Author: Kathie

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This one may take a bit to work through. It’s going to be rambling. I know what I feel, but I’m not sure how to say it.

Two weeks ago, I went on my first date since Michael’s death. I did not write it as my Moment of Happiness. This week, I was supposed to go on the second date with the same person. I didn’t go.

BUT – I have to say here that the man I was with was wonderful. Perfectly nice, charming, attentive, and we had a lot in common. The problem wasn’t with him. It was with me.

And yes, here, the old “It’s not you, it’s me,” is absolutely true.

As the days passed by, moving me closer to the second date, I realized I was dreading it more than I was looking forward to it. For that matter, I wasn’t looking forward to it at all. I was so uncomfortable. So at 3:00 in the morning, ten hours before the date was to start, I texted him.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to cancel. I can’t sleep for thinking about it. I guess I’m just not ready yet. My husband’s death was really traumatic and I’ve been having a really hard time. I thought going out with someone would help me move on, but it’s just making me feel worse. I’m sorry. I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

He texted back, “I understand!” and that was that.

Though I still felt badly. As I sat and worked my way through this, I realized that I felt like moving on and starting to date was something that I was expected to do. Just who was expecting that, I can’t tell you, other than the usual ephemeral “them” that seems to tell all of us what is acceptable behavior. However, I was simply not ready to do this. It felt wrong.

I can pinpoint exactly when all the wrongness surged up and made me recoil.

He kissed me goodnight. Three times.

I was kissing someone who wasn’t Michael. Who I was married to for 25 years, and who I’d been committed to for 27.

Oh, hell, no.

A month after Michael’s death, I was sitting somewhere, filling out one of those questionnaires you’re given when you’re someplace new. I don’t remember where I was, but I remember the list of words I had to choose from to define myself in the first question.

Was I:

            Single?

            Married?

            Divorced?

            or Widowed?

I stared at that final word. Was that me? Was that who I was now?

Finally, I took the pen and X’d out the entire list. Beneath it, I wrote, “Legally, I’m a widow. But I am Michael’s wife. I’m married to Michael. I always will be.”

I no longer feel badly about canceling the date, and really, canceling the possibility that it could go somewhere. I feel sorry, yes. But I was just doing what was right for me. That may change in the future, or it may not. For now, to use a phrase I absolutely hate, it is what it is.

Earlier this week, I was speaking with the very best of friends. In our conversation, she said, “I’m really impressed by how you’re taking care of yourself right now.”

So am I.

Another friend recently posted on Facebook:

“Oh, look. Rock bottom has a basement.”

And I laughed out loud.

Reaching that basement caused my body to start breaking down, when I insisted I was going to prove my strength and keep on keepin’ on, even during the worst time of my life, which sent me to rock bottom and then on to the basement. Which led me to the first step of climbing out – taking a 6-week hiatus from teaching in order to make myself face everything that happened. And to face the reality of never going back to what was my life.

I’ve always hated basements, by the way. Dark, spooky, bug-infested places.

But this basement pretty much forced me to start taking care of myself, or remain in that damp awful place.

I’m not in the basement anymore, and I’m not rock bottom either. It’s been really intriguing how many people have used my own language back at me – “It’s a new chapter, Kathie.” It certainly is, to a book I never dreamt I would have to write. And while I still don’t want to, I am writing it.

But…the Moment of Happiness. I didn’t do what I felt was expected of me. (And I can hear some of you out there saying, “When did you ever?”) In this new chapter, in this new life, I was, for a while, trying to follow a path that seemed to be what I “should” do. Go back to work just two weeks after my husband died. Keep being “strong” when I felt anything but, and with that, refusing to ask for help because strong people don’t ask for help. Thinking I could make myself recover by forcing myself to do so, in a timeline provided by some “them” I couldn’t even identify. Dating. Moving on, whatever the hell that means.

But ultimately, what taking care of yourself means is a unique decision for everyone. And for me, for now, maybe forever, it means still being Michael’s wife. I might even keep checking “Married” on those stupid forms.

Michael and I did not have traditional vows at our wedding, by the way. We never said, “til death do us part.”

And I’m still not saying it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Yesterday, the sun fell into my condo. It was glorious. Every window just glowed.

Because I had my windows washed yesterday.

Is it a sign of getting old when you’re excited by your windows being washed?

But one of the reasons I fell in love with this place was the floor-to-ceiling windows on all three floors. I love the sun and I love the moon and I love light of any kind. In all 20 years of living here, I have never unrolled the blinds the condo came with (chosen by the board, they were, until recently, the only thing we were allowed to put on our windows). When the window washers left, I just wandered from floor to floor, room to room, and marveled.

I honestly don’t remember when the last time was that I had the windows washed. I know they haven’t been done since Michael’s accident, so that would put it at two years. During that time, my mind was on anything but the windows. Though even then, I would often stop in a patch of sunshine just to bask for a bit.

I was born in St. Louis, moved to northern Minnesota when I was six, and then to Wisconsin when I was twelve. I’ve always treated the sun as a friend. I played outside as often as I could, but never in dark places. I always hated the game hide and seek, both being a hider and a seeker. No matter which one I was, it involved darkness. In the house, I would set up my toys, especially Breyers model horses and a variety of Barbie-type dolls, in a patch of sunshine, and then move with the sun. I’ve never liked curtains or shades. Out of modesty, I put plantation shades in the bedrooms, but only on the lower half. At night, lying in bed, I have a full view of the moon passing by, and I’ve often fallen asleep in its silver glow.

During the time from Michael’s accident to now, I had to let some things go with the condo. At first, because I was over my head with things that had to be done for Michael, while still keeping up with AllWriters’. Mornings, meet with clients, afternoons, at the hospital or rehab, evenings, clients and classes and reading manuscripts. When he came home for a month, it was keeping up with teaching, but taking him to doctor appointments and meeting with the home health aides. Then he died.

Even sunshine couldn’t take me out of a dark place then, although I still sought it. Followed it, sat in it, soaked in it.

I even drive a convertible whenever I can, top down. It has heated seats, so until the weather drops below 50 degrees, that car is a sanctuary.

After Michael’s death, I went into a flurry of organizing the condo. Every cabinet and drawer was sorted through, cleaned out, donated, tossed out, or put away neatly. I was ridiculously proud of buying a new silverware organizer, but using it to organize batteries by their sizes. I know some people hang on to their spouse’s things for a long time, but I didn’t. I went through his closets, one that I called his hoarder’s closet, I found good homes for his collection of old-time radios. The off-site storeroom was an epic battle, as it contained mostly Michael’s things that he wouldn’t let go of. I hired someone to rip off the carpet runner from our stairs leading from the second floor to the third, and had the wood refinished. I got rid of the stairlift I’d gotten for him, to get him from the first to second floor.

Of course, what I found after this flurry was finished was that the condo felt empty. Michael wasn’t there.

But lately, the windows really began to bother me. Even if it was a clear day, I felt like it was foggy. It’s been nice on and off recently, and so I’ve been able to open the windows and deck doors, and that was a relief.

So I decided it was time to come out of the fog.

It’s not an easy thing to wash these windows. Michael and I attempted to do it together once and decided never again. Hang out a third story window, leaning backwards to try to reach that upper right corner, when down below, there’s only the sidewalk in the front or the blacktopped parking lot in the back? No thank you. So I organized a few of the other condo dwellers (the window washers charge us less if we do several units at a time) and arranged it.

And then it was done. The sun fell in and I felt like I was renewing a relationship with an old friend.

Olivia was here, helping me keep an eye on the cats, making sure they didn’t decide to leap out a window or run out of a door. When the windows were finished, she claimed she didn’t see any difference.

I sure did. The fog was lifted. And I fell in love with this place all over again. I’ve lived here longer than any other place in my life.

It’s Home. A place of memories and events and time spent sitting in the sun or falling asleep in the moonlight.

(There is, by the way, a poem in The Birth Of A Widow about cleaning out the hoarder’s closet.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I never played with Legos. For one thing, they weren’t out yet when I was a kid. But there was a Lego-esque toy that I loved. It had 2 sky blue plastic pegboards, and then a bunch of multi-colored multi-sized tiles, and you put them on the pegboards to make pictures. The tiles didn’t stick to each other, just the pegboard. You could make pictures from the diagrams that were included, or you could make your own. I spent hours with that, and I know I kept it into adulthood…but I don’t have it now. I’m not sure when I got rid of it.

When my first three kids were born, there were many Legos, from the Duplos for little kids to the Legos we all recognize. I used to sit and watch my kids play with these, and marvel at what they made. These Legos came in big bins, and you made your own thing. There weren’t patterns yet. All I could do was click them together; I couldn’t make anything.

As my kids aged, suddenly the Lego models appeared, and by the time Olivia was playing with Legos, there were Lego stores and Lego Lands and Lego, Lego, Lego. It makes sense…the kids who loved these bricks wanted to keep creating as adults.

A little time passed after Michael died when my son Andy and my daughter Olivia introduced me to Animal Crossing Lego sets. Animal Crossing is a Nintendo game, and I’ve played it on many Nintendo systems – the GameCube, the Wii, the Switch, and now the Switch 2. It’s pretty much the only video game since the Nintendo era that I’ve played. With the kids’ help, I picked up a few small sets of Animal Crossing Legos, and then the three of us began to spend Lego nights, ordering pizza and chocolate frosted brownies and putting together the sets. I was amazed I could actually make something.

I had…fun.

Then, I discovered that Lego made a typewriter.

In my AllWriters’ classroom, there are several antique typewriters. In my lifetime, I’ve gone from a Royal manual typewriter, to a Royal Selectric electric typewriter, to a word processor to a tower computer to a laptop. Imagine that. There are three especially dear typewriters in my classroom. One is a small typewriter that folds over onto itself, and I bought it when I was sixteen years old from a rummage sale. It was five dollars. I was there first with my mother, and when I was pulling out a five-dollar bill to buy it, she said, “What in the world would you want that for?” So I put the bill back in my pocket. But later that afternoon, I slipped out of the house, returned to the sale and bought it. It was an antique then, and now, fifty years later, it’s antique-ier.

We’re both antiques now.

There is also a cat-ear antique typewriter that looks exactly like the one John Boy borrowed from the Baldwin sisters on the Waltons, when his hand-written short story was rejected by Collier’s Magazine. They said the story had to be typewritten. I was walking by an antique store in downtown Waukesha when I saw this typewriter in the window. Despite its amazing weight, I cradled it in my arms on the rest of my walk home.

My original Royal manual typewriter was blue, and given to me by my parents on the Christmas before I left for college. Like the tile set, it disappeared somewhere along the way, along with my Royal Selectric and the word processor. But for Mother’s Day a few years ago, my son Andy and my daughter-by-proxy Rayne showed up with a dusty pink Royal manual, just like my blue one. A piece of history came back to me.

And now…there was this Lego typewriter. It was an adult set, so much harder than the kids’ sets I’d been doing. But for my 65^th birthday last July, the same typewriter-toting kids brought  me the Lego set.

I was excited, but intimidated…and also overwhelmed by everything that happened since January 17, 2024, and already having trouble keeping up with my everyday life. Grief doesn’t make appointments, and it would reveal itself at the worst times, leaving me basically helpless, and ultimately, sick. So the Lego typewriter pieces sat in their box from July until a few weeks ago.

I’ve been sick all winter, basically, going from antibiotic and inhaler to antibiotic and inhaler, and finally tested positive for the newest form of Covid a few weeks ago. The exhaustion, the difficulty breathing, and just not feeling well was my final straw. Still testing positive for Covid after two weeks, I decided to take off the next two weeks too, and then there’s two weeks when I am on the Oregon coast. A six-week break, unheard of in my life. A very scary thing. But necessary.

The day before I tested positive for Covid, I sat with my son Andy and my daughter Olivia in the AllWriters’ classroom and started building the typewriter. They helped with the first steps, and at one point, it had to be torn apart and restarted. But now I’ve been working on it on my own at night.

It makes my mind work in new ways. I’ve never been good spatially, and I have to look at the diagrams and try to recreate them on my classroom table. There’s been a lot of swearing. But there’s also a lot of satisfaction in the click of one Lego fitting into another, and having it start to actually look like a typewriter.

I feel like I’m accomplishing something I couldn’t do before. I’m not sure what word to give it…it’s not a mindless activity. But it’s so focused that when you’re doing it, all other thoughts – and feelings, like fear and sadness and anger – go away.

Amazing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

On Week 2 of our shared Covid, my daughter Olivia came out to the kitchen and asked me, “Are you having weird dreams? Is Covid giving us weird dreams?”

I looked at her and laughed. Covid or not, I always get weird dreams. But yes, they’d increased since coming down with this damned thing. I’ve been dreaming about babies, lots of babies, who are all Olivia, even when there’s more than one in a dream, and even when the adult Olivia is standing beside me. I’ve been dreaming of Michael, I know it’s Michael, but when I see him in the dream, he looks like my first husband. Eeeek!

And I dreamt I was asked to guest-teach a math class at the University of Wisconsin – Madison.

I did a little research to answer Olivia’s question, and yes, it does seem that Covid gives people strange dreams. I told her we should just enjoy them while they last. They’re not nightmares. They’re just…weird.

But if she hadn’t asked me, I don’t know that I would have known any different from my every night life.

I dream in color. I dream long, often waking up in the middle, going to get a drink of water, coming back to bed, and then resuming where I left off. I sometimes wake up still speaking the words I was saying in the dream. I used to sleep walk, and after Michael’s death, I found myself doing it again. One memorable night, I woke up just as I was opening our front door to go out into the darkness. I must have walked down two flights of stairs. And…um…I don’t wear pajamas when I sleep. Luckily, the air was cold and it woke me up.

For a while after Michael’s death, the dreams got really strange, and so did the few moments after waking. I would look toward my alarm clock to see what time it was, and instead of seeing numbers, I saw little painted pictures. After looking away and then back, they became numbers again. I kind of miss those pictures.

I also lost orientation in my room. Waking up, I swore that someone had moved my bed. It was turned sideways and I couldn’t figure out how to get out. Eventually, the orientation corrected itself.

Now, obviously, and with retrospect, I can see with my writer’s eye for metaphor and symbolism that my dreams were showing me that I felt totally disoriented in my life. Everything had changed, even as the physical things in my life were still the same – my home, my furniture, and so on. I told someone that it was kind of like the cliché you hear, about the rug being pulled out from under you. Only for me, it was the entire floor. I was standing in midair, I knew my floor was somewhere, but I just couldn’t find it.

The dream, if it was a dream, I remember most from that time was waking up and looking over at Michael’s empty side of the bed. The wall just beyond the bed had a big hole in it, and inside, there was a balding man sitting in a chair, reading a newspaper. He looked up at me, smiled, and waved. I waved back and returned to sleep. When I woke, the hole was gone.

I know without a doubt that this was Michael’s father. I never met him, as he died before I met Michael, but I’ve seen pictures. And it felt like he was telling me Michael was all right. In the hospital after the accident, and in hospice, Michael told me he was seeing and speaking to his father. Seeing him in my wall (which is weird, I know) reassured me. I wrote a poem about this that is included in my new book, The Birth Of A Widow.

And now…possibly Covid dreams. Teaching a math class? At UW-Madison?

Math has long defeated me. I use a calculator for everything, and often, I tap in the wrong numbers. When I was a student at Madison, I took Theory of Arithmetic to satisfy my math requirement, and I only barely got a passing grade.

Yet my oldest daughter, Katie, is a math whiz and teaches math at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette. She didn’t get those genes from me.

In the dream, I was led into a huge lecture hall, just stuffed with students. I asked the person who led me in about a textbook, so I would at least have something to refer to. “Oh, no,” she said. “There’s no textbook. We just want you to teach.”

Okiedokie then.

As I approached the front of the hall, which had a raised stage, one of my writing mentors, Ellen Hunnincutt, who has also passed on, leaped up ahead of me, along with Kelly Cherry, also gone, who was one of my writing teachers at UW – Madison. They were dressed in old-fashioned clothing, Ellen in a tiered navy blue dress with a long string of pearls hanging down to her knees, and Kelly in a black flapper dress, with a huge hat that shadowed her face. But I could see her smile.

“What are you two doing here?” I asked.

“We’re here to cheer you on,” Ellen said.

Okiedokie then.

On this platform was a huge half-circle desk, with the opening facing the back of the stage. The desk was covered completely with those fuzzy black squares that jewelry is displayed in. There must have been over 500 fuzzy black squares. And in each one were neat little objects. Dice. Curtain rings. Seeds. Actual rings – jewelry. And, amazingly, the little pictures I used to see in my alarm clock. There was too much to take in.

“What am I supposed to do with all this?” I asked. “What does this have to do with math?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Kelly said.

I turned to face the class. There were so many students, and they were all watching me. I introduced myself, “Hi. I’m Kathie Giorgio, and I don’t know anything about math.”

They just kept watching.

“Okay,” I said. “Open your notebooks.”

They did. Off to the side, Ellen and Kelly shimmied.

“I want you to write down a list of the first numbers that come to your heads,” I said. “But write them as words, not numbers.”

And then I woke up, laughing. It’s a wonderful thing, to wake up laughing. And everything in my room was where it was supposed to be.

Later that day, in our family chat online, my daughter Katie put a math problem.

(5 – 2)² + 8 ÷ 4 =

Everyone else in the chat got 11. I got 14.

I thought squaring 3 meant you multiplied 3 by 2. So 6. 6 + 8 = 14. And then I couldn’t figure out how to divide 14 by 4.

“No,” Katie said. “To square, you multiply it by itself. So 3 x 3 = 9.”

Okiedokie then. But I still don’t see where the 11 comes from. And this is why you should never ask me to teach a math class.

Though I’d sure like to know what I had them do after I had them write numbers as words. And it was a delight to wake up laughing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

The definition of “rest”:

Rest: /rest/ verb

cease work or movement in order to relax, refresh oneself, or recover strength.

I sat down at my computer this afternoon with some trepidation. How was I going to write a Moment of Happiness for a week where I’ve been home sick with the new form of Covid? It’s a nasty one.

I tested positive on Saturday night and I was furious. How could I have Covid? But my body said, Sorry, you’ve got it. My fever soared to 103 degrees. Headache, sore throat, congestion that made me feel like my face was going to explode, and a cough that wouldn’t quit. I couldn’t take Paxlovid – it’s contraindicated with a medication that I take. They used to do IV infusions for people like me, but they don’t do that anymore…apparently without replacing that option with something else.

Going in to see my doctor, someone who I’ve known for forty years and who is my own age, he yelled at me. “Rest!” he yelled. “Rest!” and he shook his finger in my face.

So here’s the thing. Since Michael died, my sole source of income is…me. My studio. I own a small business, and I don’t receive paid sick days or vacation days or anything like that. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. With Michael gone, I no longer have his salary to fall back on. It has created in me a sense of foreboding terror. Take a day off? Are you KIDDING?

I’ve had a really illness-infested winter. The doctor says it’s because of the stress I’ve been under for the last two years. I also think it has to do with our strange weather. We haven’t been able to settle into a season. Sub-zero temperatures give way to temps in the sixties which give way to snow which gives way to rain which returns to sub-zero. Today, we have a high of 40 degrees, and it’s already on its way back down, but tomorrow, we’re in the sixties. I don’t think our bodies know what to do.

So I’ve had a round of bronchitis and flus and colds…and now Covid. And yes, because of that foreboding terror eating at me, I’ve returned to work as soon as I’ve felt reasonably well, just to fall ill again.

I snarled at my doctor and stomped home, where my daughter, Olivia, was also ill. We hunkered down together. She would sneeze, I’d cough, she’d sniffle, I’d snort, she’d groan and I’d moan. We slept when we could. And I…did (practically) nothing.

Note I said (practically). I did start writing a new story, which should be interesting to review, since it came out of a high fever. I had to get taxes ready to drop off at the accountant. There were a few phone calls to make. But honestly, nothing like my usual schedule.

And every mor–, well, afternoon, when I woke up, I went downstairs, turned on my fireplace, fetched myself a hot cup of good coffee and some breakfast, gathered a cozy blanket, sat down in my recliner with a book, and read. Usually with an orange cat on either side of me.

One of the things I love the most about going to the Oregon coast is that every morning there, I sit at the kitchen table, within view of the ocean, with a hot cup of good coffee, some breakfast, and a book. I am not in a hurry. There, I look up at the ocean. Here, I look up at my fireplace. Typically, my breakfasts are spent in front of my computer, hurriedly eating and checking my emails, before I meet with my first client.

But this week…recliner, fireplace, blanket, good coffee, good book, two orange cats. Granted, there was also coughing, sneezing, sniffling, shivering, roasting, moaning and groaning. But I chose to notice the first set of comforts.

Today, I woke up after actually sleeping well, with few wake-ups to cough or blow my nose. I felt…okay. As I sat in my recliner, coffee on my right, breakfast on my left, cat on my right, cat on my left, fireplace roaring, blanket up to my chin, and a wonderful book called I Hold A Wolf By The Ears, a short story collection by Laura Van Den Berg, I found myself sighing (without coughing) in contentment.

Oh, lovely.

And there it was. The Moment of Happiness, Despite The…Covid.

I will not return to work until Monday, so there are still 3 more days of rest, though I do have to start reading manuscripts again by Saturday. But I will attempt to take it slow.

My doctor better not EVER shake his finger at me again.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

So many mixed emotions. I feel like a blender, set on the highest setting.

On Tuesday, when my son came over, he stopped and collected the mail for me. “You have a package,” he called up the stairs to my office. “It feels like a book.”

I puzzled for a moment. I hadn’t ordered any books. A novel contest I’m currently judging had closed and the last books were delivered. Sometimes, people send me copies of their books in the hopes that I’ll review them. But I really wasn’t expecting anything.

Then I thought of the email I’d received from my poetry publisher the day before. The ARC (Advanced Review Copy) was on its way to me, they said. But that was just yesterday.

But…OH!

Andy brought the envelope up to me and I sliced it open with flying scissors.  Out slid the book. My book. My title. My name on the cover.

And different from all the others, because this book is about Michael, and my experience of my first year of widowhood.

For me, books don’t become real until I hold them. I’ve compared writing and publishing often to childbirth, but you just don’t feel a book kick you from the inside out, once it’s on your publisher’s desk. You feel it kick you from the inside, outside, and every place in between while you’re writing it, but it becomes a quiet waiting game once it’s in the process of publication. To my students, I call it The Void. Even though you know where the book is, you know it’s under contract (you HAVE the contract, you’ve printed it, signed it, and you keep it within reach on your desk), in the silence of The Void, you keep waiting for an email that says, “Oops…we made a mistake. We meant to accept someone else’s book.”

Even 18 books in.

Eventually, you get a digital copy of what your book is supposed to look like. Following the pregnancy metaphor, this is like seeing an ultrasound of your unborn baby. Whole, apparently happy, but unable to be held.

And if you’re lucky, then the publisher will send you a hard copy ARC, which is your actual book, with a banner on it that says “Not for resale”, or “Uncorrected proof.” That’s who I held on Tuesday. And it didn’t need any correcting.

Since Tuesday, it has sat beside me on my writing desk. Often, I have one hand on it, or I pick it up, page through it, put it down again.

This is a book I never ever imagined writing, and I certainly didn’t want to write it. But then the book wrote me.

This book is to help others who are going through grief, not by offering solutions, but by offering companionship. Company.

This is also my way of making sure Michael still exists in this world.

But there’s still one more, very important, thing. This book is to raise awareness of a huge wrong that needs to be corrected. I (more than) hope, but I also plan on letting this book become an awareness raiser, a shouted voice, a picket sign raised in protest.

Michael’s death was wrong, wrong, wrong. And it’s wrong for those who experienced a death under the tires of a vehicle on Milwaukee’s streets before Michael, and for those who have continued to experience it after.

It’s something that some city officials just want to shrug off. They offer words of sympathy, and then turn away. Something has to turn them back and make them open their eyes.

When I pushed hard to have the driver charged with vehicular manslaughter, the ADA said to me, “I don’t think anyone would look at the video of the accident and think the driver was at fault.”

That video.

One of the poems in this book contains these words:

“You turned to face the passenger van

as it bore down on you as you walked

Within the crosswalk

With the light

Within your rights.

The van weighed 4464 pounds.

You turned and faced it

held out both your hands

In supplication

In desperation

In the most intense act of bravery I’ve ever seen…

You placed your hands on the hood of the van

and then it hit you anyway.”

 Maybe that ADA believes in a world where people could watch this happening and not immediately turn their shocked glare onto the person behind the wheel.

I don’t believe in such a world.

So. Last Tuesday, when I opened the envelope and this book slid out into my hands, I felt a bit of the wrong begin to turn right. And I felt Michael’s presence too.

It’s a different sort of book. But I’m living a different sort of life now.

But not everything is different. The other day, I was asked, in a written interview, what it is that makes me write. There were several choices:

Be rich and famous.

Make money quickly.

Use the power of story to change the world.

The first two options made me laugh. And then I checked the one I’ve always checked, in my heart and in my mind, and in more formal interviews, like this one.

Use the power of story to change the world. Right a wrong.

Or at least try. Despite so many feelings of defeat that I’ve weathered in the last two years, I’m still trying. I can’t bring Michael back. His case is done. His life is over. But I can try to keep this from happening again.

We’ll see how it goes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Me with the ARC.

 

 

And so a Valentine’s Day special moment of happiness, despite the news.

I was originally just going to make this a short post on my Facebook page. But I’ve decided I need to place more of my attention on it, on my thoughts and feelings, on Valentine’s Day.

Out of all the holiday and personal celebrations of the year, and each year, since Michael’s horrific accident and death, I was amazed the first year to find out that Valentine’s Day is the hardest. From that first Valentine’s Day, when he was still alive, but hospitalized, trying to heal from multiple and horrible injuries, including a traumatic brain injury, and when he didn’t recognize me as me, but as his sister, and he didn’t even recognize himself, thinking he was 23 years old, to this year’s, Valentine’s Day has been excruciating.

I was supposed to lead a 3-hour workshop this morning, a workshop I’ve led for years and that I love. Much to my surprise this morning, when my eyes opened, it was to find the time was 45 minutes into the start of that workshop, and I had a student frantically pounding on my doorbell, worried that something happened to me.

Something has happened to me.

In this case, it was a situation where, somehow, I set my alarm clock of many years for “weekdays” instead of “everyday”, and so it hadn’t gone off. After I reached out to my students, rescheduled the class, and tried to take a deep breath myself, I sat on the edge of my bed, feeling completely disoriented.

And then I fell back asleep for another several hours. It was like my body and mind were trying to help me sleep through this day.

Last Valentine’s Day, in 2025, I was in a panic because I couldn’t find the heart pendant that Michael gave me before we were even married, even living together. He came to celebrate with me, traveling from Omaha, Nebraska, where he lived. He knew my birthstone is ruby, and he gave me a small heart-shaped pendant made from rubies and diamonds. Every year from then on, for 25 years of marriage, and including that day in the hospital, I wore it on Valentine’s Day. But last year, I couldn’t find it. It was kept, along with other special jewelry pieces, in a separate jewelry box, which I also couldn’t find. Last year, I cried over the loss of that pendant, and also, over the loss of Michael.

During last summer, I decided to clean out the antique chimney cabinet where I keep my jewelry. As I opened little plastic boxes, I discovered many pieces that I’d forgotten I even purchased. And then I found the plastic box that held all of those missing pieces, including the heart pendant. Between Michael’s accident, and that day sorting through jewelry, I’d totally forgotten that I already sorted through things, trying so hard to find organization and stability in my life again, and I’d already put it in what I thought was a safe space.

This afternoon, after I woke up again and dressed before going downstairs for a late afternoon breakfast, I put the pendant on.

In my recliner, with my breakfast and an orange cat on either side of me, I finished the novel I’d been reading and loving, The Collected Regrets of Clover, by Mikki Brammer. The main character of this book is Clover, who is a death doula. On these last few pages, first I read:

“Inevitably, they’d face the agonizing moment when they had to accept that the only way to keep that essence alive was to carry it in their own hearts.”

And then I read:

“Grief, I’d come to realize, was like dust. When you’re in the thick of a dust storm, you’re complete disoriented by the onslaught, struggling to see or breathe. But as the force recedes, and you slowly find your bearings and see a path forward, the dust begins to settle into the crevices. And it will never disappear completely – as the years pass, you’ll find it in unexpected places at unexpected moments.

Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.”

And finally, the last words of the book:

“You can find meaning in anything if you look hard enough. If you want to believe that everything happens for a reason. But if we completely understood one another, if every event made sense, none of us would ever learn or grow. Our days might be pleasant, but prosaic.

So maybe we just need to appreciate that many aspects of life – and the people we love – will always be a mystery. Because without mystery, there is no magic.

And instead of constantly asking ourselves the question of why we’re here, maybe we should be savoring a simple truth:

We are here.”

In the last several years, I haven’t been grieving just Michael, though there is no “just” in the grief I feel over Michael. I’ve also been grieving myself.

I’m 65 now. While many would say I’m successful, and even I say I’m successful, I have not attained the success that I always thought I would have. My singular goal in life, from somewhere around the first grade on, was to be a New York Times Bestseller List author. To write full time. To be like the authors then, who did have a chance to support themselves with their writing.

A chance that is no longer available to today’s authors.

When I met Michael, the part of him I loved beyond all else was his belief in me. He said I didn’t have to become a New York Times Bestseller List author – I already was. I’ve had others who believed that too, from the first grade on. My first book publisher once sat across a table at dinner with me, shook his head as he told me he was accepting my second book, and said, “New York really missed the boat with you, Kathie.”

I loved that – but I truly didn’t want to be a missed boat.

Did you know that, to be on the bestseller list, you have to sell 5000 books in one week? Did you know that, of the 30 million books published every year in all formats, less than six thousand will make it onto that list?

It is next to impossible to be on the bestseller list. And I wanted to do the impossible. I believed I could. So did Michael.

Since 2015, and the publication of my novel Rise From The River, I have run to the places where I feel closest to the universe, or a higher power, or whatever it is that created this world. The Pacific Ocean in Oregon. The Atlantic Ocean in Maine. The Gulf in Florida. Lake Michigan, right here, and Lake Erie in Ohio, and Lake Superior in Duluth. Dwarfed and looking up at the great expanse of a redwood tree in California. Standing under or beside all of these places, I have shouted and whispered and wept, “What do I need to do? What do you want from me? Why am I here, if not for this?”

I received answers, or at least reassurances. The line of whole sand dollars on the wall behind me speak to this. Last summer, when I was in Oregon, and I looked at the ocean and said, “I don’t even know what to say anymore,” I found not one, but five whole sand dollars, nested together at my feet. And each time I received an answer, I settled back into my life and continued doing what I was doing. Writing and teaching and advocating for literature and for writers.

But now I am without Michael. Someone who truly believed in me. And despite book #17 coming out any day, and book #18 coming out next year, and AllWriters’ turning 21 years old, and I’ve been teaching for 31 years this April, I have found myself mired in a grief so very thick that there are days I just can’t see to find my way. This blog has, in every way, been a lifesaver, forcing me to find a moment of happiness in every week.

This afternoon, in my recliner, having read all the above words, I closed my hand around the pendant and looked across the room at Michael’s urn. And I looked down and read again those final words in the novel I was reading.

And instead of constantly asking ourselves the question of why we’re here, maybe we should be savoring a simple truth:

We are here.

I am here. Still.

Moving forward.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

One morning this week, I sat down at my computer, as usual, hit the power button, and waited for it to go through its machinations so I could get settled into my work day. I was braced for the sudden blast of news, almost always bad or horrific lately, and my finger was poised over the keyboard to get me over to the sign-in page for my email.

Luckily, as my finger was diving for that button, I saw a headline and I paused.

“Brachs releases original flavor Conversation Hearts for Valentine’s Day!”

WHAT?

Ohmygosh. Those little, chalky, oddly sweet, heart-shaped candies with messages on them. I remember Valentine’s Day parties in elementary school, where we’d decorate shoe boxes in red and pink hearts and cut a slit in the lid so that classmates could slide in small envelopes with special cards inside. Some really nice kids would tape lollipops to the outside. But when I sat at my desk, loaded with a pink or red frosted cupcake, a couple pink or red frosted heart-shaped cookies, and a heart-festooned paper cup filled with red Hawaiian Punch (“How about a nice Hawaiian Punch?” “Sure!” POW!”), I dumped out my box of envelopes and then shook each one. If it rattled, I opened it and out rolled little Conversation Hearts. I read each one, eager to see what each classmate had to say to me.

Luv U

Be Mine

Hug Me

The teacher always passed out little baggies for us to put leftover goodies in, and I carefully brought home my Hearts.

Valentine’s Day was a holiday my parents did well. Not over the top, not ignored, but treasures waited for me on my desk every Valentine’s Day morning. There would be a card, a small heart-shaped box of Whitman’s Chocolates, holding 6 pieces, and another heart-shaped box of Brachs Conversation Hearts. Before I would go downstairs for breakfast that day, before I would even get dressed, I’d open the box of Hearts and close my eyes to pick one out. After reading it, I’d pop it in my mouth and sigh with delight.

As years went by, it became harder and harder to find the original flavor. But as my children arrived, I continued the tradition. Each child would find those two little boxes waiting for them on Valentine’s morning. By then, the Conversation Hearts were decorated with cartoon pictures, so I picked a different one for each child, carefully curated for that child’s personality and likes.

The first Valentine’s Day with Michael, he stood beside me as I pondered in front of the candy aisle in Walgreens, deciding which box was for which kid. As I chose, I explained to him the years of Conversation Hearts I’d experienced, and that while the chocolates were enjoyed, for me, they didn’t hold the importance of the Hearts. “Chocolate is included in almost every other holiday,” I said. “But Conversation Hearts…only Valentine’s Day.”

That first Valentine’s Day with Michael, and every Valentine’s Day since, until three years ago, I woke up to a heart-shaped box of Whitman’s chocolates and a heart-shaped box of Brachs Conversation Hearts, left on my desk. And a card. After that first year, as I was now sleeping as an adult without a desk in my room, but my writing table was right next door in my office, I knew to get up and go directly to that table. Before breakfast, before even getting dressed, I’d open the box of Conversation Hearts, close my eyes, and pick out a heart. From Michael.

All that time, through twenty-five years of marriage, they were never the original flavor.

Valentine’s Day 2024: Almost a month past being hit and run over by a passenger van, Michael lay in his hospital bed. At that point, he thought I was his sister, and he called me his sister’s name. He told me he wasn’t married, that he was only twenty-three years old. I’d steeled myself for a difficult day, but on the way to his room, I stopped at the gift shop and bought two Valentine’s Day balloons, one in red, one in pink, but both said, “I love you.” I brought them upstairs and found Michael asleep. I tied both balloons to the foot of his bed so he’d see them when he woke up. And then I waited.

When he woke up, he looked at the balloons and a frown puckered his forehead.

“It’s Valentine’s Day, hon,” I said. “Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you.”

“Oh,” he said. “Thanks, Rose.” Then he went on to ask me, “In your professional opinion, Rose, what do you think happened? How am I doing?”

Michael’s sister was a nurse.

I went home in tears that day.

Valentine’s Day 2025: Michael had been gone for almost eight months. It was the first Valentine’s Day I could remember that I didn’t have a heart-shaped box waiting for me. But I was missing so much more.

Valentine’s Day 2026: Coming up in two days.

Headline: “Brachs releases original flavor Conversation Hearts for Valentine’s Day!”

There is a Walgreens literally in my backyard. Their security light provides a nightlight in my bedroom that I’ve grown used to over the 20 years of living here. After reading that headline, I walked over there in the afternoon and stood in front of the candy aisle.

I no longer bought Valentine’s Day treats for my kids. They are adults now, and out and about. But I stood there, my eyes roaming over all the pink and red heart-shaped treats, until I found it. The original flavor. And not in a small heart-shaped box.

A bag.

I’d been without them for three years, donchaknow.

It wasn’t Valentine’s Day yet, but when I got them home, I didn’t wait. I sliced open that bag and then I reached in.

I always carefully organized my Hearts. Pink was my favorite flavor. So I picked out two of those, and then one of every other color. I lined them up on my table, with a pink as the first and last one.

It was the first time my Valentine’s Day treat was mixed with tears, and given to me by me. But that’s okay; I’ve grown to expect it on holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, special unique days known only to me and to Michael, and days that memories flit unbidden through my mind. Tears are now part of the tradition, I guess.

But those Valentine’s Day Conversation Hearts tasted just as wonderful as I remembered.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This week, a client asked me if I’d be willing to let her middle school daughter interview me for a school assignment. I happily agreed, and a few days later, I was gazing into my computer screen at a young, open-faced, well-spoken girl.

Her mom, who is currently submitting her novel around, had several cameo appearances as she slipped in and out of the room. I coached her through writing that novel, and as I looked at her daughter, my feelings were similar to what I feel when I look at my granddaughter.

By the time we were done with the interview, I knew I was actually looking at my grandwriter.

The interview was supposed to be about editing, and being a professional editor. I fielded the questions about my experience as an editor, what my most proud moments are (the success of my students, of course!), do I mostly just work with grammar and punctuation, or do I look at the work as a whole (always, the whole), and then, quietly, a question about writing appeared. It slipped in sideways, sandwiched between other questions, and was followed by a few other quiet comments. But they set off alerts in my mind.

“Do you…edit…um…write on the computer?” she asked. “Or on paper?” She looked down at her notes and away from the screen.

“Mostly on the computer now,” I said, “with both editing and my own writing. But I also sometimes grab a piece of paper or whatever else is handy.”

She glanced up at me. “I like writing on paper,” she said. “I like feeling it while I’m writing it.” She looked away again.

I smiled. “I know writers who write on napkins. Paper towels. Notebooks, both paper and electronic. The backs of envelopes. Sketchbooks. Even on their own skin, if there’s nothing else.” Michael’s memory drifted into my mind. He wrote, usually lying down on the couch, and he chose to hand-write, on small post-it notes or teeny notebooks. His handwriting was beautiful, cursive, and small. When he finished the first draft, he keyboarded it into his computer, and then printed it out. The next draft was written as he read the first draft…writing in the margins. Subsequent drafts followed the same careful order. He wrote in green pen.

Looking back at the girl on my screen, she looked startled, which made me wonder if there were a few words written on an inner elbow. Or on post-it notes. Or on napkins.

“You can’t write wrong,” I said, and laughed. “Sure, when you’re getting ready to submit for publication, you have to have it in a certain format, created on a computer. But when you’re writing, when you’re working on a poem, a short story, a novel, anything at all, you can’t do it in a wrong way. You just write.”

This made me think of an interchange I had with my son Andy, way back when he was in third grade (he’s going to be 40 soon). He and his brother and sister always walked home from school together, but on this day, he ran ahead of them, threw open the back door, and flew into the house.

“Mom!” he yelled. “Mom! I wrote a story! It’s about a wizard!”

I, of course, flew just as quickly out of the room I used as my writing room and tore into the kitchen. “Really? Let me see it!”

He started to open his backpack, but then he stopped. His shoulders slumped. “I think I spelled wizard wrong,” he said.

At the time, the school system was actually grading first drafts for spelling errors, a practice I found infuriating, and that I’d told my kids I was going to completely ignore, if they brought home a red-marked assignment.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Writers don’t care about spelling when they’re writing something for the first time. You just write first. You fix later. That’s what real writers do.”

Those shoulders came right back up. He beamed at me. And then he dug out his story and I read it and we talked about it. After a snack with his siblings, he hustled to his room and to his desk, to work on the story some more.

I about melted with happiness.

Now I looked at this earnest child in front of me, on a computer screen. Her eyebrows were still puckered. I decided repeating my previous words would be worthwhile, this time, while she was looking at me.

“Camille,” I said. “You can’t do it wrong. However you write is the right way. Just write.”

And like Andy, that face opened up and she beamed wide at me.

After we signed off Zoom, I sat quietly at my writing table for a bit. Last year, my books were banned from my school district.

But I was still reaching young writers. And they still wanted to write. Despite AI, which steals the joy of writing in pencil, in green pen, on napkins, post-it notes, and skin. Which steals the joy of writing at a desk or lying on a couch or under a tree.

Which steals the joy of being a writer.

All of my students, whether they’re kids or octogenarians, have that fear of doing it wrong. That fear of the red pen circled around their words drives them, no matter their age.

It’s why I use a purple pen, when I’m editing hard copy. 😊

But all of them, ALL of them, burst into a beam when I tell them they can’t get it wrong. Write first. Then edit.

It’ll all work out. And it will have their stamp of originality and individuality on it.

I lit my screen with the story I’m working on, and set to work.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.