And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
It seems like right now, besides being a time of ends, this is also a time of firsts.
The first day waking up with the knowledge that Michael is gone.
The first day after the Celebration of Life.
The first holiday without him – the 4th of July. We always had the best time with the kids at the fireworks.
The first visit at the zoo without him.
Coming up soon is my first birthday without him – July 29th. Michael always gave the best presents, and without any prompts. When I cleaned out his wallet, I found 3 Barnes & Noble gift cards that still had some money left on them. So I went to B & N and bought myself some books. And then I thanked Michael for my birthday present.
The first AllWriters’ Annual Retreat, the studio’s biggest event of the year, without Michael running in the background to make sure everything goes smoothly. July 25 – 28. Participants are already saying to me, “Put me to work! Tell me what to do!” That’s hard for me, but I will do it.
And this past Monday, my first day back to work. The hardest part: not hearing Michael at the end of the day, saying, “How did class go?” or “How was (name of client)?” and I had no one to tell.
By last night, I was exhausted. I’d been fielding the question, “Are you okay?” for all three days, and it’s an impossible question to answer. If I am okay (at that moment), I feel like there’s something wrong with me, because I shouldn’t be. And if I’m not okay (at that moment), I feel like I’m not giving my all to the class or the client. My go-to answer has become, “Depends on the moment.” And I deliberately leave off what the moment is right then.
Of course I’m not okay. But also of course, I am working my way through this.
Today, Thursday, was my day off. I started, about 2 years ago, to take one day off per week, and I alternate the days, a different day off every week. This way, I can maintain my full schedule, but I also have that one day where I can catch my breath, get some sleep, and if I’ve fallen behind, I can catch up. My students and clients know, and can plan, that every five weeks, they will have a day off.
Today, I had another first on the schedule – the first day back (again) to piano lessons since Michael died.
I didn’t set my alarm last night, as is traditional for my day off. I woke up just after eleven. I rolled onto my back, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no way in hell I could get up. So I just kept laying/lying/stretching out there.
Laying/lying/stretching out. For as long as I’ve been a writer, for as long as I’ve been a teacher, I cannot figure out the whole laying/lying thing. So in all of my work, ALL of it, stories, novels, poetry, whatever, no one ever lays or lies. They stretch out. Michael was my go-to expert on this. He got it. I would yell downstairs to where he sat in his recliner, “Which one is right, Michael?” and read him whatever sentence I was reading or writing. He would pause and then say, “Stretch out.” And we would both laugh before he gave me the correct answer.
I don’t have the answer now. And so this morning, I stretched out. And felt that it was impossible to get out of bed. I emailed my piano teacher and told her I wouldn’t be in. It was a bad day, I said.
My thoughts rolled back to Monday, the first day back to work. That morning, I received news of a professional review about my upcoming novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You. The review was from the Midwest Book Review, and it was, if you’ll forgive the phrase, every writer’s wet dream. The reviewer sang the praises of the book, and then said about me:
“Kathie Giorgio is a gifted author whose writing captivates readers with its profound depth and insight. Through her compelling narratives, Giorgio ‘s characters exude a powerful voice that resonates with the desire to spark societal change.”
Holy cow. On Monday morning, as I stared at my screen and reread and reread the words of praise, I called out without thinking, “Michael! Listen to this!”
And of course, there was no answer.
My vision blurred and, as is my way, I got out of my chair and got busy. I showered. I got dressed. And I made my bed, just so. But my thoughts kept coming back to Michael, and waiting for his answer. I stopped making my bed and, in exasperation, which was not uncommon in our marriage, I yelled again, “For God’s sake, Michael, where are you?”
And then I stopped. I forced my fists to open again, lowered my shoulders, closed my eyes, and I breathed deeply.
When I stepped away from the bed, I noticed a tiny black rectangle on the floor.
The day before, I finished cleaning out Michael’s junk closet. What I not-so-fondly called his hoarder’s closet. He could keep anything in there, I said, as long as the doors closed. I hadn’t looked in it for years, and when I opened it to start going through it, I found an absolute nightmare. But one of the things I found was a pile of magnetic poetry pieces. They weren’t in a case, and I threw them all away.
On Sunday night, when I went to bed, there was nothing on the floor. On Monday morning, when I got up, there was nothing on the floor.
Now, there was.
I picked the black rectangle up and flipped it over. “In Here,” it said.
I clasped the rectangle and began to laugh.
“For God’s sake, Michael, where are you?”
“In here.”
In the urn.
Michael had a wicked, wicked sense of humor. I placed the “In Here” by the urn.
So this morning, as I stretched out in bed, I remembered Monday. And smiled.
Later on that Monday, I was walking through the bedroom when I saw a smaller black rectangle on the floor. I picked it up and flipped it over. There was only one word. “Feel.”
I have that word now, on my dresser.
After smiling in bed this morning, I thought of that word. “Feel.” And I allowed myself to cry until I was drenched.
And then I stepped through the impossible, with his help, and I got out of bed.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
