Author: Kathie

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

Just about fifteen minutes ago, I was stomping around the house, muttering, “What the hell am I going to write about this week?” I’d just finished lunch, and this being Thursday, this meant that the next thing on my to-do list was not to come up to my office and work on my latest book, but instead, I was to write my blog. This blog. About a Moment this week that made me happy.

Some weeks, that’s a taller order than others. This is one of those weeks.

I live a busy life, which is fine with me. I had a client tell me this morning that I’m one of those “lucky people” who has a job that she loves. And I do. But for some reason, October and November have turned out to be months of extras, where I’m involved in things that add to the general and consistent busyness of my days.

I’ve just had a book released.

I have another book coming out in early 2026.

We just had banned book week, and I presented with a panel on banned books, as I am a writer whose books have been banned.

I’m taking an active part in my town’s Big Read’s-esque program, Waukesha Reads. On Monday, I’ll be leading a writing workshop at the library.

I’m the program coordinator for the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, a huge undertaking involving over 50 authors…and the closer we get to our dates (November 7 and 8), the more fires I’m putting out.

And of course, from a personal standpoint, I’m still dealing with grief. A student attending a workshop this weekend said that I am so “composed” whenever I speak about Michael, and she doesn’t know how I’m doing it. She doesn’t know about the nightly meltdown. And that meltdown is doubly hard now. It used to occur late at night, when I was done with my work, I’d watched one episode of whatever show I’m watching at the moment, and as silence and solitariness fell over the condo, my dog Ursula would immediately get up, come over, and sit on my feet. I could hug her and my tears would fall on her head. Now, there’s no Ursula. Now I cry for both my missing husband and my missing dog. Though the last couple nights, I’ve had one or the other or both of my cats come over and leap into my lap. They’re a help.

So there’s a lot happening right now.

Today, my mind was so full of schedules and deadlines and who’s where and what’s next that I made myself physically stop moving and take a moment to think back over the week to try to discover that Moment that I always look for now, that Moment when I smile involuntarily.

Nothing. I came up with a blank.

With a sigh, I went on upstairs to my office, hoping the routine and the sitting down at my desk would spur something. Sometimes, just writing a few words leads to a few more, and then more, and I’m off and running. But as I headed toward my desk, I stopped for a moment more to admire the two new blooms on one of my hibiscus trees. Ruby, this one is called.

And there was the Moment.

Over the weekend, and into Monday, I suddenly developed a forest in my office. Now, I’m not big on real forests. I have a lifelong fear of forests thick with trees, throwing dark shade. You’ll just have to trust me on this – bad things can happen in a forest.  When I’m outside, I’m most comfortable walking alongside the ocean with the trees in the distance. I never even used to have houseplants. I’ve only had plants in the classroom, not in my home.

But somehow, since Michael died, I’ve suddenly sprouted a plant stand in my office that holds seven plants. On the second floor, in front of the door that leads to a small deck, is a large monstera plant, and as of last week, I added the chrysanthemums given to me by my hair stylist on the launch of my latest book, which coincided with my 26^th wedding anniversary. In Olivia’s room, there is a palm tree. On a window at the bottom of the steps leading to the third floor is a plant called a hoya, given to me this week by a friend.

And then there’s the 3^rd floor deck, which over the last several years,  has become my at-home sanctuary.

And now…there’s this forest. Inside. In my office.

We had our first frost advisory this past weekend, and tonight, we have our first freeze advisory. My son came over the weekend and helped me move in the hibiscus. There used to be only one hibiscus. This year…there’s three. Lefty, who is two years old. Ruby, who latched on to me at the grocery store over Memorial Day. And Joe The Jolly Green Hibiscus, given to me by the same friend who gave me the hoya. It’s not uncommon now for me to have a hibiscus in my office for the winter, but this year, there were three.

I had to move a bookshelf to make room.

Then, I kept looking out my deck door at my begonias. It’s my second time having this type of begonia on the deck, and they do amazingly well. They grow into bushes, and the red blooms are just boisterous and nonstop. The first time I had these plants, I felt really sad, looking out as they died as the cold set in. They were, I thought, too big to bring in, even though I knew my mother wintered her begonias in the house all the time. But these weren’t just small plants. They were bushes.

I already had three trees in my office.

So…what’s two bushes?

I simply couldn’t stand to watch something else I really love die.

Borrowing a dolly, Olivia and I brought the begonias in. They are sitting in front of the hibiscus trees, and I imagine all of them chatting away. Across from them, directly in front of the window, is the plant stand with the seven plants, including the geraniums that were outside on the deck, but which I also brought in.

I have lots of company now.

Since coming in, two out of three hibiscus have bloomed. The third has buds, which I expect to open any day. The begonias have continued their party. The geraniums are blooming.

I’m living in a very lovely, very safe forest. A forest I can not only tolerate, but love.

And imagine all the extra oxygen I’m getting!

Sometimes, the Moment of Happiness is simply that – a Moment. A bloom from a friend.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last Friday, when I turned on my computer in the morning, the first headline I was hit with was the death of John Lodge, bassist and singer for the group The Moody Blues. The Moody Blues were made up of five band members (at least the ones I count): Justin Hayward, John Lodge, Ray Thomas, Graeme Edge, and Michael Pinder. With John Lodge’s passing, there is only one member left – Justin Hayward.

I spent a large part of Friday and Saturday, wondering what that must be like for him. To be the last one standing. I imagine it feels much like I do, late at night, after I turn the lights out in the condo and stand for a moment, still so newly alone in my home.

I fell head over heels with the Moody Blues when I was twelve years old, the moment I heard the song “Nights In White Satin” playing over a car radio. I don’t remember whose car I was in or why, but I remember that music just cloaking me. It wasn’t just the melody and the harmony…it was the words, their particular rhythm, and the meaning. Even then, I loved music that told a story – no surprise there.

From that point on, I was a true Moody fan. I wrote fan fiction about them, in which I incorporated myself into their lives, creating a family of sorts, because of course, in the story, we all lived in a great old house outside of London. Of course, we all owned horses. Of course, the house was filled with music. And of course, I was the light of their lives. In reality, they were a very large light in mine.

I spent hours in my room, sitting in the dark on the floor directly in front of the speakers of my little stereo, singing with my eyes closed, and transported into the worlds they talked about in their songs and the world I talked about in my mind.

As an adult, I don’t know how many times I saw them perform. When my big kids were 13, 11, and 10, the Moody Blues performed at Summerfest (1997) and the whole family went. Just this last Friday, when Lodge’s death was announced, my oldest son, 41 now, came on the family Instagram chat and said, “Oh, no, Mom. John Lodge died.” He then went on to say that he remembered that I had to drag them to the concert, but he ended up enjoying it.

Just the fact that he remembered what the Moody Blues mean to me, and came on specifically to commiserate with me, meant a lot. That he remembered the concert – even better.

Saturday night, I went with my youngest son and youngest daughter to a candlelight concert. It featured the music of Coldplay and Imagine Dragons, bands that I also love, and was held in Madison, Wisconsin. All the way there and all the way home, I played Moody Blues music, not from the car radio, but through Spotify through my speakers, in this new modern way, donchaknow.

But at the concert, I let myself sink into the candlelight. What a different feeling than a dark concert hall! It was soft and the flickering provided the room’s slowed heartbeat. The music was performed by a string quartet (two violins, a viola, and a cello) and it was so amazing to hear that familiar music in such a different way. I sank into it too.

When the quartet prepared to play Coldplay’s song, “Fix You”, a song I’ve played innumerable times since Michael died, one of the musicians talked about how singer Chris Martin wrote the song for his then-wife, Gwynth Paltrow, after the death of her father. The song is about guiding someone through the dark times. In my head, I heard the words as the song wasn’t played with voices, but with instruments. And those instruments sang with emotion. When I heard – and felt – the words, “Lights will guide you home,” I lost it in a silent way. Not sobbing. But impossible to stop tears flowing freely down my face. I didn’t want to draw attention by repeatedly wiping my eyes, so I just let the tears fall.

Lights will guide you home. What had I just said, and then written, two days before? On my wedding anniversary? That the only thing I wanted to honor that day was to see Michael come through my door, with the flowers he’d given me for anniversaries 1 – 24. To see him come home.

Lights will guide you home. And there I was, in the softest of light, and with a song meant to guide someone through dark times playing all around me, and in me, as I heard the words in my head.

On the way to and from the concert, the Moody Blues singing, bringing their familiarity and comfort to me, that had soothed me for so many years, starting when I was twelve.

I didn’t just sink in that candlelit concert hall. I relaxed. I let go.

I was so grateful.

I have, packed away in a closet, my hand-written fan fiction of my imagined life with the Moody Blues. I may have to revisit them.

Music soothes and it uplifts. This is a rambling Moment, as I’m trying hard to put into words just how that moment, and that song, and the music that surrounded me that whole day, made me feel. But I think the best way is just to show you.

Pick out your favorite song, the one that just makes you let go of the clench you didn’t even know you were holding. Play it in a dark room, maybe with a candle or two. And then just listen.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

To listen to Coldplay’s song, Fix You, go to:

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

Lately, it seems like numbers have become very important to my life. I’ve never been a fan of numbers, and I truly don’t understand them very well, at least when it comes to math. When I was doing my undergrad work at the University of Wisconsin – Madison, I had to take a math class, and I took the simplest one I could find: Theory of Arithmetic. I earned a D. I have no idea how I produced a daughter who is a math whiz and teaches math (way higher level than Theory of Arithmetic) at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette.

But lately…numbers. I know exactly how many months it’s been since Michael was hit and run over by a passenger van. I know exactly how many months it’s been since he died. I remember when I had babies, and I wondered when I would go from saying, “He’s 3 months old…13 months old…18 months old…27 months old…” to “He’s three years old.” It seemed to happen around the three-year mark, maybe because the number of months grew steadily higher and, with my (lack of) math ability, I began to lose count.

I wonder now if it will be three years later that I finally lose track of the amount of months that have passed since Michael was forced down the path of leaving me, and when he left.

It’s become that way with writing too. A career that is made up of words, but now, the heaviness and importance of numbers has entered in.

Tonight is the launch of my 16^th book. My 5th book of poetry. My 17^th book, 6^th book of poetry, will be released this winter. My 18^th book, 9^th novel, is currently waiting for judgement on my publisher’s desk. These books have all appeared in the last 15 years.

At least I don’t know months.

It’s even taken over the actual physical act of writing. Look at how I wrote the numbers. I’ve always written out the numbers as words, which is appropriate for standard manuscript format – Sixteenth. Fifth. Etc. But suddenly, I am using numerals.

This is the sort of thing that can drive me batty.

So tonight, the launch of my 16^th book, 5^th book of poetry, as a kick-off event for the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books.

But it’s another day too.

On 10/9/1999, Michael and I were married. It’s our 26^th anniversary.

I’ve been struggling all day with how to say that, what words to use. Should it be, “Today is my 26^th anniversary.” Or, because I am now legally a widow, which means, I guess, that I’m no longer married, should it be, “Today would have been my 26^th anniversary.” Should I use “my”? Or should I use “our”? Today is our 26^th wedding anniversary. Today would have been our 26^th wedding anniversary.

Am I still married?

I feel married.

My gosh, this death and grief thing is complicated.

I just returned home from getting my hair cut and colored, in preparation for the launch tonight. The woman who keeps me red and spiky is Michelle. She gave me a lovely plant that she picked up for me this morning, because she knew about Ursula, my dog, who died 2 weeks and 4 days ago.

2 weeks and 4 days.

And Michelle gave me the plant just after I emailed someone, who asked me if I wanted to do something special to honor the anniversary after the launch is over tonight. I answered that all I wanted was to have Michael walk through the door, carrying the flowers he brought me for anniversaries 1 – 24.

A few minutes later, after answering that email, I held flowers.

I carried them to my car, placed them in the back seat, got behind the wheel, and burst into tears.

Oh, it’s a day.

It is also, by the way, the 2^nd book launch that Michael has not been in the audience. And it is the 2^nd anniversary without him.

But after coming home, I came up to my office to work on this blog. My office has become a forest, because the nights have turned cold and so my son carried in my 3 hibiscus plants for me, so that they could stay warm and cozy through the winter.  I love hibiscus, going so far as to name them and make them a part of my family. I do talk to them, but hell, I talk to everything. So in front of me right now, lined up where I used to have a bookshelf, are Lefty, Ruby, and Joe The Jolly Green Hibiscus.

Seeing them reminded me of yesterday.

Yesterday was their first full day in the house. When I passed them in the morning on the way to my desk, I noticed that Lefty had a bud that was swollen to bursting. I took a photo, and then, throughout the day, when I had to run by en route to the next thing on my to-do list, I glanced at the bud, and took another photo. By evening, Lefty gave me a glorious bloom.

Out loud, alone in my office (except for 2 cats and 3 hibiscus), I said, “There are some lovely parts to life.”

And now, I’m sitting here, reminding myself that I said that. That I felt that. And I can see that bloom from my desk.

I can see the flowers from a friend, who thought she was memorializing my dog (she was), and didn’t realize she was giving me something that my husband would have given me, on our 26^th anniversary.

There are some lovely parts to life. A bloom from a plant. Flowers from a friend. Celebrating accomplishments.

A lovely husband, who was always there for me, and who would be here today, if only he could.

Even though my life seems to have become about numbers, I can feel the lovely parts again, when, a short time ago, I couldn’t.

That’s lovely too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(For those of you who are within driving distance, I hope you come to the launch. I need help to get through this day.)

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

In 2017, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I went through a partial mastectomy, 20 rounds of radiation, and I took oral chemo for 5 years. A year after the surgery, an inexperienced mammogram technician attempted to get a tight close-up of the surgical area. She clamped down too hard, pulling me for the first time up on my toes in pain and causing tears. Her inexperience left me with internal bleeding which went into a huge infection, requiring drains and specialists, which I hadn’t had to deal with after my surgery. It also caused what was left of that breast to collapse, leaving me grossly misshapen and, well, let’s just say my days of dancing naked on tables were over.

I believed that year to be the worst of my life, until the last 19 months. I definitely have a new perspective now.

I am eight years away from cancer now. I rarely think of the breast cancer anymore, but my once-a-year appointment with my oncologist and for bloodwork, and my once-a-year mammogram (so much better than every three months!) tends to bring it all roaring back. I guess the experience exists now just beneath my surface.

I had my appointment with the oncologist and the bloodwork last May. I didn’t even stop to think about my mammogram. So when I was visiting the Milwaukee County Zoo this past weekend with my son Andy and daughter Olivia, and I received a reminder email about a mammogram on Monday, my immediate reaction was to stop dead in my tracks and say, “No, I don’t!”

It wasn’t on my calendar. Which meant it didn’t exist. But yes, to my surprise, when I called on Monday morning, it was confirmed that I did. When the nurse asked me if I wanted to reschedule, I considered it for a hot minute.

My breast cancer happened because I allowed myself to be “too busy” and I missed it 3 years in a row. The type of cancer I had is called invasive ductal carcinoma. The tumor was in a milk duct. If I’d gone to my regular mammograms, the tumor would have been found there, and it would have been removed and that would have been the end of it. No further treatment. At that point, it was non-invasive ductal carcinoma. But because I unknowingly left it so long, the tumor grew and burst through the walls of the milk duct, possibly metastasizing or traveling to my lymph nodes or both.

All because I was too busy.

Did I want to reschedule my appointment? “No,” I said. “I’m busy, but I’ll be there this afternoon.”

Now I will admit that the five deaths I’ve experienced in 18 months, four of which required me to make the decision to let those lives go – one of which was my husband – is playing awful games with my head. I’ve begun to wonder who is next in line. Any time one of my cats sneezes, or one of my kids gets in a car or goes for a walk or doesn’t answer a text right away, I freak out. It’s truly not a comfortable way to live.

So of course, as I drove to the Cancer Center that afternoon, I began to wonder. Was it me? Was I next in line?

I’ve spoken with a lot of breast cancer survivors. All of them have told me that, whether they are a year out, ten years out, twenty-five years out, all of the fear and worry comes rushing back on mammogram day. And so I dealt with that again on Monday, but to the extreme.

Would I be next?

I very much remember, back in 2017, sitting in the room where I was to have my biopsy, waiting for it to begin. I picked up a People magazine from the table beside me. The cover story was on Olivia Newton-John. She’d just died, twenty-five years out from breast cancer. After doing everything right. She ate well, she exercised, she reduced stress, she did yoga and meditation. But a single cancer cell drifted during her treatment to her tailbone, where it “slept” for twenty-five years. And then it awakened.

I am a polite person, and I am a polite patient. But I threw that magazine across the room. As it thwacked against the opposite wall, the radiologist came in. He looked at me, then walked over and picked up the magazine. When he read the cover, he dropped the magazine into the garbage can.

“It’ll be okay, Kathie,” he said.

I wasn’t convinced. And once a year, twice, if you count the visit to the oncologist and the bloodwork, I’m still not convinced.

But I went to my mammogram.

I had a very experienced and very efficient technician. She chattered as she walked me through all of the steps. Then she told me to sit down while she showed the screens to the radiologist. This is standard. Where I go, you get your results immediately.

I sat in the chair. Amazing how time can stretch.

But she was back in five minutes. “You’re good to go, Kathie,” she said. “See you next year.”

I sat for a few minutes more before I got dressed. I let the relief and the gratitude just wash over me. Even though it is very, very, VERY hard for me to feel gratitude right now.

But I felt it.

It wasn’t going to be me. Not on this day, anyway.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

October, by the way, is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Get your mammograms. Don’t be too busy.

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

It’s amazing to me how, when we wish to make a point or reach out to people, we often raise our voices. We yell. We shout. But at least in my experience, it’s often the softest voices that come through and have the most welcome impact.

It’s no secret that I’ve been having a challenging time. Since January 17, 2024, my life and my world hasn’t just been turned upside down. It’s been shaken, thrown repeatedly against a wall, dropped to the floor, and stomped on. Every time I think I’m getting my feet back under me, something new happens, and they’re yanked out again.

Which is probably why my dog Ursula’s horrible unexpected death has me thinking in every cliché in the world. The straw that broke the camel’s back. Also known as the final straw. The final nail in the coffin. The tipping point. The point of no return. The. Last. Nerve.

All are appropriate.

One aspect of all this that isn’t well known is that I actually stopped writing for a while. This has never happened before. Through every challenge, every fall-down in my life, I have shown up, first at the page, then at the screen. Writing is more than my career. It is my identity, my strength, my absolute source of sanity.

Michael died in June of 2024. From mid-February 2025 to mid-April 2025, I stopped writing, with the exception of this blog, though even that became gruelingly hard.

I lost my voice.

In my poetry book, The Birth Of A Widow, which will be released in early 2026, there is a poem from the day I sat down to write again, and it’s on the loss of that voice. I’ll include it at the end of this blog.

But it brings me back to soft voices. I took last week off of teaching, and this week too, because I simply found myself numb and unable to hold my attention on anything. With Ursula’s death, the fifth death I’ve had to deal with in 18 months, the fourth death where I had to make the decision to let those lives end, I found myself incapable of doing a damn thing.

And then came the soft voice.

I’ve written often about my high school creative writing teacher. I met him when I was a junior, and I’m now probably about 3 times his age when he taught me then. He was a relatively new teacher. I was new to the school, in the difficult position of switching schools midway through my junior year.

As soon as I began to write in his class, he lifted me up. Not that he made it easy; he challenged me in a way no other teacher had. By that point, I’d been praised to the hilt, and I was in that adolescent state of mind where I felt the world owed me something. Instead, he taught me that my writing wasn’t about what the world could do for me. It was about what I could do for the world.

In one note on a short story I’d written, he told me I had a responsibility. Not just a gift, but I had a responsibility to use that gift. And that would mean work. Lots and lots of work. But to not do it would be shirking my responsibility.

So I’ve worked and worked. I still have that story, still have that comment.

And then came the poetry unit.

He told me that fiction was my strength. My superpower. And poetry…wasn’t.

I was mortified. So my poetry and I went underground. I continued to write it, but never ever to show it. Never to submit it. As my career grew, I was asked often if I wrote poetry, because I make a point of making my fiction lyrical. I spend many painstaking, voice-robbing hours reading all of my work out loud, listening for the rhythm, the sound…the poetry. But I never admitted to it. I said I didn’t write poetry.

I don’t remember what led me to submit my first poem, well after my short stories and even my books started being published. But I did. And it was accepted. So I went from putting my toe in the water, to sticking in my whole foot. My leg. And now, I swim.

The poetry book that was just released, Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing!, is my fifth book of poetry. The Birth Of A Widow will be my sixth.

I am still very much in touch with my high school creative writing teacher. We reconnected when he showed up at my first book launch. He has continued to be my sounding board, and he’s the one that tells me to get back to work when I waver.

But I didn’t contact him during that 3 months of silence. I didn’t contact anyone. I simply didn’t have the energy.

I dedicated Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing! to my teacher. I said, at the end of the dedication:

So this is dedicated to you. I love you, and I’m so grateful for you. But sometimes…you were WRONG!

Last week, I went to the post office and mailed him the book. I put a post-it note on the cover, telling him to pay special attention to the dedication.

This week, for me, a card arrived in the mail. Inside it was a note from my high school creative writing teacher:

Well, I do have to admit that you were right (about poetry) and I was wrong. I do like your “story” poems a lot; I also like your short poems – which make me think.

That’s the beauty of your writing – you make the reader think. And you always have.

Keep writing.

And there’s the soft voice. Which has spoken to me time and again. From when I was seventeen years old, to now, when I’m sixty-five.

I wavered again these last two weeks.

But I am at my desk now.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

The poem I promised, from the upcoming The Birth Of A Widow:

5/16/25

ABSENT

For eleven months, you have been gone.

For three months, I have been silent.

I spoke for eight months

and it made no difference.

But after three months of my silence

nothing has changed.

I am still alone.

 

I have not been silent inside.

Inside, I have been screaming

and crying

raging

and pleading.

Outside, I open my eyes in the morning

move through my day

close my eyes at night.

But I hear the chaos within.

It comes out in dreams.

 

Dreams of running away.

Or chasing others.

Dreams of your voice coming from

a different face.

Seeing someone else I recognize,

but still know it’s you.

Dreams that are impossible.

And when I wake,

I face that impossibility.

 

One morning, I open my eyes before my alarm.

When I look over at your side of the bed,

I see a hole in the wall, just beyond.

A man sits there, a bald man, heavy,

reading a newspaper.

He looks at me and smiles.

Waves.

I wave back and return to sleep.

When I wake later, the hole is gone.

But I know it held your father

who died before I met you.

 

I feel he was telling me you’re all right.

And he was telling me that I’m not.

That day, I decide

to stay in bed.

I get up today.

 

I think about these poems

and about how I’ve gone silent.

My writing voice never silent before

but beginning to move away from silence

to missing.

Disappearing.

Dying.

Like you.

 

And I just can’t take another loss.

 

So today, I sit down to write again.

My voice is slow

and pain-filled.

But I think of your father

and I smile.

 

 

 

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

Well, this is hard. Last week, I posted that I was giving myself the week off because my week was filled with my dog Ursula going suddenly blind. She seemed to be doing better, it looked like there was a decent chance her vision would be restored, but I was simply exhausted.

I didn’t know then that four days later, Ursula would go into severe seizures, four within 45 minutes, and I would have to help her out of this world and into the next.

This means that since Michael’s accident 18 months ago, I’ve had to help our two cats the same way (Edgar Allen Paw was fourteen and had been dealing with having his back legs collapse suddenly. Then they collapsed and didn’t come back. Muse had a stroke on the day after her 20^th birthday.), then, as power of attorney for Michael, I made the impossible decision to withdraw support and move him to hospice (he died five days later), and now my dog.

I am so immersed in grief, I feel like it’s in every breath I take. Ursula was beside me through all the difficult days and difficult decisions.

Ursula came to us as a rescue in 2018. She was approximately 3 years old. She arrived in a truck from a humane society in Alabama, who brought up six dogs from their shelter to one here. All that was known about her was that she’d clearly been used for breeding – she was a pitbull. In the shelter, surrounded by barking dogs, she seemed calm. But once she came home, it became clear she was afraid of everything.

The television. The beep of the microwave. The icemaker in the fridge. Sirens going by. Flags flapping in the wind. Grass. Grass!

In all the time we had her, we could never take Ursula for a walk. She would bellycrawl, like a soldier. She would sometimes head out to do her business in the grassy strip between our parking lot and Walgreens, but typically, she simply stepped out of my garage door and did everything next to my car. One loud sound would send her running back inside.

As time went by and she adjusted to some things (the tv, the microwave, the fridge, sirens, flags, but never ever to grass), she became the most loving dog ever.

The night of Michael’s accident, I brought home from the hospital all of his clothes that had been sliced off by the paramedics. I held out what was left of his shirt to Ursula, and until he came home 9 weeks later, she slept with his shirt. She also glued herself to my side. If I was downstairs, so was she. When I was at my desk, she was under it, so I bought her a bed that fit there, and she used it every day. Wherever I moved in the condo, she was there. At night, she slept in her loveseat near the foot of my bed, but I often woke to find her sleeping beside my bed, within arm’s reach. Night times were, and still are, my hardest times.

When Michael came home for a month before he returned to the hospital and then hospice, she divided her time. At night, she was with me, but when I went downstairs in the morning, she would go into Olivia’s room, where Michael slept, since the stairs were too much of a challenge. She stayed with him until he got up, then she followed him as he used his walker to move to the living room, and she stayed on the couch beside his reclining seat in the loveseat. She followed him everywhere. She made sure he was safe.

He called her Nursula.

When Michael died, I brought home the pillow I’d had made from Ursula’s photograph. She slept with it from then on.

Ursy wasn’t an official emotional support animal, but she was, in all ways, to me. As I was hers, helping her through her scary times.

She just had her annual physical in August. She was tip-top. And then, two Fridays ago, she suddenly began walking into walls and doors. She had trouble with the stairs and getting around the condo. It was, I said, like she suddenly couldn’t see. I took her in to the emergency vet, who thought she had SARDS (Sudden Acquired Retinal Degeneration Syndrome), which can cause dogs to go blind in a matter of hours. That night, I asked Michael, if he could hear me, wherever he is, if he’s anywhere, if he could do something. This was Ursula. She couldn’t go blind. I needed her too much.

The next day, I brought her back to the vet to see a doggie ophthalmologist. He said it wasn’t SARDS, that her left eye could still see some, though her right eye was blind right now. He thought it might be an infection, and so she was given an IV of a steroid, and sent home with Prednisone and two antibiotics. She had an appointment to see a neurologist, as there was a chance it wasn’t an infection at all, but something in her brain.

From Tuesday to early Sunday morning, things seemed hopeful. Ursula was making her way easily through the house, and up and down the stairs. Her tail was wagging. Every now and then, she banged the right side of her head on something, but she quickly learned to be aware of that, and moved her head away quickly with barely a thump. I was amazed, and so, so relieved.

But then at 3:00 Sunday morning, she began making odd noises. I looked over to her loveseat, and saw that it was swaying. When I got to her, she was in full seizure, her feet running, and her face was crammed deep into a corner of the loveseat, blocking her breathing. I released her head, held her as she fell onto the floor. She settled down some, enough to stand up and return to the loveseat, and then seizure two started. I yelled for Olivia, who thankfully was staying overnight, so she could stand by and support Ursula as I got dressed and called my son Andy. There was no way I could carry a 50-pound dog down two flights of stairs by myself.

In the car on the way to the emergency vet, she had her third seizure. And at the vet, she had her fourth.

It was clear this was not an infection. So I made the decision. Both Olivia and I held her as she crossed over.

I’ve been struck hard with how similar Ursula’s death is to Michael’s. With both, I sincerely thought they were getting better. They were going to be fine. In both cases, after I said this belief out loud, to them, they were soon gone.

There is no moment of happiness here. I am struggling. Everything that has happened seems very wrong and very unfair. But to take my dog, who was always, always by my side, just seems…there is no word.

I just want my dog back.

Ursula was named Ursula after Ursula Le Guin, a phenomenally strong woman writer. I named Ursy, feeling that she had to be a strong woman to get through what she’d already gone through in life when we adopted her. If there is a moment of happiness here, it’s that she came out of a horrible situation into a life where she was truly loved, truly respected, truly a family member. And there is a moment of happiness in that she was here with me during the worst times of my life, and she helped me through.

She had to be a strong woman, a strong dog. And I have to be a strong woman too. I’ve been assured by many that this is who I am – and I am working hard to live up to it.

That will have to do. That will have to be enough.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, not really. I am actually going to cut myself some slack and not write a blog this week, because it’s 5:00 in the evening and I just now remembered that today is Thursday and I’m supposed to be writing a blog.

I’ve been dealing since the end of last week until now with my dog Ursula, who has suddenly gone blind. It’s been a week of veterinary appointments, emergency veterinary appointments, appointments with doggie ophthalmologists and doggie neuroligists.  Ursy is doing much better and may regain her sight, but I am frazzled.

I will return next week. In the meantime, send good energy to my dog, Ursula Le Guin Giorgio.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

On Sunday, it had actually been dry long enough that I needed to water the outside plants. As I bent down to pick up my large watering pot, I heard a surprised buzz, and then something green jumped, thwacked against my glasses, and then fell to the floor of the deck.

A bug.

Now, bear in mind I’m not a big fan of bugs. I know bees are important to our environment, but if there is a bee on my deck, or anywhere near me when I’m outside, I very quickly (as in RUN) get out of the area. I am allergic to many things, and one of them is bee stings. So they strike terror in my heart. Centipedes and earwigs leave me weak-kneed. Stinkbugs and June bugs, holy cow. I’m not even a big fan of ladybugs, as there’s a type of bug that looks like a ladybug, but they bite. I’ve only seen a cockroach once in my life, and it caused me to not just move from my room at a hotel, but to leave the hotel for another one entirely. And don’t even get me started on spiders.

Butterflies are okay. Moths too, because they’re like butterflies. I even wrote a Today’s Moment about a white moth once. For those of you with the book, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Year Of Spontaneous Essays, you can find this on August 23, 2017 entry.

And now…there was this big green bug that thwacked off my glasses.

It remained still on the floor of my deck. I looked at it closely, making sure it was indeed a bug. It looked like a leaf. I don’t mind leaves. But this leaf had legs.

I’d seen this type of bug before, I remembered. A couple years ago, as I reached for my coffee pot, I found one on the handle. Inside my house. After my usual shrieking was over, I looked at it more closely, and then googled a description of it. It was a katydid.

My oldest daughter is named Katie. Well, Kathryn, after me, but she’s Katie. And I often called her Katydid when she was growing up. Just having that name made me warm up a bit toward this bug. According to what I read, it didn’t seem like a biter, or one that caused any pain, really. Using a cup, I scooped the coffee pot interloper up and let it loose outside, from the small second floor deck. It hung around for a while, clinging to the screen door, before it disappeared.

A couple weeks ago, another one appeared on that same screen door. Olivia and I admired it and left it alone.

And now, this one. Surprising me on my third floor deck.

How did it get up here? Some katydids fly, but not very well. They mostly jump, as this one did. But we are three stories up!

I went ahead and watered my plants, blocking the door into the condo very carefully, as both cats were very interested in the green visitor. For his part, he just kept sitting on the deck floor. I sprinkled a little water around him, just in case he was dehydrated. Then I went inside, keeping an eye on him through my office window as I settled in to work.

At one point, I turned, and there he was, looking in the window through the screen. He’d climbed onto the pot holding my palm tree which sits over Little Literary Lion, my concrete lion. I said hello, told him he was welcome to stay.

Over the course of the next hour, he moved next to the palm tree, then began to climb up its trunk. Eventually, he disappeared into the long narrow leaves. His leaf-like body did just what it was supposed to do, and camouflaged him. I could no longer see him.

But that night, he sang.

When you are home, alone with only your two cats and a dog, it’s amazing how much company a katydid can provide. Such music.

I’m pretty sure he’s moved on to some of my other plants. I’ve heard him, but I haven’t seen him. I was horrified yesterday when a big wind kicked up and the palm tree blew over. I picked up the tree quickly, then looked all around on the ground. No tumbled katydid. But I heard him again last night. He’s on the deck somewhere. Keeping me company.

This deck has proven magical this summer. The plants are riotous. I have a milkweed that shot out of nowhere on the top level of my raised garden. I did not plant it – I don’t know where it came from, on this third floor deck. It grew straight and tall and bloomed, and all of a sudden, I have hummingbirds and butterflies. Not by intention; it feels like a gift.

On a whim, I googled the spiritual meaning of an appearance by a katydid. I read:

“The appearance of a katydid has quite a bit of spiritual meaning. Spiritually, this speaks volumes about adaptation and blending in. Just as the bug seamlessly merges with its surroundings, we too must learn to adapt to life’s ever-changing circumstances. It represents the ebb and flow of life and the essence of being one with our environment. In the realm of spirituality, it reminds us of the importance of finding and using our voice. The Katydid teaches us that even in the vast expanse of the night, one can make their presence felt. The vivid green hue of the Katydid Leaf Bug is symbolic of the heart chakra. It represents love, healing, and growth. Encountering this bug is a reminder to open our hearts to the world and embrace the healing powers of nature.”

Adapting to life’s ever-changing circumstances. Finding and using our voice. Love, healing and growth.

Another gift.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Believe it or not, a severely inflamed trapezius muscle caused my moment of happiness this week. Amazing, isn’t it, how pretty intense pain can cause pretty intense joy.

In the beginning of August, I had a fall in a hotel. The hotel decided to replace the carpet in its rooms with linoleum, and then put brand new desk chairs with very slick wheels on top of it. I pushed back from the desk in order to stand up, and the desk chair kept going, while I didn’t. I dropped like a rock to the floor, and among other things, totally jammed my right shoulder.

A few weeks later, it seemed to be getting better. But then I went in for physical therapy for something else entirely – some slight lymphedema from breast cancer years ago in that same jammed arm– and the PT had me lifting weights. Which hurt, but silly me, I thought it was supposed to. Then I had to have an ultrasound done on my thyroid (I’m fine!), and the technician had me turn my head in all sorts of awkward and ridiculous angles. By that night, the side of my neck and the top of my shoulder were roaring. By the next morning, I couldn’t turn my head.

Eventually, I went in to Urgent Care, who said that I’d hurt the trapezius muscle in my fall, and the other things that were done to it, not for it, inflamed it even further. The treatment was Prednisone for 5 days, generous dollops of a BenGay type of ointment, and muscle relaxers. I did it all but the muscle relaxers, and I added a warm stone massage.

So. Who knew that BenGay could cause a flood of memories that would leave me helpless with laughter?

When I popped the lid on the ointment that first night, I was instantly immersed in that particular scent. These types of ointments are loaded with menthol, and the scent is very singular. As soon as I smelled it, I was a kid again. When my grandmother lived with us, each night, she would come in to say goodnight to me, and she would pop open a jar of Vick’s Mentholatum Rub. See the connection? Menthol? Mentholatum? She would rub some just under my nose, so I could smell it, and when I would plead, she’d put just a little bit on my tongue. I have no idea where that started, but I loved the taste. She also kept Hall’s Mentholyptus cough drops in her purse – Menthol? Mentholyptus? – which I ate like candy. When I’m sick with a cold now, that is the only flavor cough drop I reach for.

It was the scent of a loving grandmother offering comfort. Even now, at 65 years of age, I keep one of those little tubes of menthol by my bed – not the lotion, it’s one that you inhale and breathe in. And every night, I do just that. I breathe in that scent, that comfort, and I think of my grandmother.

Smelling the ointment on that night brought me to her. Which brought me to Vicks. Which brought me to Hall’s Mentholyptus. Which brought me to the little tube.

Which brought me to Michael.

Several years ago, I mentioned this memory to him, and about how I loved those little tubes. I didn’t even know if they still made them. But the next day, when he came home from work, he said, “I brought you something!” And he handed me one.

Every night now, that tube connects me to my grandmother. And to Michael.

But there was still one more connection, all from the scent of an ointment which was supposed to ease my pain.

When Michael and I moved in together, he moved from Omaha to here to be with me. I moved in to our rented townhouse first, and he showed up 24 hours later, after a long, long drive with his brother to move all of his things. Then came the unloading of the truck, and everything that comes with moving. When it was finally time to go to sleep, we were both exhausted.

I went into our new and unfamiliar bathroom, filled with things that were also unfamiliar to me. I grabbed my toothbrush, saw Michael’s toothpaste sitting on the counter, and used it, rather than digging out my own. As I brushed, I sighed with happiness and wondered where Michael found a toothpaste that smelled like Vicks Mentholatum. Like BenGay. Like Hall’s Mentholyptus cough drops. Like those little tubes.

And then my mouth began to burn.

I’d brushed my teeth with BenGay. Michael had sore muscles from the move, and he used it liberally, and that night, started what would be his lifetime habit of never putting anything away where it belonged.

I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed, but kept choking on laughter. By the time I fell into bed, I was laughing too hard to even speak. But Michael, when he went to kiss me, figured it out. Mentholatum breath.

I don’t know how long it took us to fall asleep that night. We would just quiet down, and then one of us would start laughing again. It was, for us, a joke that was referred to over and over again for all 25 years of our marriage.

On this night, the first night I rubbed this BenGay wanna-be all over my sore neck and shoulder, I laughed. And when I went to sleep that night, on my own, alone, in a bed that seems way too large now, I was still smiling. And immersed in that scent of menthol, which brings me such comfort.

All because of an inflamed trapezius muscle. The pain was worth it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I don’t know how it’s been for the rest of Wisconsin, but in my corner of the state, it’s been a horrible summer. It’s either been very hot (90s and even 100s), humid, raining, or there have been Air Quality Advisories because of the smoke from fires in Canada blowing here. Our skies were gray, even on sunny days. There was one day a few weeks ago when Waukesha had the worst air quality in the country. This is not something we want to be known for. And as for the rain – never before have I seen people in this area have to be evacuated from their homes.

It’s been bizarre.

One of my favorite places during a Wisconsin summer is on my own deck. My deck is up in the sky on the third floor of my condo. It’s large and feels like an extra room. During warmer months, I eat lunch outside every day, and also usually bring my computer out in the evening and work until late in the night, the light from the moon and my computer screen compatible bright spots in the darkness. There are plants galore, a large dining table and chairs, a loveseat, and two rocking chairs. Even though I live in the middle of the city, it feels like a haven to me.

I am not an outdoorsy kind of person. No camping for me, thank you, I don’t like hiking, bugs are not my friends, and while I like fresh air (my favorite days are when my windows and doors are wide open), I prefer to use the outdoors for relaxation and quiet, not exercise. One exception for me is the ocean. In Oregon, I am outside as much as I can be, but even there, I’m either relaxing on the deck with a good book, or I’m strolling beside the waves.

Our first year here, I ignored our deck. I was busy working on the inside, making the condo everything I wanted it to be. But the second summer, I moved to the deck, and as time passed, it became the haven. I never used to like taking care of plants, but now there are many, who I talk to regularly. The hibiscus, in particular, are friends, complete with names.

And this summer? I thought last summer was the stressful summer, with Michael’s passing on June 19^th. The grief was overwhelming, the official busywork was interminable, and the condo so different without him. I threw myself into a massive reorganization, from cupboards and drawers to moving furniture and purging, purging, purging. I recognize it now as a need to feel in control of my life which had spun so incredibly out of control. But then, I only knew it as panic and desperation.

I met a man online who is a music therapist who specializes in grief. We talked for an hour, and he told me that our brain treats the dying person like a phantom limb. Even though we know the person is gone, we still watch for him. In my case, I think I felt if I cleaned hard enough, thoroughly enough, Michael, my phantom limb, would somehow reappear out of the chaos.

To my surprise, though, this summer has been even more difficult. Because the numbness is wearing off, the searching is wearing off, and the realization that this is a huge and very final change is setting in. The first few forms I filled out after Michael’s passing, where I had the choice of checking the “widow” box, I adamantly refused and still checked married.

I’ve now moved on to the widow box.

So to have that third floor haven inaccessible to me during this time has been very hard. I have asthma, so the Air Quality Advisory days meant I was stuck inside with the a/c on. Rain kept me inside as well. And the heat was oppressive, so I stayed inside there too. I’d go out to water the plants and have a quick chat, and then duck back in. From my desk, I looked longingly out at the rocking chairs. At the table, where I should have been sitting with my computer, still working, but outside in the air and the sky and surrounded by plants and life.

For the first time ever, I had cabin fever, but not in the middle of winter.

Last week was crazy, with round after round of thunderstorms and flooding rains, humidity, lightning that wouldn’t stop. And then, this week…the temperatures dropped. The humidity dropped. It hasn’t rained for a few days now. And the air is clear. Skies blue. Sun bright.

Yesterday was August 20^th. For the first time this summer, I had a meal on my deck. As the sun went down, I took my computer to the table outside and I worked. At one point, I came in to fetch a hoodie…I was chilly. Chilly! But I stayed outside.

As I worked, I felt the cloak of familiarity settle around my shoulders. The decorative lights on the deck railing sent a rosy glow to the plants, and the colored glass moons I have scattered everywhere also sparkled and glistened. It wasn’t completely quiet, there are always sounds in a city, but the sounds were softer than during the day. Crickets dominated. There were even a few fireflies, despite the fact that I was three stories up.

There was a mourning dove. I’ve heard her a lot this summer, during the day and at night. I acknowledge her, and at times, sing quietly along with her.

I moved through that evening in peace, breathing easily, the ache I’ve felt since January 19^th, 2024, still present, but soft, like everything else on that night. I was surrounded with home. And it felt like summer.

That was all I needed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.