And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
This last Saturday, I traveled to the Oregon coast, to the little house I’ve stayed in at least once a year since 2006. It is as familiar to me as my own home. The back yard is the ocean. There is a writing nook with a wide-open window that allows me to glance up at the waves in between words. The owners of the house keep a bookshelf in the nook that displays all of my books. And I needed this place more this year than ever before.
It is a place where I come face to face with who I am, without all the roles I’ve taken on over the years.
My daughter Olivia has come with me here several times, but my husband Michael only once, on my second year here in 2007. I see him still, standing down at the ocean’s edge, looking out at the waves, with a little Olivia by his side. I wish I could share that photo here, but my photos are on my computer at home, not the small one I’ve traveled with.
But mostly, when I come here, I see myself.
Several times, I’ve come here feeling lost, and I’ve run out to the ocean upon arriving and shouted at her. It’s like those moments you see in movies, where people in crisis look up at the sky and shout at God. I don’t shout at God. I shout at the ocean. I call her Ms. Pacific.
But this time, when I arrived here feeling so lost that those other times felt like nothing, I walked out to the ocean and stood there, at first having absolutely nothing to say. I walked for a bit, then turned and faced her again and said, “What the hell?”
I think I’ve said, “What the hell?” a bajillion times since the phone call on January 17th, when I was told that Michael was in the ER after having been hit by a minivan.
I’ve struggled since his death. I’ve struggled with his loss. But I’ve also struggled with what felt like the loss of myself.
Am I still married? Am I still a wife?
Should I still be wearing my wedding ring? Is it a lie now? No longer a part of me?
Am I a widow? What an awful, awful word.
I don’t know how to do this. What the hell?
When Michael was hit by the minivan, I was writing under deadline to finish my next novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, by March 1st. I spent a lot of time in the ICU at the hospital, sitting next to a non-responsive Michael, talking to him, holding his hand. And so I set up a work station and I read the entire book to him, putting on my final touches, and finishing the book. I sent it off to the publisher. It will be released on October 3rd.
And from that day forward, I didn’t write. Except for this blog. I tried. But my whole being was caught up with Michael, with his care, with being his advocate, being the power of attorney, and trying so hard to hold our lives together.
It wasn’t writer’s block. I knew what I wanted to write. I had ideas. But whenever I sat down at the computer, whenever I had a brief moment in time, all I could do was stare. And cry.
When Michael died, the advocacy turned into an amazing amount of work that had to be done. And it turned into such moments of heartache and stunned disbelief that it bent me double.
What the hell?
And so I came here.
When I’ve come here before, I’ve set aside every role that I’ve taken on and boiled myself back down to who I was as I grew up and realized the dreams and passions that were important to me. When I came here, I set aside the roles of small business owner, teacher, editor, community and writers’ advocate, wife, and even mother, except when Olivia traveled with me.
Everything moved behind me and waited for me back in Wisconsin. From the moment I got here and sat down in the writer’s nook, I felt the same thing, the same cloak, come over me as it did when I was in the fifth grade.
I was living in northern Minnesota. A new teacher came to town, teaching fifth grade English. Her name was Mrs. Faticci, an exotic name in the middle of a primarily Finnish community. And she introduced Creative Writing Thursdays.
I had no idea what that meant, but I biked to the Minute Mart by my house and bought a special blue spiral notebook. In black marker on the front, I wrote, Creative Writing. We didn’t have to have a special notebook for those Thursdays, but I knew I wanted something that set it aside from everything else, even though I didn’t know what it was. Creative Writing sounded as exotic and wonderful as my new teacher’s name.
That first day, Mrs. Faticci put a record on the record player. The song was “Oh, Shenendoah”. “Just listen to it and write what comes to mind,” she said. And so I did. Afterward, she had us each get up and read what we wrote. The kids wrote, “There’s a boat.” “I hear water.” “Floating.”
I got up and read a complete short story, with description, dialogue, characterization, you name it. And when I got to “The End”, the room was silent.
From the back, Mrs. Faticci whispered, “Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer.”
And that cloak fell on me with all the rightness of the world. It was like hearing my name.
When I came here, all those years, that cloak was the only thing I wore.
But I came here this year with my feet pulled out completely from beneath me. I was so lost.
I arrived on a Saturday. I spent Sunday sitting on the deck, looking at the ocean, but not always seeing it. I didn’t step into the writing nook until Monday. And it is stepping into – there is a step up to get into the nook.
I stepped up. I looked out at the ocean. And then, the next time I looked up, there were 20 pages of a new novel on my screen.
I felt the cloak. I wrapped it tight around me. I heard my teacher’s voice. And I felt so much relief, I can’t even begin to put it to words.
That evening, before putting my computer to bed for the night, there were also four new poems on the screen. One begins with the line, I don’t know how to do this widow thing.
What the hell?
I’ll figure it out. But one thing I do know… I am no longer lost. I’ve lost my husband and my heart aches with a hurt that feels like it will never end.
But I’m still here. Me. I’m here.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
I hate the word widow, too. And I’m not sure how to do this either. But we’re doing it. ❤️
Day by day.