Author: Kathie

Posting early today, as my afternoon is full.

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

So this one is going to sound really, really weird. My Moment this week was when I cleaned out several cabinets and put them to rights. Organized them. Stripped them down so they only contained what we use. Down and dirty, absolutely relentless, ohmygod there is space on my shelves, cleaning.

It was lovely.

I’ve always been an organized person. As a kid, when I collected Breyer’s model horses, they were kept in a neat line on my closet shelf, organized first in what I considered families, and then by parents to children in chronological order. I can probably still name all of them, even though I no longer have them. Let’s see.

Shadow, Star, Rocky, Sunset, Peppermint, Bronco, Snowflake, Tanka, Terror, Goldy, Phantom, Thunder, and Stormy. Oh, and for some reason, at the end of the line, there was a family of deer too: King, Queenie, Prentice, and Misty.

Standing straight. Facing forward. Perfect order.

They were never thrown in the closet at the last minute. They were never left scattered on my floor after playtime. They were brought down, played with, and put away, in order. One of the horses, Bronco, suffered a broken leg when I accidentally dropped him. He was not thrown away, but he was carefully propped between Peppermint and Snowflake, so he could still stand up.

Aaaaaaaaaaaah.

And it wasn’t just with my Breyer’s horses. I collected many things. Marbles. Golf tees. Rocks. Hot Wheels cars and Matchbox cars. All of these were kept in containers, clearly marked, and put away neatly in my closet.

A place for everything and everything in its place. It continued all the way through high school and college. Textbooks set up with coordinating notebooks and pens according to the day of the week and the time of the class.

It works for me.

This all became really complicated when I got married. Both then-husband and now-husband were, well, not all that neat. Both considered things put away if the doors of the closet or the cabinet still managed to close. Or if it barely poked out from under the bed. Or if it was at least on a shelf, even if it dangled off.

If I open my closet, I can see everything. I know in a breath if something is somehow missing. But with the husbands, then and now, if I open their closets, I can expect an avalanche.

Michael, my current husband, is quite possibly worse than my first. He also does the grocery shopping and puts the groceries away as well. Since Livvy went off to college and now grad school, Michael was always the one who unloaded the dishwasher and put away everything into the cabinets too. Which means my cabinets are chaos.

Consequently, I’ve learned to open those cabinets, ready to duck and run. And things are never where they’re supposed to be. If I have to find the cinnamon, it’s inevitably not in the spices. When I ask where it is, I find out it’s tucked in with the breakfast cereal, because there was no room in the spice drawer, or with the spices that moved into the soup cabinet because there wasn’t room in the spice drawer.

But here’s the thing.

Since January 17^th, the day that the minivan hit Michael and then ran him over, my life has been pretty much like the inside of those cabinets. Or the inside of Michael’s “stuff” closet that I don’t even dare open, but I can imagine. It’s chaos. And with him in the hospital more than he’s been home, it’s me doing the grocery shopping, putting the groceries away, and lord help me, cooking. I don’t know how to cook.

But last week, when I opened the corner cabinet to reach for the peanut butter, and the peanut butter jar bounced out and clobbered me in the forehead, I had enough. I even yelled it. “Enough!”

And so I set a goal to clean at least one cabinet a weekend until I get them all done and reorganized, back to as neat as they were when we moved in almost 18 years ago and I organized the kitchen.

Being the first weekend and I was full of enthusiasm and angst, I actually ended up cleaning out two cabinets, plus the fridge. Three cabinets, if you count a double-doored cabinet (right side, left side), as two. I did it late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, and let me tell you, the sound of things-that-should-never-have-been-kept hitting the inside of a garbage bag brought me the greatest joy.

I don’t even want to tell you the expiration dates of some of the things I found.

When I was done, five overstuffed garbage bags went into the dumpster. And I could actually see what was in my fridge, front to back, left to right, and in the drawers. The cabinet that held glasses and cups was organized by size and how often used. And in the first groceries-type cabinet I cleaned, things now fit neatly onto their own shelves. Baking supplies, top shelf, because we rarely bake. Pastas and rice. Breakfast foods (primarily oatmeal, Pop Tarts, and protein bars). Drink mixes and jello. Bread. And a medicine shelf.

Oh, I beamed. I went to the glass cabinet, got a glass, went to the fridge, found right away what I wanted to drink, and poured it. Went to the other newly cleaned cabinet, easily picked out a Pop Tart, and had a snack. Put my used dishes neatly in the dishwasher. Nothing left out on the counter.

Aaaaaaaaaaaah.

And that was my Moment. Which was truly only a Moment, though I will admit every time I open the fridge or one of those two cabinets, I take another Moment to sigh in contentment. And I’ve been giving the next cabinet in line, the corner cabinet with the deadly peanut butter in it, the evil eye. Oh, you just wait for Saturday.

But it was just a Moment. Because when I was done, I turned out the lights and went upstairs to get ready for bed, hopefully to sleep. And I found myself all alone again.

Sometimes, messy cabinets and a closet that explodes when it’s opened just don’t seem like such a big deal.

And yes, I know. This was an attempt to make me feel in control again, at least over one part of my life. The part that includes cabinets and refrigerators.

But…it was a Moment. I wouldn’t be me if it wasn’t. And I am grateful for it.

And yes, that helps. (Really!) Despite. Anyway.

 

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

When I left, and then divorced, my first husband 27 years ago, I suddenly found myself, through my own decision, on my own. I didn’t realize what that meant until I was on my own – and unaware of how to do certain things that my then-husband had always done.

A moment that stands out to me still, even this many years later, is when I stood at a gas station, the hood to my beloved strawberry Dodge Neon popped. The dashboard told me I needed oil. I had absolutely no idea how to check oil, add oil, or even buy oil.

Armed with the car’s manual (and I like to think the full and loving support of my car himself), I found the dipstick. I found the name of that particular part hysterical, as that was exactly how I felt about myself at that point. I grabbed a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser, wiped the dipstick clean, managed to shimmy it into the corresponding tube, and pulled it out.

Could they make those things any harder to read? It reminded me of old time oral thermometers, when you had to squint and turn the thermometer back and forth, trying to see where that little silver line landed. I finally determined that, yes, I needed oil.

The manual told me what kind to buy. I went into the gas station, found it, bought it, and went back out. And then wondered how the hell I was supposed to pour it in without spilling any on the engine. I read further in the manual and found that I needed a funnel. I didn’t have a funnel.

Back into the gas station. Where I discovered, to my utter amazement, that while I could indeed buy a funnel, I could also just take one of the free paper ones they offered. What a nice gas station!

Back by my car, I carefully poured the oil in. I remember talking to Neon, my very creative name for my car. “You’ll be okay, Neon,” I said. “I’m taking care of you. I’m figuring this out.”

I rechecked the oil. It still wasn’t up to the little mark where it said my car would be happiest. Back in for more oil, pour more in…

And voila! My little car was happy! And I DID IT!

Ohmygod. I felt like I deserved a trophy. A gold medal. I am not ashamed to say that after I put everything to rights in the engine, I shut the hood, and then draped myself over it, giving my car a hug, and believing fully that it hugged me back. My car was one of the few things that I brought with me when I walked out. There was my car, my bedroom set, and my writing desk. I left everything else to him, including the house.

And I did it.

So now, here I am again, once more on my own, hopefully just for now, but in completely different circumstances. In 2024, Michael has been in the hospital or rehab more than he’s been at home. I am on my own.

On the day Michael went into the hospital for this current stay, we had our first really humid, hot weather. I am asthmatic, and our a/c is very important to me. But as I stood before the thermostat on this day, I realized I didn’t have a clue how to operate it.

It’s a programmable thermostat. You can choose temperatures for different times, different days, different regions of your home. It gave me a little boost to remember that Michael installed it, and when it didn’t work, I had to have an HVAC guy come out, only to find out that Michael attached the wires wrong. So he was clueless at one point too.  But since that time, Michael ran it flawlessly. I never touched it.

We hadn’t left for the hospital yet, and I asked Michael if he remembered how to do the thermostat. The look he gave me said simply, “Get me to the hospital.” So I abandoned the thermostat and left.

Michael has been in the hospital now for almost 3 weeks. In that time, the pollen counts have soared. It’s been hot and humid. And, in their great insurance company wisdom, our health insurance decided to no longer cover the maintenance inhaler that has kept my asthma in control for well over twenty years. I had to go on a new one, which is taking its time to become effective.

I’d already tried to find the thermostat manual. Nowhere. I looked at a YouTube video that went on and on about the regions, dates, times, for so long, my eyes glazed. But a couple days ago, I remembered my first time of putting oil in my beloved Neon, long departed now, and so I planted myself in front of the thermostat again. I returned to that video, armed with a notebook to take notes.

And lo and behold, near the end of the video, the narrator said, “But what if you are one of those people that hates programmable thermostats? What if you just want one temperature all the time all throughout your entire house?”

That’s me! I thought. That’s me!

He then told me, and showed me, what to do. Put the thermostat on cool. Use the up or down arrows to get it to the temperature you want. Hit hold. And now the thermostat will override any other programs that are on it, including the factory setting.

I did. And I heard the a/c go on. In 40 minutes, my hot and humid condo was where I needed it to be.

If I could have hugged my house, I would have. Like my Neon, I think it was cheering me on.

I DID IT!

Oh, man. The things you don’t think about when you suddenly find yourself on your own, even when you’ve been through your first marriage, your first divorce, and an oil change with a strawberry Dodge Neon.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s been a rough week again, and getting rougher. But here I am.

Soon after Michael’s accident on January 17^th, I pulled the plug on my piano lessons. My full schedule was suddenly fuller with running back and forth to the hospital, having consultations with the medical folks taking care of Michael, and having to make decisions I never wanted to make. While the piano had become a refuge for me in the eight short months I took lessons, I just needed to unload as much as I could off my plate in order to keep my head above water (this is called mixing metaphors, and it’s a no-no, but so be it).

I’ve wanted to play the piano for a long time. My brother is a gifted organist and my childhood house always had a living room with either a Wurlitzer or a Hammond in it. I didn’t want to play the organ – I loved the sound of the piano. But my parents, reasonably enough, wanted me to take advantage of what was already there, if I was going to take lessons.

I said no. (And, to be completely honest, my kids never had to deal with hand-me-down instruments. What they wanted to play, they played: Christopher on the trumpet, Andy on the drums, Katie on the flute, and Olivia on the violin.)

When my big kids (the children from my first marriage) were growing up, I came across a piano for free if I hauled it. I talked my then-husband into renting a U-Haul and we brought the piano home. It was huge, one of those really old uprights that was as much lovely furniture as it was a musical instrument. Each of my kids took piano lessons, and I loved hearing them practice. I tried to learn through watching them, but it just didn’t seem to work that way. When I divorced that husband, the piano stayed with him.

Fast forward many years, into a new marriage, a new baby, kids growing up and going to college, kids entering their lives. On Facebook, my youngest daughter Olivia’s first grade teacher (Olivia was in high school at this time) mentioned that she was going to give away her beloved piano. She had a new grandchild and she wanted to make her music room into a grandchild room.

I didn’t hesitate. It was a piano who needed a home, and it came from a home where a wonderful teacher lived and I needed a piano. I hired two guys to move it and up it came. This was in August of 2018.

I had a piano in my living room. A dream come true. But…there it sat until May of 2023. When I finally signed up for piano lessons. Which lasted until 1/17/2024, when my husband was struck, then run over, by a minivan.

Along with a longing to play the piano, I’ve also had a long line of amazing teachers. Teachers that encouraged my writing, that lifted me up whenever I felt like my life was impossible and I’d never be who I wanted to be. Teachers who knew who I was before I knew who I was. Teachers who weren’t mine, but my kids’, and who helped me to understand them and become the best parent I could be. Even a teacher who not only gave me her piano, but quickly sewed a runner for the top of the piano and a bench cover that would match the colors of my living room.

Enter a piano teacher. I took my first lesson on May 25^th, 2023, at the White House of Music in Waukesha. My teacher is Eileen.

We laughed together over lessons. I felt the need to do well, but not the need to perform, to be the best. I felt instead her encouragement that I should just enjoy. That I should sink into the music, marvel that it was coming from my own fingers, laugh at my mistakes, and embrace the piano as a friend.

Embrace the teacher as a friend too.

After I told my teacher that I was going to have to step away from piano for a while, she stayed in touch. She emailed me often, checking on Michael’s progress, checking on how I was, and reminding me that she wasn’t going anywhere, the piano wasn’t going anywhere, I could return as soon as I could.

After Michael came home from rehab, I waited a few weeks, then told my teacher I was coming back. A few days before my lesson, Michael fell and had to be transported to the hospital, where he stayed for over a week. I canceled my lesson. My teacher kept emailing me.

Michael came home, I prepared to return to my lesson. And he went back into the hospital.

Last week, I returned to piano anyway. I began to play again, working on the lesson I’d been given back in January. When I walked into the music store, the staff called out, “Welcome back!” I went up the stairs and walked into the little piano studio.

Where my teacher met me with open arms.

We talked. And then we played.

I’ve been given a gift with the piano. Both with the piano itself, from a teacher, and with the lessons, from another teacher. And then there’s the piano itself.

This week, Michael is still in the hospital. I’ve been practicing my two piano pieces every day since my lesson last week. I was supposed to go for my lesson this afternoon.

A short time ago, I received a phone call from the hospital. Michael fell. I’m heading up there as soon as I finish writing this. I canceled my lesson.

But I will be there next week. No matter what.

And I will practice when I get home from the hospital tonight. I will have a moment of peace with my piano. I will enjoy the music. I will marvel that it’s me making it.

Thank you to Karla Hanson for the piano. And thank you to Eileen Warren, my piano teacher.

And thank you to my piano.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

As the time to write this blog approached, I did my best to talk myself out of writing what I already knew was my Moment this week.

It’s stupid, I said. It’s goopy.

It’s like if the Hallmark Channel married the Lifetime Channel and had a baby.

It’s just…something that from someone else would make me roll my eyes. I’M making me roll my eyes.

I was told, early on, that I am not a deer and flowers writer. I am not about rainbows or daisies or daffodils. I am not about butterflies. Okay, I can get a little crazy over sand dollars, but Disney-esque metaphors and symbols? Cinderella singing with bluebirds?

Ick.

So anyway. This week has been hard. After having an absolutely stellar Friday, complete with walking up to the third floor and sitting on the deck in the sun, and plans to go out to dinner and a movie on Saturday, Michael woke up Saturday morning feeling nauseous and quickly continued on to throwing up blood. By Saturday evening, we were in the ER, and by the time I drove home, I was alone in the car. Michael was (re)admitted.

Today is Thursday, and he’s still there. He’s still throwing up. And no one seems to know why.

On Tuesday, Michael said he just wanted to sit up on the edge of the bed for a while. Not walk to the recliner, not take a walk in the hall. Just sit on the edge of the bed.

I watched as he did. And then I watched as he slowly lowered his head and sighed.

“What are you trying to do?” I asked.

“I’m trying to survive,” he answered.

And that pretty much sums up my week, and how I feel right now.

But.

A couple days ago, I was hustling around, trying to get out of here to see Michael in the limited time that I had. It was nice out, so I had to move my 2018 Chrysler 300S, named Barry (he’s berry-red, and if he could talk, he would sound like Barry White), so I could revel for just a little bit in my convertible, a 2012 Chrysler 200lxi, named Semi. When I bought Semi, I also owned a Chrysler 300C Hemi, who I creatively called Hemi. Michael said, “Huh. A 200 and a 300. The convertible is a semi Hemi.” And so Semi became Semi, though there is no longer a Hemi but a Barry.

So I got ready to drive.

When I opened the garage door, there was immediately, right in my face, a large yellow and black butterfly. I’d never seen one like this before and so I froze. It fluttered all around me, then moved off to settle in the gravel next to Barry. When I got in the car to move him so I could get Semi out of the garage, the butterfly fluttered all around the car. I don’t think I’ve ever backed up so slowly, because I wanted to make sure I didn’t hit it. For a few seconds, it fluttered right above my open sun roof and I thought it was going to join me, sitting in the passenger seat.

I parked the car and watched the butterfly return to the gravel. As I pulled Semi out, it fluttered around me again, then carefully landed in the gravel where it stayed while I drove away.

It was still there a couple hours later when I returned. I thought it was dead, which filled me with sadness, but when I approached it, it fluttered all around me again. (And yes, I can already hear my students saying, “Ohmygod, Kathie, look how many times you’re using the word flutter!” But there is no other word for this.) I stood by the open garage door, watched it fly, and then said, without thinking, “Thank you.” And then I went inside.

The image of the butterfly stuck with me, and as I got ready for bed late that night, I used my phone to Google yellow and black butterflies.

I found it. It was a male tiger swallowtail. I admired the photo, but I admired the real butterfly even more.

As I prepared to click out of Google, I saw another result the search engine brought up, that said, “Yellow and black butterfly meaning.” So I clicked on that. And then I read: “In many cultures, a black and yellow butterfly can be a positive omen that symbolizes hope, transformation, change, and new beginnings. It can also represent rebirth into a higher spiritual or consciousness state.”

Hope. A positive omen.

I tried very hard to roll my eyes, but they wouldn’t go. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought of that completely involuntary, completely intuitive “Thank you.”

I still don’t want anything to do with uicorns. But this butterfly…Hope. Thank you.

And by the way, there was one hell of a rainbow this week too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This past weekend, in the middle of chaos, I had the great fortune to be asked to attend a book club that was discussing my latest novel, Hope Always Rises. Two days before the book club, Michael was released from the hospital, and the night before the book club, he was back in the ER with uncontrollable vomiting. My contact person for the club emailed me and said the group would be perfectly understanding if I had to cancel. I’d been in the ER with Michael until from 4:30 in the afternoon until 11:00 at night. I had to finish reading manuscripts for a workshop I was teaching the next day. I was exhausted and I was stressed to the max.

But cancel going to the book club? Like hell.

I love book clubs. It was an odd sort of kismet, as earlier in the week, I’d read a post on the bulletin board for a national professional authors group that had many writers professing that they thought book clubs were a waste of time. “They get the books from the library,” they said. Or “They share the books, so you don’t get any sales.” “They don’t buy any other books,” they said.

I admit, I rolled my eyes. Because that’s not what it’s about.

When I present at different events, whether it’s a book club or a lecture or a reading, I’m often asked “when” I became a writer. Every now and then, I’m asked the “why”.

So. Why did I become a writer?

So I could be rich.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

One of the biggest false beliefs out there is that writers make a lot of money. Honestly, most writers don’t – especially off of our books. Have you noticed what websites like Amazon sell books for? When a book sells for 99 cents, and a good chunk of it goes to Amazon and a good chunk of it goes to the publisher, how much do you think is left for the author?

But truly, I never expected to make a lot of money. As a kid, I was an avid reader, and I always, always read the About The Author. It didn’t take long to figure out that most writers have other jobs. From that, I developed a realistic expectation early on that writing would likely never be the way I supported myself, even if I was a full-time writer. For that, you also have to consider my definition of full-time writer. When I am asked who I am, I answer, “I’m a writer.” When asked what I do, I answer, “I’m a writer.” I’ve produced 15 books in 14 years, plus many, many short pieces, including poetry.

But I am also a full-time instructor and a full-time business owner. Being a woman, being a wife, being a mother, being a grandmother, features in my roles too. It is very possible in a lifetime to be full-time lots of things. And full-time has nothing to do with money. It has to do with how you define yourself.

I’m a writer.

So why else did I become a writer?

So I could be famous.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Of course I wanted to be published. Of course I wanted to see my books on bookshelves, my name in magazines and anthologies and on book covers. But to be “famous” the way we think of famous, with flashing lights and not being able to go anywhere without being besieged for autographs and such?

No. I like things quiet.

However, I was recently told by a student that if you Google “most famous writers in Wisconsin”, I’m listed in the top ten. And I was very pleased by that. I can handle this kind of quiet fame.

So why did I become a writer?

Here’s the truth – plain and simple. To make a difference.

I was asked recently to be interviewed about being a writer for change. I prefer to think of being a writer to make a difference. Writing for change sounds like it always has to be something big – changing the world sort of stuff. Ending racism. Solving climate change. Making the world a wonderful, supportive place for every living being on it. But I think we change the world for the better with small steps.

I was told in high school that I would never write about “deer and flowers”. That’s pretty much been the case. I’ve also been told I’m a “dark” writer or I write on “disturbing” subjects. Maybe sometimes. Not always.

And here’s the thing. Even when I write about the “dark”, I always bring light in.

So back to this book club.

The book they were discussing was Hope Always Rises. This is the back-jacket description:

“In Heaven, there is a gated community for those who end their lives by choice. This is a complete surprise to Hope, who ends her life one morning on the banks of the Fox River in Waukesha, Wisconsin.

Hope has always dealt with deep sadness. From childhood on, she visited therapists, doctors, alternative medicine practitioners, Reiki artists, etc., to no avail. In Heaven, God reassures her that he knows what caused the sadness, but he won’t reveal it yet.

All community residents are required to attend weekly group therapy. Hope’s first group is led by Virginia Woolf. Several of the book’s chapters tell the stories of other members of this group.

Filled with many moments of striking humor, uplifting realizations, and difficult challenges, Hope finds her way in Heaven. She meets many people like herself, who help her restore her forgotten artistic talent and passion, and God himself, who is amazingly human in the most inhuman of ways. Hope finds understanding and forgiveness, and most importantly, friends.”

So a book about suicide – not the ones left behind, but the people who look at suicide fully in the face. What they go through, why they do it.

Maybe “dark”. Maybe “disturbing”. But I created the character of Hope to bring the light in. To make a difference.

One of the hardest things about being a writer is that you don’t always get to know if you accomplished what you set out to do. I’ve had many wonderful moments with the readers of Hope Always Rises. And then there was this book club, which I came to after a horrible night.

We had an incredible, rousing discussion. I was already glowing by the end of it. Then, as the group was breaking up, one of the members sat next to me.

“Thank you for writing this book,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I was Hope.”

Her eyes weren’t the only ones who filled. I. Made. A. Difference.

And by the way. I’ve been Hope too.

Do I make a ton of money as a writer? No. But I’m rich.

Am I famous? My readers know who I am.

And my Moment this week? I made a difference. With Hope.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

Well, first off, let me apologize. Michael came home from the hospital today, and my morning was spent with clients, my afternoon with getting him home, going to the pharmacy to pick up meds, dropping my car off to be fixed, running back here to meet with three more clients, fixing supper, and I just sat down to start working on tomorrow’s manuscripts when I remembered. Today is Thursday. The day I post my Moment. AUGH!

Whew. But Michael’s home. And yet…that’s not my Moment.

This past Saturday, Michael was still in the hospital. While the doctors had identified what was wrong (a UTI that went septic, and an ulceration inside his stomach where the feeding tube used to be), they couldn’t figure out (yet) why he wasn’t hungry or thirsty and was constantly nauseous and throwing up. I was more than a little glum.

It was a class-free Saturday for me. I teach two Saturdays a month, and so my free Saturdays mean a lot to me. Neither my son Andy nor my daughter Olivia were working, and so I suggested that we do one of our favorite things…what they call “thrifting” and what I call “scrounging”. My favorite place for this is a St. Vinnie’s, located in Pewaukee, Wisconsin, housed in what used to be a huge grocery store.

I’ve loved “scrounging” since my teenage years. My very first purchase was when I was fifteen years old and a neighbor down the road had a rummage sale. She had a small antique typewriter and I fell in love. My mother thought it was junk and refused to buy it for me, but a few hours later, I was still thinking about it. I had enough cash of my own, and so I slipped out the door and returned to the sale. The neighbor smiled and gave me the typewriter for half off. Five dollars. I didn’t even haggle. I think she saw the look on my face when my mother called it junk, and she saw the look on my face when I came back.

I’m 63 now, so I’ve had that typewriter for 47 years. It came with me everywhere, to college and to the variety of homes I’ve lived in. Now, it sits in the AllWriters’ classroom.

I was pregnant with my first child when I began to scrounge at rummage sales on a weekly basis. And I discovered flea markets too. Over the years, I’ve found all sorts of treasures.

And so, glum, I went to St. Vinnie’s this last Saturday, hoping for a treasure.

At first, I mostly found clothes. I wandered through the other aisles and didn’t really see anything. At the far end of the store, at least the way I travel it, is the furniture, and I went through there last. My son and daughter were by a huge bin of stuffed animals, and my daughter was looking for Squishmallows, while my son was examining a stuffed Jurassic Park dinosaur with wonky eyes.

Treasures.

And then my treasure. I wasn’t even sure what it was at first. Well, I knew what it was. It was a rhinoceros. But what was it doing in the furniture section? I scooted quickly toward it.

And it was a rhinoceros. A rhinoceros footstool. It had lovely horns and a woebegone expression on its face.

Kind of like the face I saw in the mirror when I looked in it that morning, though I don’t have any horns.

There was a lid on its back, and when I lifted it, I discovered a hidey-hole. It was just the right size for stowing a small notebook and some favorite pens when I needed to just get away from my desk and computer screen for a bit.

The rhino wasn’t perfect. Someone, likely a child, drew on his stuffed lid in a dark crayon, but because the rhino was brown, it didn’t really stand out. And perfection has never been a draw for me anyway. Just ask the myriad of clocks that hang from the walls of my condo and line the tops of my kitchen cabinets. They all came from flea markets and Goodwills and St. Vinnie’s and antique stores. Many of them don’t work. And I don’t care. It just means they’re even more needful of a home.

This rhino needed a home. Oh, that face.

I didn’t even have to say anything. My son, not uttering a word, came over, picked up the rhino, and put him in my cart. Yes, the rhino is a he, as far as I’m concerned.

The rhino now stands in my office in front of the rocking chair I’ve had since I was pregnant for the first time. I found it in a flea market. It was painted bright blue. My husband at that time grumbled when I brought it home, but he taught himself how to strip it and refinish it, and it’s a beautiful rocker that I treasure. It’s my reading chair in my office now, my days of rocking babies long gone. It’s covered with a blanket Michael had made for me, with the covers of my (then) books on it. When I’m not sitting on it, a big stuffed iguana rests there, purchased at a used bookstore when I realized I was likely going to be writing the sequel to my novel, If You Tame Me, which featured Newt, a green iguana.

Treasures.

But here’s the thing.

When Michael and I were out on our official first date, we went to a zoo. We had a wonderful time. But when we approached the outside enclosure for the rhinos, there was a huge crowd. We moved in to see what was going on.

The enclosure was fenced off, a rhino on either side. On the one, a female. On the other, a male.

A male that was, shall we say, clearly very, Very, VERY attracted to the female on the other side of the fence.

Holy cow. Or more accurately, holy rhino.

The female preened for a bit, then turned her back and trotted away to the other side of the yard. The male, demoralized, slumped to the ground. Right on his…well…his very obvious attraction.

The entire crowd, especially the men, groaned out loud.

Michael and I laughed so hard, we had to hold each other up. And from that point on, rhinos were special. I have a brass rhino hanging from my keychain. We have a few rhino ornaments on our Christmas tree.

And so, on this day when I was glum, there was a rhino.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfection.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Ohmygosh. It’s 9:30 at night, central time, and I just realized that it’s Thursday and I didn’t write my blog! Michael came home from the hospital today and I’ve been caught up in that, plus keeping up with my clients. I’m so sorry!

Check back in just a few – I know exactly what I want to write about. I just have to do it!

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

Well…

Last week, I wrote, and I quote, “But every now and then, something happens. It usually happens in a flurry, almost as if the Universe (or whatever) is sensing that I’m reaching a low point and so it throws a bunch of positive stuff my way.”

And then there’s other times. Like this week. Times when the Universe seems to decide instead to throw everything at me to the point where I wonder if I’m going to have to cancel writing the blog at all because I simply can’t find anything to be happy about.

Early Monday morning, at 2:00, my husband Michael fell. The sound shook the house. I was still awake, and I ran down to see what happened. I found Michael on the floor in the doorway of what is currently his room – usually Olivia’s. He was disoriented and confused and I knew there was no way I should try to get him up. I called 911, discovered that my 3-story condo is not the best place to have an emergency, and then trailed after the ambulance as they drove him up the hill to the hospital.

Where he’s been all week. He had a UTI, which may or may not have gone to sepsis, depending on who I talk to. Inside of Michael, the area where the previous feeding tube had entered his stomach was ulcerated. In the ambulance, his heartrate dropped to the 30s, his temperature was only 95 degrees, and his blood sugar was through the roof.

As of today, depending on who I talk to, his UTI/maybe sepsis has resolved with IV antibiotics. They used a scope to go down his throat and inside, where they cauterized and clipped the feeding tube ulceration. However, he is still vomiting a lot, and they don’t know what’s causing that. There was talk of a bowel obstruction, but that has since been proven nonexistent.

It’s been a very frustrating and frightening week. I canceled classes and clients and resumed my daily trips to the hospital, though at least this time, the hospital is literally just up a hill. I can see it from my bedroom window. I make a point of waving out my window every night before bed, in case Michael is looking out, though even if he is, he likely can’t see me. But it makes me feel better.

And so I thought, What the hell am I going to write about this week? I think I’m going to have to admit defeat and not write anything. Then a former client responded to one of my Facebook posts. I’d said about this hospital, “They don’t even have limited visiting hours like Froedtert, so I can easily stay late and work in his room, and then coast down the hill and go to sleep. Plus – they have fabulous food.” And my client said, “That’s Kathie. Find the thing to be grateful for to keep yourself going. You go, Kathie.”

That’s me? I go? Huh.

So I kept thinking about it. Yesterday, I came home tired from the hospital, having spent another afternoon and evening watching my husband vomit over and over. I opened my door and was greeted, as always, by our dog, 50-pound Ursula, nose-first, checking me over. But she wasn’t alone at the door.

Standing next to her was a little orange cat. Out of all the cats I’ve had before, I’ve never had a door-greeter. But there he was.

Oh, this cat.

Most know that I recently lost both of my older cats within 5 weeks of each other. Edgar Allen Paw was fourteen years old. His legs suddenly went out permanently from under him, and he lost all bladder control, and he was in pain. So I helped him cross to the other side. And then five weeks later, my Muse, on her 21^st birthday, suddenly collapsed. And then she was gone. And I was deep in grief. Over all of it. This entire awful winter. But Muse’s passing was pretty much what did me in.

I wasn’t going to get another cat. I am too old, I said. I don’t want my pets to outlive me. Yet a couple weeks later, I somehow found myself on various animal shelter websites, “just looking.”

When I went in to the humane society where I used to work in high school and college, I didn’t connect with the cat I went to see. I connected with a little orange cat named Oliver.

Who was only a year old.

I met him, then left him behind. I cried all the way home. I’d picked up Muse’s ashes just before I stopped at the humane society. She rode beside me in the car. I kept one hand on the lovely carved wooden box that held her.

And then I waited a week. But after a week, a quick check of the website showed Oliver was still there. So I went back. And he came home.

Where he started out shy. And then…he evolved into a holy terror. Just like Muse, who we’d had since kittenhood and whose nickname, given to her by Michael, was Demon. Holy cow. You know that game that kids play, where they try to cross a room without ever touching the floor? Someone, somewhere, taught this cat that game. I watched him fly down the steps, up onto the back of the loveseat, leap to the back of the couch, leap to the cat tower, the coffee table, the island, the other counter, back to the island and then through the air to me, where I sat on the loveseat.

So he’s like Muse. And…he’s also an orange tabby, like Edgar. But I was used to old cats, who basically slept and kept me company. I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing, bringing him home into what was essentially chaos, and HE was chaos.

But on this day, I was exhausted. The condo was quiet, with Michael in the hospital. And this little orange cat met me at the door, along with Ursula, and then like her, he stood quietly under my hand as I pet him from nose to tail. When I moved to my recliner on the love seat, he followed me, waited until my footrest was up, and then he leaped gently onto my lap.

Where he purred, the whole time I cried.

He stayed with me the whole evening. Ursula, doing her part, either had her concrete head in my lap as well, or she was stretched out by my feet.

And I felt better.

Just that morning, I’d posted a photo of Oliver on his cat tower, and said that I was thinking of changing his name to Dennis, for Dennis the Menace. But no. He’s Oliver. And I absolutely made the right decision and brought home the right cat.

A little bit of Edgar. A little bit of Muse. And exactly what I needed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

One of the many things I’ve discovered since Michael’s accident is how all-encompassing the role of “caretaker” is. I’ve refused to even use the term – it has a permanence about it that I’m resisting. Every indication is that Michael will recover and return to work, to full functioning at home, to his life. We don’t know that for sure, of course, but no one has told us to prepare for his never going back. And so I resist it. It might be denial. It might be selfishness. It is the absolute refusal on my part to think that this is going to be the way it is from now on.

But…I am starting to accept that I am a caretaker…for now. There are things Michael can’t do safely yet that I am doing. Doling out his medicine. Cooking the meals and bringing them to him. Helping him into bed each night. Two of our biggest current obstacles are his right eye and right ear. Michael had a fracture directly above his right ear, and this has affected the hearing in that ear and the vision in that eye. The vision is blurry, sometimes causing double vision, and the eye is not always tracking the way it should. The ear is, in his word, “noisy”. He knows there’s something going on that he can hear, but there is noise in the ear that prevents him from hearing clearly. We will be seeing a neuro-ENT and a neuro-ophthalmologist, but scheduling in the medical profession being what it is right now, we couldn’t get in until mid- and end of May. He was released from rehab on March 22. That’s a long time to go with fuzzy eyesight and loud hearing.

But we’ll get there.

My point is this. There are days right now where I feel like my entire life is taking care of Michael. I forget who I am, or, more accurately, I shove who I am just outside of my consciousness, while I do what I have to do and try not to notice what I’m missing. Missing, as in it’s not there, and missing, as in I really miss it.

I’m missing being me.

This is a hard feeling. It makes me think that I’m, as I said before, selfish. Uncaring. Ungiving. Mean. All things that I know I’m not, when I’m being me, but this caretaker role is just so new.

But every now and then, something happens. It usually happens in a flurry, almost as if the Universe (or whatever) is sensing that I’m reaching a low point and so it throws a bunch of positive stuff my way. Positive stuff about what I do, what I love, what I feel identifies me.

And that happened this week.

Here is my flurry:

• My new novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, is due to be released by the publisher on October 3^rd, a full half-year from now. In my email, to my surprise, I received a notice from UPS that I was having a delivery the next day, when I hadn’t ordered anything. I puzzled over this, worried that it might be a scam, and then the lightbulb went off. The delivery was from my publisher. MY BOOK WAS COMING!

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more affirming than holding your own book. Seeing the cover, no longer on the screen, but in your hands. Seeing your name. Reading the words, your words. You know, I never had a child through C-section, but in my mind, it’s like that, knowing your baby is coming the next day and you just have to get there to be present for it.

Boy, was I present. I had just gotten up when I glanced outside and saw that big brown truck parked in front of my door. Pajamas and all, wild hair and all, I ran down the steps and greeted the driver.

And then there the book was. And there I was. Me.

(Don’t Let Me Keep You is up for pre-order directly from the publisher. You can get it at https://www.blackrosewriting.com/womens/dontletmekeepyou?rq=Kathie%20Giorgio

• As if to remind me that there were other books before this one (14 of them!), my publisher emailed. My only book, with this publisher, that didn’t have an audio book version, was getting one. Through AI technology, which, you know, I bash. But in this case, I cheered. That book that was created from the first year of this blog, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, is now available as a real book, an ebook, and an audio book. And there I was again. Me. You can see it here:

https://www.amazon.com/Todays-Moment-Happiness-Despite-News/dp/B0CY9JTD1Y/ref=sr_1_6?crid=2OZ0SU72S6KJM&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.ThKfku_kOC7tnU4QpUnbAtQr4xphIXZyVhz1Hu6od4j7NE6-O2u69AosOiD57wH1rbWXtGusFTMDolDDrX42thzz_jrNI0zjP3JCsm8n63mLtpD3sIFTDYIq–yxZeKQTIKEo-4iK9ItCS8hrPtb1zmTfWl8suFo-cAGqnupC0zN8iduKHCEyF6hMHKERJhEreWCrhPaVQXpb4n8pJjcaimtDetLGVKO3QgqD7p-lzI.zrEIJ6nAgInzAoENltnMM1M_jKPYiOh2FHy4VHPWR8k&dib_tag=se&keywords=Kathie+Giorgio&qid=1714077864&sprefix=kathie+giorgio%2Caps%2C146&sr=8-6

• Then another reminder. Out of the blue, I was contacted and asked to be a guest at a book club. “We chose Hope Always Rises for our August book,” the woman said. “We all would really like you to join us!” Of course I said yes. And there I was again. Me.
• Then, another woman called me. She’d heard one of my interviews on a radio show, and she wanted to invite me to speak. She runs a group at our local Park, Recreation and Forestry department – which just happens to be where I taught my first class 28 years ago. This group gets together once a week for a “brown bag lunch and conversation.” And she booked me for next year, 2025! The topic she wants me to talk about: My journey as a successful writer.

Me.

• And finally, as if that wasn’t enough, I opened an email this morning that features “hot new releases” in books. The first two books that were listed? Both by my students. Both books that I’d worked alongside these authors, watching their development and creation.

Reminders, for me, in a flurry. Who I am as a writer. Who I am as a teacher. Who. I. Am.

Oh, and one other thing. I managed, in the middle of everything this week, to actually sit down and write on two concurrent afternoons. I thought I’d started my next book, a sequel to a previous book. But suddenly, in a flash that I’ve experienced many times and that I love so much, I saw an opening sentence scroll across my vision. I do literally see words at times like these. I sat down and wrote them, and then more spilled out, and suddenly, I am working on a book that I didn’t plan, that I didn’t think about, that I just started to write as word after word appeared. And I’m already in love with it.

That’s who I am.

Sometimes, I need a reminder. Right now, I need LOTS of reminders. And oh, I was so happy to receive these reminders, these Moments, and to feel at home within my skin again.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

So my moment this week happened on Tuesday. Want to know what happened?

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!

Oh, the joy of nothing! For the first time since Michael came home on March 22^nd, we didn’t have a doctor’s appointment on our calendar for that day. We didn’t have an occupational therapy visit, or a physical therapy visit, or a speech therapy visit, or a nurse visit! There were no messages on MyChart from Froedtert or ProHealth. There was NOTHING! NOTHING! N-O-T-H-I-N-G!

<insert maniacal laughter here>

Okay. So I became a little unhinged. But really, this felt momentous. When Michael was preparing to come home from rehab, the people at rehab all cheered, “Imagine not having your drive every day anymore! It’s going to be so freeing!”

I cheered with them, until I began to see the writing on the wall and on our calendar. We haven’t had a week without at least three doctor appointments. We’ve had one therapist or another every day. My drive to the rehab was replaced and exceeded by my drives to the doctors at a variety of clinics and by running up and down the stairs to let the therapists or the nurse in.

It’s been just a little crazy. And really truly, I’m grateful. The doctors have all reported good news. The therapists have been working steadily with Michael and his recovery has been nothing short of amazing. I think back to the days I walked into his hospital room(s) to find him still and quiet and unable to be awakened, when the only signs of his being alive were the machines, the rise and fall of his breath, and sometimes, a frown. I think back to the days when I walked into his hospital room(s) to find him awake, but still not present, not recognizing me, living in the past at least twenty-five years ago, and the constant sad requests to “help me, help me, help me.” I look at him now and I am just struck speechless.

But holy cow, our schedule.

You have to bear in mind that I live in a live-where-you-work condo. AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, my business, is on the first floor and we live on the second and third floors. I am used to having this space to myself during the day and this is where I work. Over the years, Michael has been away at his job and Olivia has been at school and so the house was quiet during the day, other than my talking with my students and clients. I’ve grown used to, and depend on, the peace.

Nothing has really been peaceful since January 17^th. When Michael was still in the hospital and rehab and I was alone, even at night, that peacefulness became very heavy. My home, which would come alive in the evenings with the sounds of Michael cooking and taking the dog out and talking to the cats and watching television and talking to me, took on a new kind of silence. It was a silence of emptiness, instead of a silence of purpose, which I experience during the day.

And then he came home…but the normalcy didn’t come back.

Though I will admit, my favorite times are when my workday is finally done, usually around midnight, and I come downstairs and I sit next to Michael on our loveseat with separate recliners. We watch television (currently reruns of the Love Boat and the original Frasier) and as the weeks since his homecoming have gone by and his recovery goes on, our conversation has resumed. Discussions about the guest stars on the Love Boat and where we know them from. Laughter.

Oh, the laughter. At times, though, tinged with regret. We started watching the Love Boat before the accident because we were planning on taking a cruise for our twenty-fifth anniversary coming up in October and so we “prepared” ourselves by watching the series about a cruise boat and its guests. That cruise has been canceled. I don’t know that it will ever be rescheduled.

But it’s at those times, late at night in our recliners, that the normalcy is almost there. Almost. There is still the walker standing at the ready by Michael’s feet. There is still knowing it will be me that takes the dog out for her final run, it’s me that loads and starts the dishwasher, it’s me that sets up the coffee pot for the morning, all things that Michael used to do. But it’s almost there. Watching Michael, I know there will come a time when he does these things again.

And then there was this Tuesday, just a couple days ago. The only people on my calendar were the people that were supposed to be there: four clients in the morning, two clients in the evening, and a class from 7 – 9. On Tuesdays, we do Tuesday Sundaes, a treat of frozen custard from Culver’s, and Olivia comes home so she can have a sundae too.

There were no doctors.

There were no therapists.

It was Just Us.

Oh, joy.

(Of course, on Wednesday, there was the occupational therapist, and today, there was the nurse, and tomorrow, there is the physical therapist…but there was Tuesday.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(And just for fun – in the photos, I’m including a picture of our new kitty, Oliver! Adopted from the humane society on Saturday. He is the perfect combination of Edgar Allen Paw and Muse – he is an orange tabby like Edgar, and he’s tiny, like Muse.)