walked downstairs to teach the same exact group I was about to see. When I came upstairs after teaching that group last year, Michael was vomiting blood. I took him to the ER, and everything went downhill from there, until he died on June 19th.
It was exactly a year later. That day, last year, was filled with so much joy and hope. And on this day, I was alone and he was gone.
I ended up being ten minutes late to my workshop, as I tried very hard to pull myself together, regain my composure. I walked into that classroom, saw those same exact faces, and lost it.
I was completely and totally blindsided. Completely. And I’ve remained that way all week, feeling like I’m not quite walking a straight line.
And so then I really struggled with what I was going to write about today. It’s why I’m two hours late with this blog. Ten minutes late on Saturday. Two hours late now.
This afternoon, I was talking to someone about this, and I suddenly found myself talking about the Oregon coast, that I’ll be running to in a few weeks, and the story of the sand dollar. If you haven’t heard it, this is the story.
In 2015, I was not in very good shape when I went to Oregon. I was feeling like my life had no purpose, that I was always a failure. My novel, Rise From The River, which took me 20 years to gather up the courage to write, was published. But vastly more attention was being paid to the 50 Shades Of Gray series. The messages of the 50 Shades books and mine could not be further apart.
When I got to Oregon, I ran straight out to the ocean and shrieked at it. Some people look up to the sky to yell at God. I yell at the ocean, and I don’t know that I’m yelling at God. I just know that I can yell at the ocean. And I said, “What do you want from me? I have done everything I can, everything I’m supposed to do. I have devoted my life to my own writing and to writers. And yet look what is valued.” I ranted. Nothing happened. And then I remembered someone telling me that if you want an answer, from God, the Universe, the ocean, whomever, you ask for something specific. So I said, “If I am on the right path, then let me find a whole sand dollar. A WHOLE sand dollar. Not a piece or a fragment.”
And I left it at that.
One evening, my daughter, who was with me that trip, and I were walking the ocean in a fog. The fog on the Pacific is magical…it glitters. It’s like walking through a glitter storm. As we walked, I could see two people coming toward us, an older man and woman. No matter which way I moved, the man kept walking directly toward me. When we arrived in the same space, he was directly in my face. But I found I wasn’t scared.
He didn’t say hello, he didn’t say, “Nice night.” He said, “Have you found a whole sand dollar?”
I still get goosebumps talking about this. I stammered, “No…no…I’ve been looking for one, but –”
“Choose one,” he said, and reached into his pocket and pulled out three. Three whole sand dollars.
I picked one, and my daughter took one. And then we walked away. I’ve never seen the man again.
I brought the sand dollar home, painted a small canvas as a background, glued the sand dollar to it, and hung it on the wall behind my desk.
I have always considered that moment a miracle.
And it didn’t stop there. Two years later, I couldn’t go to Oregon because I had breast cancer. The next year, I arrived there, ran out to the ocean, and shrieked, “You didn’t tell me my path included cancer!” And then I asked, “If I’m going to be all right, then let ME find the sand dollar this time.”
On my last day there, I went out to say goodbye to the ocean. I hadn’t found a sand dollar. As I stood there, I felt a bump against my toe. I looked down…and there was a whole sand dollar.
The person I was talking to this afternoon went to Oregon and stood by the ocean while I was in treatment for breast cancer. He thought of me, felt a bump…and found a whole sand dollar which he brought to me.
Last year, I went to Oregon after Michael died. I walked out to greet the ocean, but I didn’t rant and I didn’t rave. I just said, “I don’t know what to say.” I didn’t ask for anything. But partway through the trip, I was taking my evening walk. I happened to glance down at my feet, and right in front of me, was the teeniest tiniest whole sand dollar. No bigger than my fingernail. If I hadn’t looked down right then, I would have missed it.
But I did look down.
But this afternoon, talking to this person, I heard myself say, “I thought that the sand dollar was a miracle. But never ever ever would I have thought that my path included my husband stepping off a curb to come home and instead getting hit by a passenger van.” And then I said, “I think it was all a fluke. There’s no path. Nothing is set. Nothing can be expected. I just don’t know what to believe anymore. I don’t know what to do.”
I don’t know what to do. I’ve said that to myself and out loud for months now. I feel lost. I don’t know what to do.
As I drove home today, I had to come to a stop at a stoplight. In front of me was a Waukesha city bus. Blazed across the back of the bus, right in my face, just like that old man was in my face, were the words, “YOU ARE LOVED.” I blinked, and saw it was an ad for the LGBTQ+ community, a community I support, but I’m not a part of. I instantly thought, That message isn’t for me.
I went to pick up my jacket, accidentally left behind at the chiropractor’s yesterday. I went through the Starbucks drive-thru. I stopped by a mailbox and mailed a letter. And then, at a whole other intersection, in a different part of town, I stopped behind a bus.
“YOU ARE LOVED.”
I shook my head.
As I approached home, I was passed by two other buses. This time, on the side, I saw the Craig Husar ad, for Husar Diamonds. I immediately said, “Hi, Craig.”
An earlier This Week’s Moment talked about how I decided to have my wedding ring and Michael’s melted down and made into a new ring, for me to wear. I’d seen the Husar ads for years, and always said, “Hi, Craig,” because wherever I was, so was he. On the day I decided to do this with the rings, and wondered where I should go, a bus passed me. “Hi, Craig,” I said. And then I went to Husar’s.
Craig was there that day, and I met him, and his daughter. She designed my ring. Craig sat next to me, introduced himself, and shared his condolences. He told me I’d come to the right place, and there was no one better to create this ring than his daughter. As we talked, he said, “You know, there’s a real warmth and energy here. I think your husband is in full agreement with what you’re doing.”
And now, on this day when I was feeling particularly lost, and when I’d twice run into a sign that said I was loved, which I immediately discounted, I was then reminded, twice again, of the kindness of absolute strangers who have reached out to help me during this awful, awful time.
I am still walking crooked. I still don’t know what to do. But I know I am loved.
Hi, Craig.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
You ARE loved. Thank you for sharing this today.
Thanks, Ellen.