Author: Kathie

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

I never, ever, EVER thought a dentist would be my Moment. Never. I have been afraid of the dentist for my entire life. And by afraid, I don’t mean that I tremble a bit as I walk into the dentist office. I mean that I do everything I can to NEVER walk into that office. I mean that I will be physically ill as I walk into the office. That I will shake so hard, the dentist will have to figure out how to hold me still while he or she is doing what needs to be done. That I will cry before, during, and after the appointment.

It’s ridiculous, really, and I hate it. But it’s always been this way.

The first dentist appointment I remember going to was to have four baby teeth extracted when I was in the second or third grade. The roots of my baby teeth did not dissolve, as they’re supposed to, so that they will pop out as the adult teeth grow in. My pearly little baby teeth stayed firmly in my mouth, not even a wobble to them, until I told my mother that something felt strange. When she looked, she saw that my adult teeth were already erupting behind my baby teeth. I now had two sets. So off to the dentist we went.

This was not a kind dentist, or even a sweet-natured pediatric dentist who loved children. This dentist treated everybody of all ages and he did not treat them gently. He first tried to yank out my four baby teeth without any kind of painkiller at all, that soon had me screaming in the chair and trying to escape. He then slapped a smelly black mask over my face and pumped me full of ether.

Ether was a horrible thing. Ether flashbacks are very real, and there are actually support groups for people who were ethered during surgeries and dental procedures. It’s odd and striking how similar everyone’s experiences are: like others, I felt like I was falling down a dark twisting tunnel and there was weird maniacal laughter all around. The smell was singular, and as I write about it, I can still smell it. To this day, I have trouble wearing masks. I never wore one, until the pandemic, and then I had to, and I would have to find small private corners where I could take it off and breathe for a bit to rid myself of the panic.

When I came to that first day with a dentist, I was in a side room off the dentist office that had cots. I immediately rolled over and threw up. From that point on, I tried to hide erupting teeth as best I could. I only had a couple teeth that came out the normal way, and I didn’t lose my last baby tooth until I was 17 years old.

Consequently – fear of the dentist. No, not fear. Terror.

Which means, as a 63-year old adult, I typically only go in to the dentist when I absolutely have to. I can’t use laughing gas, because that involves a mask. And I can’t be drugged beforehand because, since Michael doesn’t drive, I always have to drive myself.

In 2017, when I was dealing with breast cancer, I noticed a strange phenomenon. I broke a tooth and had to go in to the dentist. It only needed a filling, which was a relief, but I also noticed that I didn’t feel fear. I went in, sat in the chair, opened my mouth and just waited for it to be over. It was as if the experience of the breast cancer was so all-encompassing, the dentist no longer mattered. I had bigger things to worry about.

But after breast cancer…the fear came back.

A couple weeks into the current ordeal of Michael’s being struck and run over by a minivan, I was trying to throw aside some of the stress by having some of my kids over to have dinner and to play Animal Crossing Monopoly, a family favorite. We had pizza and then settled around the game board. I pulled out my classroom candy (a benefit of attending classes at AllWriters’ – there is always a basket of candy on the table!) and I chose one of my favorites, a red Twizzler, for myself. I bit down and heard that crack that should cue horror music. I broke a tooth on a freaking piece of licorice.

In the middle of dealing with the chaos with Michael, I wondered if it would have the same effect on me as the breast cancer did. But no. I made the appointment and walked into the dentist office, tearful, nauseous, shaking. And this time, so full of stress that when the dentist lowered the seat, she said, “Kathie, you’re not curving with the seat. You’re like a board. Try to loosen your muscles.”

Yeah, right.

This was a new dentist to me, as I rarely go back to the same dentist twice. I hope to never see the dentist again when I walk out. But this dentist…well, we talked about my experiences and my fears. And we talked about what was going on with Michael. She and her assistant sat on either side of me and held my hands as I talked and cried. And then…they got to work over several weeks as they prepared the tooth for a crown. It was ground down, then a fake crown put on, and finally, this week, the real crown installed.

And here’s the thing. Unlike that first monster dentist who acted like I was just a body, this dentist listened. As soon as I gave the smallest of squeaks, she stopped. Even if nothing hurt, but I just thought it might hurt, she stopped. She and her assistant explained everything as they went. And they believed me when I said something was hurting and they gave me more of whatever it was to numb me. I’m immune to novocaine, so she ordered something special, and eventually, I was frozen from my forehead to my chin. It was amazing.

And somehow – she made me laugh. By the time we reached this week’s appointment, my body curved into the dentist chair. Even though she looks like she’s about twelve years old, I didn’t mind when she called me “kiddo”. She’s just a kiddo kind of person.

I puzzled over this as I drove home this week, the new shiny crown in my mouth, the closest I will ever come to being royalty. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt. It did, but only for little tiny moments and then she addressed it until it didn’t hurt anymore.

I think it was that I was listened to. Unlike that first awful dentist. Unlike the one I had in my teenage years that didn’t believe me when I said the novocaine had no effect on me and went ahead and did the work anyway while I screamed myself hoarse. Unlike other dentists who have rolled their eyes.

She listened. She treated me seriously. And…I made it through.

How sad, really, to be 63 years old before I have a positive experience with a dentist. But I did. I might even go back before there’s a problem.

Maybe.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m afraid this Moment isn’t going to be very happy, and I’m sorry about that. I’ve tried really hard to think of something, and I have, though it’s wrapped in an unhappy event, way too similar to one five weeks ago.

I’ve lost my  Muse. My little gray cat. She died on her 21^st birthday. And she is one of the two cats I’ve had in my adult life that came to me as a kitten. The other cats, and dogs, have been adult rescues.

Einstein was the first. Einie was born in my parents’ culvert, along with three other kittens. There was a huge rainstorm on the night he was born, and one of his siblings washed up down the gulley, drowned. My parents rescued the rest. One kitten found a home with a friend who visited the nursing home where I worked at the time. My parents found someone to take the mama kitty and one baby. Which left the little orange kitten, who was the last to be litter-box trained and the last to…well, just about everything. I brought him home and hopefully named him Einstein. He was with me for 17 years.

Muse came through one of my classes, 21 years ago. I didn’t have the studio yet, but was already teaching what would be called the Wednesday Night Workshop through the Park & Rec department. One night, I complained that my home was mostly testosterone. There was Michael and my two sons. There were the two male cats, Einstein and Cornelius. There was my chihuahua, Cocoa. Estrogen-wise, there was me and my two daughters. There were six of them. Three of us.

The next week, one of my students came in with a friend who was traveling cross country in an RV. During the trip, her cat had kittens. I was given my pick. One was a little gray female who looked up at me with the most solemn eyes. “That’s Muse,” I said. And so she became mine.

I’ve had lots of cats in my life. Spooky, from my childhood. Jake, Einstein, Cornelius, Muse, Edgar Allen Paw. Jake died the day after his 18^th birthday. Einstein lived to be 17. Edgar Allen Paw died just five weeks ago at 14. Corny, a victim of cancer, died at 9. And Muse…Muse died about a half-hour into her 21^st birthday.

She slept with me every night. She had an uncanny ability to know where my fibromyalgia was hurting the most, and she would lay herself there, giving me heat from her body and vibration from her purr. During the day, she was always close by. Most of my clients who Zoom in for our sessions knew her, because she would sit beside the computer and put her face in where it could be seen. She liked to sit sprawled up my chest to my neck while I typed, and she sat in my lap when I was in my recliner. She also sat on the arm of my desk chair and she edited my work, often with a glare that told me I needed to rewrite.

Of all my cats, she was the one most intensely involved with me. I loved all the others, the others loved me…but Muse was my best friend. You could even call her my unofficial support animal, though she was so much more than that.

Since January, first Michael disappeared from our household. Then so did Edgar. I’ve been grieving and grieving hard, and that little cat stayed by me all the time. When I was upstairs, she was upstairs. When I was downstairs, so was she. When I came home from being away, it wasn’t just Ursula, our dog, who greeted me at the door.

When Michael came home, he was here for a week before Muse died. In that time, she sat in his lap more than she did mine. She was making sure he was okay.

She was moving steadily downhill after Edgar disappeared. While she was still by my side, and while she was always a tiny kitty, 7 pounds in her young adult life, 5 pounds as she aged, she became much, much thinner. She would cry by her water dish. And she stuck by my side.

I think, whatever it was that ailed her, she did her best to wait until Michael came home.

On Sunday night, late, just after midnight, so technically it was Monday and Muse’s birthday,  I heard her come through the kitty door which led to the litter box. And then I heard the classic sounds of a cat being sick, though this was deeper and harsher. And then she gave a very painful meow.

By the time I got to her, she was lying on her side. She was so small.

I scooped her up, put her in the kitty kennel, yelled to Michael that I was running to the emergency vet, and took off. On the way, I called my son and asked that he stay with Michael until I got home.

I talked to Muse the whole way. She answered in short, soft mews.

At the vet, with the plethora of possibilities of what could be ailing her, all of them bad, all not to be recovered from, all because of her age, I said I needed to let her go.

I held her in my arms as she was released.

And I don’t think I’ve stopped crying since.

I mean, in all honesty, and in the face of so many people telling me how well I’m dealing with all this, how strong I am, how I can do this, well, just how much is one person expected to take? Michael, struck and run over by a car. Edgar Allen Paw, losing the use of his legs, and now gone.

And my Muse.

I am hurting, and I am hurting big time.

The Moment? It was a hard one to come up with. It was a hard one to feel. But I am so happy, relieved, grateful, that I was able to take her away from the pain, whatever it was, just as she was able to help me over the years. Fibro pain. Emotional pain from depression. Grief from miscarrying a baby. Pain and fear from having breast cancer. Through all of this, for 21 years, I had a little gray cat to hold. And with five-pound ferocity, she made sure I was okay.

I’m not so sure I’m okay right now. But I am trying. And I am doing my best.

I am grateful that Michael is home and in one piece, though several pieces are healing. I am grateful for my big orange bowling ball cat.

And I am grateful that a little gray kitten happened to be brought into my classroom, at a time when I said I needed more estrogen in my life.

It wasn’t estrogen I needed. It was Muse.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Back in 2010, when I was fifty years old, my first book, a novel, was accepted for publication. It’s called The Home For Wayward Clocks.

I’d been writing for my entire life, with my first publication when I was fifteen years old. This was followed by many, many stories and short memoirs and essays, but the novel remained elusive, to the point where I thought it was never going to happen. I went through four agents before I sold the book on my own. The first was a local agent who wanted to branch out into literary fiction, but who had absolutely no idea what he was doing. I knew more than he did. The second agent was someone who was taking over for a very well-known agent and who asked me to come on board. I was delighted. She started trying to market a book that I wrote before Clocks. She kept calling me and cheering, “It’s made it through the first reading at (name of well-known publisher here)!” “A second reading!” “A third!” I was delirious, and then she dropped off the face of the earth. No answers to emails or phone calls. I picked up the phone and called (name of well-known publisher here) directly and worked my way through until I got hold of the acquisitions editor. I explained my situation and who I was and she started digging. “Oh, man,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Kathie. I don’t have any record of your book or that agent. We never received it.”

Heartbroken.

I was hanging out regularly at that time in a writers’ chatroom called the Writers’ Grill – it’s actually where I met Michael, my husband. I told the usual attendees about what happened. A woman I knew fairly well, by online standards, messaged me. Turned out she was the owner of a very well-known agency in New York. She asked to see my book, which was what would eventually become my novel, In Grace’s Time, but then was totally different. She loved it and then advised me on how to break off with the missing agent, which included sending registered mail that said I was no longer under contract with her, and because it was registered, she signed for it, which proved she received the letter. Then began the wait for Grace.

During this time, I’d begun to work on The Home For Wayward Clocks. It took me 3 years to write that book. A year in with this agent and Grace, the agent said she didn’t have anywhere else to go with the book. “Editors are saying it’s too quiet,” she said.

Quiet?

I offered her Clocks and she said it was a beautiful book, but that she “didn’t handle dark stuff.” She told me to write another book.

So I fired her.

I landed another agent, who also owned a well-known agency in New York. She shopped Clocks for a year and failed. She told me to write another book, which I already was, but I fired her anyway.

And then I set out on my own. Not self-publishing – that is not something I would ever do. I wanted to be backed by someone who believed in me so much, they would put their name on my book.

And I found someone. On my own. The Home For Wayward Clocks was released on February 1, 2011, by The Main Street Rag Publishing Company.

I will never, ever, EVER forget what it felt like to receive the box that held my copies of my first published book. I opened the box, took out the first one, cradled it like a baby, and wept.

So then fast forward through thirteen years and thirteen more books. Four other publishers. More novels, plus short story collections, an essay collection, and poetry collections. A total of fourteen books in thirteen years, from someone who was once on the edge of believing even one book would never happen.

And then stop at this week. Oh, this week. Because to answer a question that everyone always asks me, no, it never, ever, EVER gets old.

No, I didn’t receive a box yet in the mail. But I got to see the cover of my next book, the fifteenth, the eighth novel. Don’t Let Me Keep You. And while I didn’t rip open a box (yet), I didn’t pull out the first one (yet), and I didn’t cradle it like a baby (yet!), I did indeed weep.

You would think, being a writer, that I would be able to easily describe what this is like. But it’s difficult. Many writers say it’s like seeing their baby’s face for the first time, and it’s close. But there’s a difference. When you hold your baby, you know, no matter what your circumstances are, that this baby is a product of two people.

But when you hold your book for the first time, you are holding something that is 100% you. Created by you. Only you.

Only me. I wrote every word. And I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote every word.

And this one, of course, I finished the final draft while sitting in the ICU, waiting for my husband to wake up after being hit, then run over by mini-van. I read out loud to him.

And you know, in the beginning after the accident, when I was in what I thought was the worst of it, when I wasn’t sure if Michael was going to live, I stood by his bed and held his hand and wept. A different kind of weeping than when I see my books. But what I said to him was the same as the title of my next novel:

“Don’t let me keep you. If you need to go, you can go. It’s all right.”

He stayed.

And this week, I got to see the cover of Don’t Let Me Keep You. And the feeling was just like it was for The Home For Wayward Clocks. And Enlarged Hearts. And Learning To Tell (A Life)Time. Oddities And Endings. True Light Falls In Many Forms. Rise From The River. In Grace’s Time. Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. When You Finally Said No. No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See. All Told. Olivia In Five, Seven, Five; Autism In Haiku. Hope Always Rises.

Hope always rises.

Only me. But…with a husband who chose to stay by my side.

Fifteen books in fourteen years, baby. Amazing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Nine weeks and one day ago, my husband left home for his job, expecting an ordinary day.

Tomorrow, nine weeks and two days ago, Michael will come home.

I am elated…and terrified. I don’t know that I’m capable of helping him through this final path to his recovery.

But I’m sure as hell going to try.

Because of this, I’m keeping the Moment short today. I have about a million things to do to prepare for his homecoming. And on top of it all, we are under a winter storm advisory and we’re expecting about eight inches of snow tomorrow.

Of course we are.

So. This week’s moment of happiness despite the news is simply this: Michael is coming home.

This Moment has been nine weeks and two days in the making. That’s enough.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

In moments of crisis, like my family and I have been going through for the last eight – 8!!! – weeks, it begins to feel like your entire life is the crisis. The crisis becomes your sun, and everything else in your life circles around you like vague satellites. You have moments where those satellites come close and it feels almost like a normal life for about five minutes, but then the sun shines again.

Despite the positive feel of warm sunshine, in this case, the sun is not welcome. You want the sun to become the satellite, and then a falling star, falling away to never be seen again.

During this week, I found myself experiencing a soar in frustration, anger, and just “I’ve had enough”-ness. Nothing really went wrong – in fact, a lot went right. Michael is now walking all the way across the rehab’s gym with a walker. He climbed halfway up some stairs. He rolled himself to the gym in a wheelchair and he walked back with a walker. Today, when I came in, I found him with the occupational therapist, taking his first shower in 8 weeks.

Two weeks ago, he wasn’t even standing for very long.

He has returned firmly to the present time. His short term memory still wobbles, but it’s getting firmer every day. He’s eating almost normal foods.

The change is amazing. Heartening. Uplifting.

And the rest of the world suddenly seemed incredibly annoying.

Here’s an example that hasn’t happened yet, but I see it looming. Tomorrow, I have a client on the phone at ten in the morning. And, at ten in the morning, a host from a local radio program is calling me for a fifteen-minute interview about Michael’s accident. And at 10:30, a mobility company is coming to install the stairlift.

See the problem? And that’s been my week. I am a hyperorganized person. But I keep messing up my scheduling. Earlier this week, I was getting into the shower at 2:00 so I could leave at 2:30 to make it for a 3:00 appointment – an appointment actually for me. As I ran past my desk, I glanced at my desk and saw…my appointment was actually at 2:00. I wasn’t there.

That led to a major meltdown.

During one afternoon this week, Michael said to me, “I just want my life back. When can I have my life back?”

Me too.

But then a couple things happened that taught me something.

First, I had a couple companies come out to give me estimates on putting the stairlift in. The man representing the second company and I were talking and he mentioned living near the high school I graduated from. When I told him this, he asked when. It turned out that his mother and I went to school together. I mentioned that my kids all went to the high school. He did too, and he said, “Who were your kids?” I listed, “Christopher, Andy, Katie…” and his eyes went wide. “Mrs. Lokken?” he shouted.

Turns out he was a young kid that hung out at my house when I was that Mrs. Lokken. He lived down the street. He had a tough life. At the time, I had my tough moments too.

But here we were, standing in my stairwell. And we were both fine. We’d gotten past those moments and moved on to other ones.

Moments are moments. They pass. Lesson number One.

Then, a little bit later in the week, I was in the middle of tearing my hair out and wondering if I was ever going to be myself again. Probably the biggest thing that’s affecting me is that I haven’t written a word, other than this blog, since handing in the latest novel. And writer is my primary identity. Because I meet with clients in the morning and I have clients and classes in the evening, I write in the afternoon. But on this particular afternoon, and on every afternoon since the accident happened, I wasn’t writing because I was gathering stuff together to go see Michael. Due to my schedule, visits just have to be in the afternoon. Just as I was getting ready to shut down my computer and pack it up, an email arrived. I opened it and found that a poem of mine was accepted for an annual poetry calendar.

And one of the neat things? The theme of the poetry calendar was “Shine.” My poem, Pre-Dawn Dreaming, was all about shine. And suddenly, I was surrounded by it.

Oh, I thought. There I am.

So there was another moment. Moments of normalcy. Moments when I am who I am.

And like standing with that young man in the stairwell, time goes by and we’ll move on.

I absolutely hate the phrase, “This too shall pass.” Not as much as I hate the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason,” or “God only gives us what we can handle.” I don’t believe either of those. But this will pass. Michael will come home. Life will go back to normal. It might not be my old normal, but there will be a normal.

Someday, I will stand in another stairwell, or on a sidewalk, or in a room, and I will realize this is all over, it’s in the past, and I will have long stretches of time I don’t even think about it. I won’t even be writing about this in the blog anymore.

On one of the times when Michael said, “I just want my life back,” I found myself saying, “I’m just so glad you have a life,” and “It’s all good.”

It’s hard as hell. But it’s all good.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last week, I was asked to be on a local television channel’s morning talk show, to talk about Michael’s accident and the fundraiser associated with it. I’ve been on this show many times, always talking about my latest book release, or presenting as a spokesperson for the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books. It felt really odd, going on the show for a totally different reason. A totally awful reason. But I was eager – I’ve suddenly become passionate about pedestrian safety, for obvious reasons, and it seemed like this would be a wonderful way to get the word out, in the area where the accident happened.

Over the years, I’ve done a lot of appearances like this, and so I no longer get nervous, particularly when it’s in a space that I recognize. The big yellow couch – sat on it before. Talking with the hostesses – I know them well. Watching the cameras zoom around without any people attached to them because they’re controlled by computer – weird, but that’s just how it is. And so when I settled on the set, it all felt familiar and comfortable.

The questions came and I answered. That’s the way interviews work. Ask, answer, ask, answer. We even took the time to call hello to Michael, who I knew was watching from his hospital room. He was being transferred to rehab later that morning, and so a sense of celebration was in the air.

And then they asked me a question which just threw me for a loop. This doesn’t happen much anymore; I can usually tell what’s coming. But they brought up my blog, this one that I’m writing for right now, and the book associated with it, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Collection of Spontaneous Essays, which is the entire first year of the blog when I wrote it every single day. “You’re so positive!” the hostesses said. “So how are you staying positive with this experience?”

Positive?

In that moment, I wanted to shout, “I’m not positive! I’m angry! And I’m sad! And I’m going crazy, trying to stay on top of everything I suddenly have to stay on top of! How can I possibly be positive about a situation where my husband was nearly killed?”

But the professional in me kicked in, and luckily, they also gave me a lead-in, mentioning the sand dollar blog I wrote a couple weeks ago. So I followed up with that and got through it.

When it was done and I was back in my car, driving toward the hospital where our next adventure awaited us (ambulance ride, settling in to the rehab), I pondered this, and I’ve continued to ponder this.

First, they think I’m a positive person. I don’t think of myself as a positive person; I usually struggle with it, which is part of the point of this whole blog. The positive doesn’t come to me naturally. I have to look for it.

And second, they thought I had an answer to how I stayed positive during this time. Which means they think I am staying positive during this time, despite the fact that I wanted to stand up and shout, “This whole situation sucks!”

And so maybe…maybe…well, maybe I’m succeeding at finding the positive, even when I’m being challenged to the greatest extreme. Maybe.

I have a hard time accepting that, so I continued to think about it through the rest of that day, and in this week that’s followed.

And, well, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am handling this pretty well. Even during the times when I feel like I’m not handling it at all.

As I sat down to write this blog this morning, I took a moment to just actually sit, with my hands folded in my lap, and look around.

My home is intact. My bed is made. My cat and dog, Muse and Ursula, are fed and sleeping close by. The dishwasher is full of clean dishes. My laundry is done, folded, and put away. There are groceries in my cupboards and fridge.

I just finished meeting with my three morning clients. This evening, I will meet with three more. Total, this week, I taught 3 classes, with a total of 35 students, and met with 20 clients. Every manuscript was read, critiqued, and the discussion was ready to go.

My next novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, was not only turned in on deadline, it was turned in early. I finished it in the ICU. In the ICU!

I’ve kept up with this blog, even though each week since the accident, I’ve wondered what the hell I’m going to write about.

And the hardest thing – I managed to make a clear-headed decision about the quality of life my cat Edgar was having, and I was able to make the appointment, get him there, and be by his side as he was helped to the other side.

In a little bit, I’ll be heading out to the rehab to see what Michael is up to today. This week has been a huge one in terms of leaps ahead. Michael is now pretty much fully in the present time. His brain is no longer forcing him back 20 years. I am his wife, not his sister. On Monday, I watched as he took his first steps in 7 weeks. He held on to the parallel bars and he had a therapist in front of him and to either side…but damned if he didn’t walk. He did it three times.

24 hours before, he was barely standing.

“Look at me,” he said, looking over a therapist’s shoulder and locking eyes with me. “I’ve become an old man.”

“Funny,” I said. “You’re putting me more in mind of a toddler.”

And we laughed. LAUGHED.

The next day, I didn’t see it, but he walked briefly with a walker.

I am no longer worried about if Michael will come home. Instead, I am starting preparations for him to arrive.

I’m reading a novel.

I’ve played Animal Crossing.

Over the weekend, I went out to dinner with 2 of my kids, and we went to see a movie. American Fiction is amazing. And while there was a person missing, someone who is usually by my side wasn’t there, it still felt incredibly close to normal.

I’m sleeping at night.

You know what?

I am staying positive about this whole thing. I have my moments of tears and extreme frustration. I have my moments of fear and of feeling completely ignorant. And mostly, I have my moments of the most overwhelming, all-encompassing rage at this driver who caused this, and this city which doesn’t seem to care. Those moments are hard to deal with, because I just don’t know what to do with it when it hits.

But I think these moments are all part of staying positive. Because eventually, even in the midst of the great anger, I take a deep breath and move on to the next thing in my life, whether it’s taking care of my husband, taking care of students, taking care of the house, taking care of my kids or Ursula or Muse, or taking care of me.

I guess the whole point of this week’s post is just this: I’m doing okay.

Which is saying a lot right now. It’s saying enough. Sometimes, a Moment of Happiness is simply a Moment of Well-Being.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you would like to see the interview on the television show, here is the link:

Local Author Finds Her Next Chapter To Be Challenging (tmj4.com)

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

Given the events of the last six weeks, you might think that my husband being moved to rehab would be my moment of happiness. And it is a moment of happiness! But there was a moment right before it, that sprang directly out of a moment of profound sadness, that comes to my mind first.

Fuzzy orange cat hair is my moment of happiness.

Almost fourteen years ago, our cat Cornelius (Corny for short) died suddenly and at a fairly young age. What was thought to be infected teeth that needed removal ended up being a malignant tumor in his sinus. The vet thought he could still live for “a while”, but instead, less than two weeks later, I discovered Corny on my bed, the tumor erupted through his nose. I flew with him to the emergency vet, and a few minutes later, my Corny was gone.

We have always honored a pet’s life by saving another. So that Sunday, Easter Sunday, I headed out for a trip to Home Depot to buy lightbulbs. But instead of turning in there, I continued on to a local humane society.

Our cat Muse was 6 at this time, and I wanted to adopt another cat close to her age. I’d checked the humane society’s website and knew there were 2 6-year olds on site. I would just look, I told myself.

When I walked into the cat room, a big orange fluffy kitty immediately pressed himself to the door of his cage. He was on the bottom row, and I bent to give him some ear scritches through the bars. He pressed and pressed. If he could have, he would have squeezed through. I looked at his nametag – the humane society called him Trivium, which I  knew to be a muse of grammar. This made me laugh. But his age…only 1 year old. I scratched a little longer, then stood, brushing the orange hair off my clothes and hands. It floated around us like a citrus cloud.

“Nice meeting you, bud,” I said. Then I turned to look for the 6-year olds.

The orange kitty snaked his paw out between the bars and hooked his claws into my pants leg.

And so I was caught.

When I went up to the front desk to ask to see Trivium one on one in a little room, the girl there said sure, but that “He’s kinda shy.”

“Like hell,” I said.

In the room, the orange kitty climbed into my lap and tucked his head into my elbow, where he promptly fell asleep. “I’m taking him,” I told the girl.

When she called home to make sure that Michael knew his wife was at a humane society, adopting a cat, which he didn’t, smart, smart Michael, who knows me well, said, “Oh, yes. I know.” I never did get the light bulbs.

Trivium came home and by the end of that afternoon became Edgar Allen Paw. His first vet described him as a “genetic anomaly.” He had extra toes. His tail was too short for his body and it also had an extra kink in it. His head was also too small. He mostly meowed without making a sound, but when he did, it was straight out of Jurassic Park.

And he was my boy.

Fast forward almost fourteen years. Edgar grew into a large cat. I called him the bowling ball. At his peak, he was 18 pounds. But he was a naturally big boy – the vet said his optimum weight was 16 pounds. Over the last year, he began to develop problems with his back legs. They would suddenly and without warning splay out, useless. And then…they’d come back.

However, in the middle of all this chaos with Michael, Edgar’s legs went out again, and this time, they stayed out. He lost control of his bladder. And in our open concept three-story condo, with very few doors, he kept falling down the stairs.

I knew what I had to do. But I surely didn’t want to do it.

At the vet’s, Edgar couldn’t stand up. My vet gave him a sedative to calm him down before the final injection. She left us alone for a bit, giving me a few precious moments before that injection was performed.

Fourteen years older, I did not sit on the floor, as I did on the day he chose me. But I laid my arms flat on the examination table and Edgar curled into my circle. He tucked his head into my elbow and he fell asleep.

He knew he was safe, and with his person, just as he knew it fourteen years before.

When it was all over, the vet, who knew about what was going on with Michael, gave me a huge hug as I sobbed. And then she left us alone again, so I could give Edgar a last goodbye.

I stroked him from nose to kinky tail tip. I counted his toes. And then I took the corner of the blanket he was laying on and pulled it over his body, leaving his head out, and covering him like he was sleeping.

Just before I left, I noticed the tufts of Edgar’s fluffy orange fur, left there after the vet shaved a spot on his front leg to put in the IV. I thought of fourteen years of constantly having orange fur on my clothes. Of the clouds of it when I brushed Edgar. How all of the furniture in my house, no matter what the original color was, had a definite orange tint.

After pulling out a tissue, I picked up the bit of fur and folded it inside, and then tucked it into my purse.

On that first morning without Edgar, I walked into my office and glanced at where his bed used to be. I always started my day with a “Good morning, Eddie-grrrr.” But on that day, I walked to the bookshelf behind my desk. On it, in front of my row of published books, sits that tuft of orange hair. “Good morning, Eddie-grrr,” I said. “Good morning, Ed-Fred. Good morning, my bowling ball cat.”

I have never been so happy to have orange fur in my house.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Over these five weeks since Michael’s “accident”, I’ve been amazed with the generosity and compassion of people. I’ve been rained on with well wishes, lovely emails, Starbucks cards, restaurant cards, gasoline cards, and more.

And then yesterday, a student visited me to deliver a care package. Inside, among other things, I found a tissue-wrapped object. When I opened it, I found…a sand dollar.

A sand dollar!

My student said, “It was my mother’s. I thought you would like it.”

Oh my.

Many of you may already know about my experiences with sand dollars. Here’s a recap.

In 2015, I went to the Oregon coast to my favorite little house for a two-week retreat from the world. I was not in good shape. I was feeling the most depressed and the most desperate and the most worthless that I ever had. When I arrived on the coast, I dropped my suitcases, ran through the house and out the sliding glass doors and down to where the ocean met the sand. And I yelled, asking the ocean and the world and the universe what they all wanted from me and what else I could do. Why, I asked, should I even try anymore? Why was I breathing? When the waves didn’t part with answers, I told the ocean or God or whomever that, if I was on the right path in my life, if my life was worth it, let me find a whole sand dollar. A whole sand dollar. In all the years I went to the Oregon coast, I only found bits and pieces.

And then I settled in to wait for an answer, to see if one would even come.

One very foggy evening, I was walking the beach. The fog in this part of the Oregon coast is magical. It sparkles. It was like walking in a glitter storm while the ocean breathed steadily beside me. From far away, I watched as an old man approached me. No matter which way I moved, he kept adjusting his movements so that he came directly toward me. Eventually, he stopped, and we were face to face, nose to nose. I noticed I didn’t feel scared. Without saying hello, he smiled at me and said, “Have you found a whole sand dollar?”

I was stunned. “No!” I said. “I’ve been looking for one!”

He pulled three whole sand dollars out of his pocket and held them out to me. “Choose one,” he said.

I did. And I never saw the man again. I went home and I kept on working. I kept on trying. I kept on believing.

Why “Choose one”? Why three? I think it’s because I did indeed choose this life that I’m living.

In 2017, I had breast cancer and couldn’t go to the Oregon coast during treatment. A friend of mine went to the coast and as he stood there, gazing at the ocean, he thought of me. And then he felt a bump on his foot. Looking down, he found…a whole sand dollar. He brought it home to me.

In 2018, I returned to the coast. Again, I dropped my suitcases and ran out to the ocean. “You didn’t tell me my path included cancer!” I yelled. And then I asked, if I was going to be okay, that I again find a whole sand dollar, but this time on my own, without anyone bringing it to me.

On my last day there, I walked out to say goodbye to the ocean. As I stood there, there was a bump on my little toe. I looked down and found a teeny tiny…whole sand dollar.

And now, here we are in 2024. In the middle of the greatest chaos I’ve ever faced. 2197 miles away from my special spot on the Pacific Ocean. I’ve asked myself a million times if Michael is going to survive. If I am going to survive. If I am capable of dealing with this, if I am doing everything I should, if I have any idea what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve felt totally overwhelmed and over my head.

And now, all of a sudden, I’m holding a sand dollar from a special student. A whole sand dollar.

There couldn’t be a more comforting thing. There couldn’t be a more perfect thing.

Everything is going to be all right. I’m still on the right path. I am capable. I can do this.

And Michael is right beside me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

It seems like late at night is when most of the worries and questions come. The introspection. The looking around and wondering just what the hell happened a month ago, and how can it only be a month, and at the same time, it feels like years have gone by.

Nights are raw and confusing. And very, very lonely.

One evening, as I was watching the latest episode of the old television show, Eight Is Enough, I turned to point out to Michael that an actor from The Waltons was on the screen. Eight Is Enough was often called the modern edition of The Waltons, back when “modern” was the late 70s. The shows frequently shared the same writers, and so actors, actresses, and even storylines sometimes crossed the screen. Of course, when I turned to talk to Michael, his recliner wasn’t reclined, and it was empty.

He was at the hospital, where he’s been since January 17^th. And so I burst into tears.

Nights are for tears too.

It occurred to me this week that I am grieving for Michael, even though he’s still here. As he heals, there are days when he’s fully alert, when he knows me and tells me he loves me, when he asks about work, when he asks for his phone or his computer. And there are other days when I morph into his sister, when he says he was never married, and I basically cease to exist.

And so there’s grief.

I am pretty well-versed in literature, between being an English major and then a grad school student and then a writer and an editor and a teacher who reads pretty much every genre there is in this world, and some that haven’t been created yet. But I remembered reading in novels about grief that women who lost their husbands would often sleep with the husbands’ shirt. That shirt held his body and, if unwashed, still contained his scent.

In the early days of this event, I folded the laundry that Michael left in the dryer. As I folded it and stacked it, while simultaneously watching yet another episode of Eight Is Enough that I couldn’t talk to Michael about, our dog Ursula came over, sniffed the pile, and then flung herself over several stacks.

She’s never done this before. But she’s also never had an important person disappear on her like this, and have the other important person often dissolve into tears. Especially at night.

So I thought of those references in novels and I thought of Ursula. But Michael didn’t have any unwashed laundry.

When my mind wandered more down Ursula and the laundry, I remembered the clothes that Michael was wearing on the day of the accident. I remembered the shock when I got home on that first night, carrying the bags of his belongings. I pulled out his clothes, one by one. Jacket, shirt, pants, underwear and socks. And all shredded to rags by the paramedics as they worked to get to Michael as fast as they could. The next day, I put the bags into the dumpster behind my condo. Then that night, Ursula sprawled on the laundry. I decided to get the bags back out and find what was left of his shirt.

It was the last thing he wore when our life was our life. And it was what he was wearing after the disaster. The “accident”.

I brought it in and gave it to Ursula. For a few days, she plopped herself on it and mouthed it gently. But then she left it alone. I placed it in Michael’s space on the couch, where Ursula often cuddled with him.

And now, as I thought of grief and novels, I thought of that shirt again. What was left of it.

That night, when I went to bed, I draped that shirt over Michael’s pillow. And then I draped my arm over it all.

And lord help me, I slept better than I had in a month. It was like he was there.

Earlier this week, Michael was having one of his bad days. Over and over, he asked me, “Where’s the captain?”

“What captain?” I asked back.

“The captain of the boat.”

“You’re not on a boat, Michael. You’re in the hospital.”

“Where is Captain Stubing?”

Captain Stubing. Played by Gavin Macleod, on the 1970’s show, The Love Boat.

Just as Michael and I were watching Eight Is Enough together before the disaster, we were also watching The Love Boat. We’d made reservations to go on a cruise to celebrate our 25^th wedding anniversary. The cruise was to be in August, our anniversary in October. We were flying overseas, and then cruising through London, Paris, and parts of Scotland and Ireland.

The trip of a lifetime. It’s canceled now.

So we watched The Love Boat. I wondered with Michael if we would throw confetti over the side and wave at people as our boat left the harbor. If we would have friendly funny people like Captain Stubing, Doc, Gopher, Julie, Isaac, on board with us. What things we would see, what things we would do.

“Where is Captain Stubing?”

He was talking about a show we were watching together, to prepare to celebrate our 25 years.

It was like he was there.

My moment of happiness? Gratitude for novels that tell me about lives that I’ve never experienced, but find myself in now, up to my neck. Novels that give me ideas on how to handle something I have no idea how to handle.

Gratitude for The Love Boat. For Eight Is Enough. For a dog who is grieving with me.

And absolute happiness that Michael is here, even on those days when he’s not.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

My husband is talking to Matthew Perry.

Yes, you read that right. My world has become very surreal.

My husband Michael continues healing in the hospital. Three weeks ago, he was hit, and then run over, by a minivan. He has multiple skull fractures, a fracture of the T-10 vertebrae in his back, and traumatic brain injury.

Up until this past Tuesday, he was in and out. Sometimes making sense, most times not, almost constantly begging for help, asking that his “mittens” that keep him from pulling things out that can’t be pulled out, be removed, asking that the NG tube be removed from his nose, the cervical collar from his neck.

It’s been a very hard three weeks. When you have to say no to your husband, over and over and over again, when he asks for help and you can’t offer any, it’s just the most helpless feeling in the world. Especially when your husband doesn’t understand why you can’t help.

This past Tuesday, my day started with the hospital calling and saying Michael was being moved back to the ICU. They said he was wheezing and had a high whine in his upper respiratory system, and so they wanted the closer attention of the ICU staff to watch over him. I made it through my morning clients and then ran to the hospital. I went to the Neuro ICU, only to find he wasn’t there. There were no beds available, so he was moved down a floor to the Transplant ICU.

Sure.

By the time I got there, Michael had had a breathing treatment and his breathing was fine. I got to his room, walked in, and he looked right at me. I mean, right at me!

“Kathie,” he said. “Where am I? What is going on? I don’t know what’s going on.”

He was there. HE WAS THERE. Awake, alert, making sense.

I tried to tell him what happened. I had to stop and start over several times, because he said, “Wait, I’m not understanding you.” All of his responses were appropriate.

But then…in between all coherent statements…

First, he asked for someone named Theresa. “Where did she go?” he asked. I messaged his sister and asked who Theresa is. “That’s a cousin, who died a while ago.”

Okay.

Then, a little while later, he called, “Matthew! Matthew! Hey, Matt, buddy! Can you come help me? I need these mittens off.”

Matthew? I don’t know a Matthew. I asked who that was.

“It’s Matthew Perry,” he said.

Um…what?

I asked him how he knows Matthew Perry.

“I met him a few days ago.” He kept asking Matthew, “Matt, buddy!”, to come over. And then he sighed and said, “He just isn’t listening.”

So my husband knows Matthew Perry, who played Chandler Bing on the television show Friends. Matthew Perry died on October 28 of last year.

Throughout the afternoon, Michael continued to call for Matthew Perry in between normal conversation. He asked about his boss and about work. He asked what happened to him. He recognized the hospital. “I know Froedtert,” he said. “My doctor is there.”

Yep.

It was nothing short of amazing. He was there. He was talking, having conversations, making observations, and then from time to time, drifting off to a land only he could see.

And Lord help me, I laughed. Every time he called for Matthew Perry, every time he called Matthew Perry “buddy”, I giggled.

And when Michael heard me laugh, he laughed too.

It’s been three weeks since Michael and I laughed together.

After I left the hospital, our daughter came in to see her father. He recognized her, called her every single one of the nicknames he has for her. And then, in between conversations, he asked for Monica, another character from Friends. He asked for other names, which we didn’t recognize, but we were told by a Friends fan that these were names from minor characters who made short appearances with the show. Characters he couldn’t possibly know.

Here’s the thing. Michael and I don’t typically watch Friends. If it was the only thing on when we were staying in a hotel, we’d watch an episode or two.

But here he was, talking about minor characters. Looking for them.

All the characters were called by their character names. Except for one. Matthew Perry. And the only one he asked for help, to come release him from the mittens, was Matthew Perry.

And to top it all off – his nurse’s name was Ross. The name of another character on Friends.

He also asked for his father. Michael’s father died when he was in college.

At one point, when I told Michael that Matthew Perry was not in the room, he said, “Yes, he is.” He pointed. “He’s standing right behind you.” he told me.

And I decided to believe him.

Let me tell you, if Matthew Perry is helping to bring my husband back, I’ll start watching Friends. And I will say thank you every time Matthew Perry steps onto the set.

Bring back the laughter, Matthew. Bring Michael back home.

We will watch Friends together.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.