Author: Kathie

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

My day off this week was Tuesday, and miraculously, no “extras” were scheduled on the broad clear expanse of my calendar for that day. Normally, a day off is where I schedule speaking engagements, appearances, doctor appointments, or whatever else comes along that would disrupt my working schedule. But that Tuesday…nothing.

I had simple plans that I was really looking forward to. I was going to sleep until I woke up naturally, without the aid of an alarm clock. Breakfast would be leisurely, relaxed, taken in my recliner in front of the fireplace, while I read for fun, not for work. The only reason I’d get up before coming to the end of a chapter was to refill my coffee cup. Then I’d take a non-rushed shower, put on my oldest, most comfy clothes, sit down at my writing table (I love it – I’ve had it for over 20 years. It’s a teacher’s desk from England, circa the 1800s. I feel like I’m in good company when I’m there.) and work on a new story that I’d started the week before. I would write until I felt I was done, without paying attention to the clock. The rest of the day would include getting Starbucks, playing my favorite video game, Animal Crossing New Horizons, a little TV, then reading in bed before sleep.

Ahhhhh.

This all changed when I received an email from my poetry publisher, containing the galleys for my new collection, The Birth Of A Widow.

For those that don’t write, a galley is a mock-up of your book. You have to read through it, watching for any typos or mistakes, including computer-generated errors created by the software that set up the book.

For a writer, it’s kinda like having that newborn baby placed into your arms. You’ve seen the words in your head, then on the paper or screen. And now…you were going to see the real thing, including the baby’s face. The cover.

Normally, the galley is received with joy and excitement. But my feelings were different this time.

I saw the email before breakfast, so I still had my breakfast in my recliner. But my mind kept slipping toward what was waiting for me. Thoughts of working on the new story wandered back into that creative compartment in my brain. Instead, my trying to lose myself in the book I was reading was interrupted by my remembering the words I’d written over the course of a year for this book. And remembering the events that caused the words.

The Birth Of A Widow is a book I never ever dreamed of writing. I never wanted the situation that presented the opportunity and knowledge and experience to write it.

But I wrote it because it took hold of me. It became something I had to do in order to recover.

I arrived on the Oregon coast for my yearly escape 66 days after my husband Michael died. That escape is reserved for writing, writing, and more writing. But that year, I didn’t know if I would be able to write a word. I hadn’t been able to, since finishing my latest novel while sitting in Michael’s ICU room, reading the entire book out loud to him as he lay with his eyes closed, and with no response, in his bed.

In Oregon, I walked out to greet the ocean. Except I couldn’t find the words. Not even to speak to Ms. Pacific.

I took a walk, came back inside, and sat down at the writer’s desk in that magical little house. And I wrote a poem. About not being able to speak to the ocean. And then, what she said to me.

The next morning, there were three more poems. I wrote them without intent, without a topic, without an idea. But the opening line always showed up.

Without a doubt, I was overwhelmed. But the words came and I wrote them. I decided, as I sat with the ocean by my side, that I would simply allow these poems to come. I didn’t plan them; they just showed up. I would write them until the first anniversary of Michael’s death, and then I would stop. While I couldn’t control the arrival of the poems, I felt like I had to control the passing of time. If I didn’t, I would write them forever, and never move on to something else.

That anniversary arrived when I was back in Oregon this past June. I actually didn’t write the final poem that day; it was the only poem I wrote where I sat down with a plan, but the plan wouldn’t come. But the morning after the anniversary, the start of the second year without Michael, I woke up and wrote the final poem.

It was a hard decision to submit the book to my publisher. The book is more intensely personal than I’ve ever written. There’s a reason I usually choose to write fiction, something I can write by looking at it outside of me, rather than looking inside of me. But I thought of how writing the poems helped me. Maybe they could help others. I decided to submit the book to the publisher and let them decide.

They said yes in 48 hours. We also decided to include an essay I wrote, called “The Cliché”, which placed in the Wisconsin Writers Association’s annual contest.

On Tuesday, when I opened the file, I hadn’t looked at the book since I submitted it. Suddenly, there it was again, carefully sculpted into pages.

And there was the cover. Artwork gifted to me by the loveliest of writer friends, created by her, and somehow giving a face to my words.

I spent the afternoon reading, reliving, weeping. A far cry (ha!) from how I planned to spend that miraculous Tuesday.

But the day still felt miraculous. Something beautiful came out of such a horrible experience. Well…something beautiful came out of the experience, but it also came out of me.

There were only a few computer-generated errors that needed to be fixed. I returned the galleys to my publisher.

I can tell you it’s very hard and conflicting to be proud of a book that was born because of the traumatic death of your husband. It’s hard and conflicting to be happy that it’s going to be released. That evening, as I sat in my recliner in front of my fireplace, all other lights turned off, and I just watched the flames, I wrestled with the wonder of it, if that happiness and pride meant that I was happy that Michael died.

Yes, I actually wondered that.

But by the time I settled into bed, my mind was settled too. Probably because I smacked myself upside the head.

I would give up, not only this book, but every book I ever wrote, every story, every essay, every poem, if it meant Michael was still here. The words “happy” and “Michael’s death” will never appear together.

But I can be happy with the lovely things that have come out of such a dark situation. It’s truly the way that I keep moving ahead, one step after the other. It’s the way I make sure that I don’t become lost too.

The book was written. It will be released soon.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(Those six words, at the end of every blog, have never rung truer.)

 

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

Oh, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. My one and only grandchild, my granddaughter, turned 13 this week. I picked her up from school, we drove to Starbucks, and…we had coffee together. Well, to be fair, she had a Strawberry Acai Lemonade Refresher. But she does Starbucks. And she did it with me.

Years ago, my oldest son got married before I turned 50. I had my first 3 kids at a pretty young age (23, 25, 26), given the era, and so I was still relatively young when they all started pairing up. I quietly, but vehemently, told my son that if he made me a grandmother before I was 50, I would remove the apparatus that made me a grandmother.

He listened. He made me a grandmother when I was 52.

I really wasn’t sure about being a grandmother. My grandmothers both wore housedresses. They looked like grandmothers. They puttered. I loved Grandma Walton, as I love all things Walton, but Grandma Walton looked like a grandmother. To me, grandmothers wore housedresses and aprons, they baked cookies, they sat in rocking chairs and knitted, and they talked about the “olden days”.

I so couldn’t fit myself in that mold. I didn’t know yet that a transformation like that didn’t automatically take place when you became a grandmother.

When my son called and hesitantly told me that I was going to be a grandmother, my response was probably guarded. As much as I love babies and toddlers and children, as evidenced by my having four of them myself, going from being a young mother of three in my twenties, to having my fourth when I turned forty, I found it hard to picture myself doing those stereotyped grandma things. But I did picture myself with an older grandchild. Teenager. Having coffee. Talking about books. Music. Life in general.

With my two daughters, Katie and Olivia, coffee, and particularly Starbucks, became a connection. When they were living with me, and when they weren’t, we still met often at Starbucks. One of my favorite memories of Katie is from her first day as an undergrad at the University of Wisconsin – Madison. Late in the morning, after her first classes, one of which included math, which was her major, she texted me. “I’m sitting by Lake Mendota,” she said, “and I’m drinking a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice latte. I just finished my morning classes. And I am soooooooo happy.” When I received the text, I quickly jumped into my car, drove to Starbucks, got my own drink (grande cinnamon dolce latte with only 2 pumps of cinnamon dolce, blonde espresso) so I could be sharing in her coffee break with her, even from a distance. And even though it wasn’t my usual coffee break time, which falls late afternoon.

Olivia began to join me at Starbucks when she was in middle school. Her Starbucks drink is identical to mine, though she usually takes it as a frappaccino. Michael never drank coffee, and neither does my ex-husband, so it was so nice to find out they inherited the coffee gene from me. My boys, Christopher and Andy, have resisted coffee, but Andy capitulated a few years ago. He is now a coffee connoisseur, and we share new flavors when we discover them. His Starbucks drink is a white chocolate mocha latte. He and I have not yet met in a Starbucks to just sit, sip, and talk, but I’m sure we will.

And then…there was this grandchild. Who just turned 13.

On Christmas day, I asked Maya if she liked Starbucks. “Yes,” she said, nodding vigorously. “She loves Starbucks,” her parents said.

And so an idea, based on a wistful grandmotherly dream, was born.

I picked Maya up from school today, the day after her birthday. We drove to Starbucks, went inside, ordered our drinks, and sat down at a table. Once again, I gazed at a young lovely face across from me. I gave her her birthday presents, we talked and we sipped. Partway through, Olivia joined us.

Once, when Maya was only three years old, she was riding in the back seat of my car and trying to tell me that she was losing her hair. I asked her how. “It’s the srees, Gamma Kaffee,” she said. Maya for a while could not say the letters TR. They came out SR. “The wind blows the srees and the srees take my hair.”

Maya, with hair already down to her hips at the age of three, was not losing her hair. “I don’t understand, Maya Mae,” I said, looking at her through my rearview mirror.

Her sigh encapsulated all the sadness in the universe. She slumped in her car seat. “Nobody gets it, Gamma,” she said.

Not on my watch. This gamma would get it.

She and I talked some more. And gradually, it came out that she’d had an experience, standing by a tree, where the wind blew and a branch snagged her hair. The tree stole a few of her lovely strands.

I reminded her of another conversation we had, also with her in my back seat, and also about trees. “Gamma Kaffee,” she said then. “The srees talk to me.”

“What do they say, Maya?” I asked.

“I love you, Maya,” she said.

With the new backseat story, I said to her, “Remember? The trees love you. So I’m sure it was just an accident. I bet the tree is sorry, Maya Mae.”

And she lit up.

Now, with Maya at 13, entering that rollercoaster time of adolescence, I looked at her, sitting across from me.  Her gaze came back to me, strong, even, unwavering. And I thought how I would do anything for this girl.

This grandma, who misses being called Gamma Kaffee, gets it. With Starbucks between us, conversation, and steady gazes, I will continue to get it and make her light up.

Happy birthday, Maya Mae. Katie and Olivia and Andy, let’s have coffee soon. Christopher, get with the program.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

For those who read This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, it’s going to be late today, as I’m likely going to be living it late this afternoon. It will be coming…probably after 7:00 p.m. central time.

🙂

 

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

Well, I’ll be honest with you. I’ve spent the greater part of this day trying to figure out what I’m going to write about. I sifted through my week, day by day by day. Nothing stood out.

I know that what I’m seeing on the news is affecting my mood. So is the two-year anniversary of Michael’s being struck and run over by the passenger van – January 17. So this week has been a bit like walking through a swamp and trying not to pay attention to it. I hear the sound of my footsteps schlorping through the murk…but I keep my eyes leveled ahead at what’s in front of me. Not quite like wearing blinders…I’m fully aware, I can see and hear what’s going on, inside and out. But I keep my gaze steady.

I found myself puzzling over the term “anniversary” in connection to Michael’s accident, that was the start of this two-year awful cycle. Anniversary just doesn’t seem right. It brings up visions of celebrations. Balloons. Wedding bells. Parties. Smiles and laughter. None of those fit this kind of “anniversary”.

Somewhere in the middle of this murk, slogging through the swamp, thinking about anniversaries, my mind settled on one of my own novels. Learning To Tell (A Life)Time. One of the storylines in that book belonged to Cooley, who also appeared in The Home For Wayward Clocks and who had a cameo appearance in In Grace’s Time. In Cooley’s past was a boy (she thought) who romanced her via the internet, but when he showed up to meet her face to face, he was a man. A man who proceeded to rape her. Cooley remembers the day, and the date, as if it just happened, and she wonders what to call it, each year as that date approaches. Like me now, but not the me that wrote that book as I didn’t have an event like that to ponder, she wonders what to call it, because anniversary doesn’t work.

As I thought of Lifetime and Cooley, I remembered that she (and I) found another word for a date that you always remembered, but it wasn’t a good memory. I couldn’t remember what it was. I wrote the book in 2011 and 2012 and it was published in 2013, so it’s been a while. So I sat down with my own copy of the book and paged through it, trying to find the scene where she (and I) found the word. I was amazed at what I saw.

First, this, which included the definition of the word “anniversary”:

Anniversary

1. The yearly recurrence of the date of a past event;
2. The celebration or commemoration of such an event.

The word celebration bothered Cooley.  There was no celebrating this.  It stuck in the mind like an impossible sliver, something that just couldn’t be dug out.

And:

April 16.  Cooley hated the month of April.  While others were celebrating the coming of spring, she always found herself wanting to sleep.  Hibernation didn’t hit for her in the winter, but in the new green of an April morning. 

An impossible sliver that can’t be dug out. For me, January 17^th. The accident. And June 19^th. Michael’s death.

And I have had an impossible craving for sleep since the Christmas season started.

Then I read this:

Finally, she landed on a site for death anniversaries, a discussion of the different ways cultures acknowledged the deaths of loved ones.  Words on this site came from all around the world.  Gio.  Kishin.  Jiri.  Shraddha.  Gije.  But one word, broken down, stuck out to Cooley.  The Japanese word  meinichi.  Mei, the article said, meant life, and niche meant date.  A life date.

April 16, 1993, was definitely a day that changed Cooley’s life.  It wasn’t an anniversary. It was something else. Life-changing.

Meinichi.  That word would be reserved for Marcus, and for the rape, alone.  

I carefully closed my novel and slid it back into place with the others. Standing before them for a moment, I let my finger touch each book, one by one.

Somewhere in the writing of To Tell (A Life)Time, from 2011 to 2013, I answered my own question that I would ponder in 2026. I couldn’t remember it on my own, but I had to look back over my own words, to come up with the word that soothed Cooley. And that soothes me now.

My anniversaries with Michael – the anniversary of our first date, the anniversary when he moved here from Omaha to be with me, the anniversary of our marriage – would remain anniversaries. Celebrations.

But the day I received a phone call, telling me my husband was struck and run over and that I needed to come to the ER right away – “Hurry!”- is not a celebration. The day he died…not an anniversary either.

Meinichi.

I answered myself thirteen years before I even had the question. A question I never wanted to ask.

I don’t know how this fits as a Moment Of Happiness. Despite The News. But it was a moment that made me smile, hug the book to my heart, glance over at Michael’s photo, drop my shoulders, and breathe. So it will have to do.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

(And now…the rest of the story…)

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

On New Year’s Day, in the evening, my daughter Olivia and I moved our cars up into the parking garage across the street. It snowed, and at my condo, we have to move the cars that are parked outside so a plow can come clear us out. My condo only has a 1-car garage, and I own 3 cars (don’t be impressed…the newest one is a 2018, though I do keep my cars in pristine shape. One car is for Olivia.) After we parked and were moving toward the elevator to take us back down to the street, we heard a car honk, followed immediately by a man yelling. He let loose with a string of expletives, and also a demand to not call him by a racial slur.

Now, this is not unusual. Whether Waukesha admits it or not, we have a sizable homeless population, and many hang around the parking garage, which is also our bus station for Waukesha and Milwaukee city busses. Livvy was nervous, because we would likely have to walk past the yelling man to get home, but I told her we’d be able to handle it.

Before his death, Michael and I did quite a bit with the homeless in our area. We kept a supply of Lunchables, fresh fruit, and bottled water on hand to distribute if we came across someone, and we also kept handy a list of shelters. I bought old blankets and jackets from Goodwill to distribute as well during the winter months. So I really wasn’t worried about this man. The homeless have never scared me.

When we got down to street level, we stopped for a moment and listened. The man had fallen silent, so we left the bus station and headed toward the street. Before we got there, we heard the man start yelling again. As we stepped onto the sidewalk, I saw him, off to our right, on the parking garage side of the street. The condo building is on the other side. He was still ranting, so I told Livvy we would cross the street and walk home on that sidewalk.

We crossed, and then she took off, walking too fast for me to keep up. The man noticed her and began to yell at her directly. She yelled back, saying, “I didn’t do anything! Please leave me alone!” He stepped off the curb and started walking toward her.

This is when I broke into a run. Full out. If he was going to approach my daughter, he had to reach me first. I would make sure I was between the two of them. As I ran, I called to him, “It wasn’t us. We just parked our cars upstairs.” He hesitated, then turned to head back to his side of the street.

I kept running in case he changed direction again. There was a small side street between me and the condo building, and Livvy was already on the other side. So I flew off the curb and into the street.

I mentioned it snowed, right? And we hadn’t yet been plowed. The sidewalk and streets were covered with ice, snow, and slush.

When my foot hit the street, it also hit some sort of divot and I was suddenly airborne. It was like a swan dive. When I landed in the middle of the street, it was flat out, belly down, arms fully extended in front of me like Superman. WHOMP! Amazingly, I did not hit my head and my glasses remained on my face. But the rest of me was completely flat down in the street. The air was knocked out of me and I was instantly in pain.

Olivia, luckily, looked over her shoulder, saw me, and came running back. When I told her to help me up, she grabbed my arms, said, “1…2…3…UP!” and heaved, without giving me a chance to get my feet under me. And then she dropped me.

I fell back onto the street, hitting with my right hip first, and then fell backward, so I was now fully on my back in the street. I was in pain, soaking wet with cold ice water, and I had no idea how I was going to get up. Livvy was babbling about calling an ambulance, but I knew I didn’t need that. I just needed stable help up.

There was a parked car on the street, so I told Livvy I was going to try to crawl over to it to pull myself up. How I was going to crawl with burning knees and ankles and hips and arms and hands, I don’t know. But it was all I could think of. I was trying to get myself onto all fours, when suddenly…the homeless man was there. Right next to me. And he wasn’t ranting.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, love. It’s okay.”

I looked at him and said, “Can you help me up?”

He bent down and I put my arms around his neck. His arms slid under mine and around my back. Then he raised me up slowly, allowing me to get my feet under me and stand.

We were face to face. In each other’s arms. And we stood there.

The man made direct eye contact with me. He didn’t look away. His gaze was steady. Looking back at it now, I would say his eyes were kind and gentle. At the time, shook as I was, I found myself thinking, He looks so human.

So human.

He said again, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love.” And then, “I won’t let you go.”

Now, I’ve heard often enough of time standing still. But I’ve never experienced it. Until then. There was only the two of us. His eyes. His words.

The last coherent words Michael said to me before he died were, “I’m never going to let you go.”

On this night, on that street, in the arms of a man who had been raving and ranting just a few minutes before, who may have been a threat, I felt safe. Absolutely safe.

He was so human.

Eventually, I stepped back and so did he. I thanked him profusely. He, in a much softer voice, continued what he was saying across the street. Expletives, mostly. He said someone called the police, the police were after him. Someone called him a racial slur. I told him where to go for shelter and thanked him again.

I wish I’d had the presence of mind to offer him some money, or to tell Livvy to run ahead and make him a sandwich, bring him some food. But I didn’t. I was in pain, freezing, soaking wet…and stunned.

Olivia and I moved slowly back to the condo, and I somehow got myself up the stairs (remember – I live in a three-story condo). On the second floor, I took off my soaking coat, my sopping mittens, checked to make sure my phone hadn’t flown out of my purse. Then I went up to the third floor and changed into warm clothes, while examining the multiple bruises and swelling that were already setting in. Dressed and almost warm, I moved back down to the second floor to sit in my recliner by the lit fireplace.

But first, I stood at our floor to ceiling windows and looked up and down the street. The man wasn’t there. We don’t know where he went, and we haven’t seen him since.

Over and over this week, I have replayed this moment. The gentle transformation of that man. His eyes. And Michael’s words coming out of his mouth.

That feeling of safety. Of being looked after.

I just keep thinking about it. And when I do, I feel safe over and over again.

He was so human.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Ah, a new year. 2026. As we closed out 2025 last night, I made one wish: that this year be a year that I’m not glad to see end.

The last two years have been rough. We had 16 good days at the beginning of 2024, with no idea of what was ahead. January 17, 2024, changed everything. Though I have to say, I still look into a new year with hope. That’s a good thing.

So way back on September 26, still in 2025, I finished my next novel, Unique In All The World. I submitted it to my publisher, and it was accepted. I signed the contract the day before Christmas Eve. This means I have a poetry collection, The Birth Of A Widow, due for release in early 2026 (I don’t have a date yet) and a novel that will be released on February 18, 2027.

That’s a lot to be happy about. And I am.

But from September 26^th on, I didn’t write a thing, other than this blog. It wasn’t that I had writer’s block – I don’t even believe in writer’s block. And I had plenty of ideas. But I would sit down at my computer, place my fingers on the keys, maybe type one sentence…and then I just felt tired. I closed the lid of my laptop and went to take a nap.

There have been a lot of naps between September 26th and now.

Throughout my life, I’ve only stopped writing twice…and they’ve both occurred in the last couple years. Michael died on June 19^th, 2024, and I didn’t write for 3 months. Then, visiting the Oregon coast in the special little house with the ocean as the backyard, I sat down in the writer’s nook (the owners of the house keep my books on a shelf in that nook), stared at the blank screen, and began to write. Several hours later, I looked up, had a sip of cold coffee, and realized I’d written 120 pages.

That was the start of Unique In All The World, the novel due out in February of 2027.

The words never stopped. They just remained quietly in my head until I was ready and able to come out again.

And now…another three-month stoppage.

Michael’s horrific accident, 5-month attempt at recovery, and subsequent death were all…well, I already used horrific, but that is the word for it. Both my daughter Olivia and I found ourselves stunned that the second Christmas without him, and now moving toward the 2^nd anniversary (for lack of a better word) of his accident, is harder than the first. Someone said the words “traumatic grief” to me, which surprised me too. I went to see a therapist who specializes in traumatic grief, someone who also lost her partner in a similar way that I lost Michael. She informed me that the first year is filled with numbness. In the second year…the numbness wears off.

Boy, does that ever make sense. And is it ever a kick in the teeth.

And so, there were two sets of times when the core of my life – writing – came to a stop. During year 1, when I was numb. And now, during year 2, as the numbness fades away.

But this week, the second week that I had off from teaching for the holidays, I sat down with my computer on Monday. For me, historically, I begin new writing projects on Mondays. Monday always feels like the beginning to me. I set up my page, and then wrote a title. “When It Hits”. And then I bowed my head.

When I looked up several hours later, I’d written an entire short story. Beginning to end. Not finished, it needed rewriting, but there it was.

Oh, soaked through with happiness. And relief. And a feeling that not everything has changed.

So I rewrote on Tuesday and Wednesday, and I will today too. I already have an idea for the next story, and I’m eager to finish this one so I can get to that one.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

I’m writing this post a day early, on Christmas Eve, as tomorrow, I will be busy with family. I am also all alone right now, with the exception of two young orange cats. Two of my big kids, as I call them, are at their father’s house. One big kid is living in Louisiana. Michael’s and my daughter, Olivia, is out with her boyfriend.

And of course, Michael is gone.

This morning, I finished reading the book, The Year Of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. I’d been told to read this book a lot, since Michael died on June 19^th, 2024. I bought it, but resisted reading it. As I wrote last week, I just read A Three Dog Life by Abigail Thomas, and I got so much out of it, I decided to try The Year Of Magical Thinking.

At first, I hated it and nearly gave up on the book. Didion is very lofty in her writing. Her husband dies at the beginning of the book, but then the majority of the book is spent on the illness of her daughter, who was in the hospital at the time. I even looked back at the description of the book, to see if I’d misunderstood when I thought the book was about grief over losing her husband. I didn’t misunderstand. But then, with the daughter’s release from the hospital and then rehab, we shifted into grief. And suddenly, I was sitting right beside Didion.

This morning, as I sat in my recliner, the condo empty but for those two cats, I drank great coffee, had breakfast, and read. Near the end of the book, and the end of Didion’s first year without her husband, I read these lines:

“The craziness is receding, but no clarity is taking its place.

I look for resolution and find none.”

I am nearing the second anniversary of the accident, Michael’s being hit and run over by a passenger van, on January 17, 2024, heralding the start of what was five months of hell for him. And five months of hell for us. This culminated in his death, despite his trying so very hard to survive. And I read those lines this morning, and I felt them down to my bones.

Then I looked up at Michael’s urn, sitting on the piano across the room from me. Atop the urn, as if the urn was his head, sat what we called Michael’s elf hat. I put it there yesterday.

It is actually a jester’s hat, complete with little bells. When Michael and I moved in together, he came with the hat. I have no idea why he had one. All I know is that he had it for years…longer than he was with me.

That hat, and an ornament that looks like a spatula, define Michael at Christmastime. The spatula was a gift from his nephew, Danny, who was a little boy at the time. When I asked Michael why a spatula, that first Christmas together, he laughed and said, “I have no idea. It may have been what he could afford. But it goes on the tree every year.”

It is on the tree this year. And the hat is on the urn.

Last year, I just couldn’t handle putting up the Christmas tree. It meant going to get the Christmas things from our off-site storeroom, and opening that storeroom door meant coming face to face with many things belonging to Michael. I couldn’t do it. I bought an old ceramic tabletop Christmas tree, like those from the 80s, and set it up on my island. We put the presents around it on the island. It was the best I could do.

This year, I said okay to the tree. My son Andy and Olivia put it up and decorated it. I couldn’t bring myself to actually join in, but I watched, and I’ve admired the tree ever since. I eventually put on 3 ornaments that I added this year. One shows five animals in front of a fireplace. Two orange cats, one long-haired and one short-haired, are looking at three others, a small gray cat, another orange cat, and a brown and white dog. The orange cats are saying, “You know, they still miss you.” And the three others are saying, “We know. We are always with them.” The names are under the animals: Oliver and Cleocatra, the two orange cats with me today. Edgar Allen Paw, Muse, and Ursula, the three I’ve lost. Another ornament was drawn by Kami Cotler, who played Elizabeth on the Waltons, my favorite TV show. It shows the Waltons family on the porch, and she signed the back. And the last is a wooden penguin from the zoo.

When we put the tree up, I asked Olivia where the elf hat was. Olivia’s been wearing it on Christmas ever since she became old enough to hand out the presents. I thought the hat was in her closet. She came out with a hat, but it wasn’t it. “No,” I said. “It’s a jester’s hat, remember? With bells?” She looked at the hat she brought out and shrugged. “This is the only one I have,” she said.

And so I questioned my memory. But how could I misremember a jester’s hat that I knew for as long as I knew Michael?

Yesterday, I went upstairs to dig through the Christmas stuff again, looking for one more small stocking for my new grandcat, Kubota. This past spring, I gathered the courage to go through the storeroom, sort, donate, throw away, and bring home. I was able to bring home the Christmas stuff and get rid of the storeroom. Digging now through the tub holding garland and Christmas stockings, I found the small stocking that used to belong to my grandcat, Alfadore, but now will belong to Kubota. I found it quickly, but then felt a push to dig further.

At the bottom of the tub, the jester’s hat.

If one can hug the non-existent stuffing out of a hat, that’s what I did.

I brought it and the stocking downstairs. Michael’s stocking, by the way, is on our stairway with the others, even though there won’t be anything in it. There won’t be anything in mine either. I hung Kubota’s stocking and then turned to the urn.

“Here you go,” I said, removing the wrong hat and putting on the right one. I adjusted the streamers, making the bells jingle.

There’s a spatula on my tree. There’s a jester’s hat on Michael.

While clarity remains elusive, and there’s been no resolution, I can look at the urn, and look at the hat, ring the bells as I go by.

And that will have to do. Merry Christmas, everyone. Love those you’re with.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m back.

And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier for a book in my life.

If you know me, you know words rule my existence. If I’m not writing them, I’m reading them, through published books and through the manuscripts of many, many students and clients. My classroom is full of books, and so is my home, which even has a shelf devoted to only my own books.

Soon after Michael’s accident, when he was still in the ICU, many people recommended that I read My Stroke Of Insight by Jill Bolte Taylor. I was resistant, but with so many people telling me to read it, I bought the book. It very quickly made me angry. Taylor’s experience was nothing like Michael’s. Yes, the stroke gave her a brain injury and she went through a lot. But she was home and walking and working on talking a week after her stroke. The only thing I found valuable in the book was a list at the end, that talked about how to behave and talk to someone with a brain injury.

After Michael died, many people recommended that I read Joan Didion’s book, The Year Of Magical Thinking. It’s about her experience with the first year after her husband’s death. I did buy it, and it’s on my To Read shelf. But I have not yet managed to open its covers. Sometimes, things just feel too close.

A few days ago, I finished reading a novel, Lit, by Tim Sandlin. I’ve had an incredible run of books lately, devouring all of them. Lessons In Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus. Wrecked by Catherine Newman. Some Bright Nowhere by Ann Packer. Heart The Lover by Lily King. And then Tim Sandlin’s book. Absolutely drunk on my recent deluge of incredible books, I sat in front of my To Read shelf and debated about what was next.

Bear in mind my To Read Shelf is actually two shelves. There’s a lot I want to read.

And I found a book I didn’t remember buying. The title was very intriguing, A Three Dog Life. It was a memoir. I pulled it out and read the jacket description.

“When Abigail Thomas’s husband, Rich, was hit by a car, his skull was shattered, his brain severely damaged.”

I put the book back. When did I buy this? Why did I buy this? No one recommended it to me…I must have found it on my own.

I pulled it back out. Turned to the first page. And then I read it cover to cover.

Nothing has come closer to my own experience. While Thomas’s husband lived for seven more years, most of it in a facility for Traumatic Brain Injury victims, there was so much that resonated. So much I recognized. And so very much that let me know that my reactions, my behaviors, my feelings during this whole damn time were normal and shared by others.

Thomas wrote about TBI patients going through a time of great rage and angry behavior. It’s normal in the period following the injury. No one told me that. I thought it was just Michael. I thought I was the only woman in the world who was scared at times of her gravely injured husband.

Thomas wrote about realizing that, some days, when her husband’s behavior was erratic and angry, it didn’t do her or him any good for her to remain in his room. So she walked out.

So did I. Many times. Often with him yelling at me to get out, to go away (often not knowing who I was), and his voice following me down the hospital hallway as I ran.

After several years passed for Thomas and her husband, she bought a house close to the facility where her husband lived. She adopted three dogs who she loved dearly. And as time went by, she found herself happy. Even though, she said, it was a life built on tragedy.

“And then one day I asked myself a terrible question. If I could make Rich’s accident never have happened, would I do it? Of course I would. Wouldn’t I? And instead of yes, I hesitated. But by posing the question, I had assumed the power, and by hesitating, I put myself behind the wheel of the car that struck my husband.

You want to talk about guilt?”

And then:

“BUT LOOK AT YOU, I STILL SAY TO MYSELF. HOW DARE YOU. You built this on tragedy.”

The capitalizations, by the way, are hers.

And I hugged that book to my chest as if Abigail Thomas was right there with me.

Her husband lived for seven years. Mine died after five months. But I can tell you that any time I find myself feeling happy, smiling, laughing, even just sitting in quiet contentment at home, an orange cat on my chest and an orange cat on my lap, the fireplace throwing light, my day’s work done, and the familiarity of the place I’ve lived for 20 years all around me…I then get walloped with the heaviest soakingest hardest wave of guilt.

Look at you, I think. How dare you. You are happy amidst tragedy.

Oh, it’s been hard. In so many ways, on so many levels.

And now, there was this book. And this person, this woman, Abigail Thomas. I wasn’t alone.

The relief that fell over me was easily as heavy as the guilt.

Did I take care of Michael well enough? Did I stand by his side, sit by his bed, long enough? Did I offer comfort and unconditional love, letting him know that I would be there, no matter the outcome? Even though the outcome became death?

Did I love Michael enough?

Yes. Yes, I did.

Words have saved me, over and over again, in my life. And words have saved me again.

Thank you, Abigail Thomas. I hope to meet you, and play with your dogs, and give you a real hug.

Maybe I’ll open Joan Didion’s book next.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

Well, not quite.  For those waiting to see this week’s This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, I am cutting myself some slack today and not writing it. I found myself having to dig and dig for a Moment, and I wasn’t coming up with anything. The blog has always been produced with absolute honesty, so I didn’t want to write just anything. It’s been a rough couple weeks.

Working hard to find peace this holiday season. I hope you all are finding peace too.

I’ll be back next week.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s really hard to write this week’s Moment, considering last week’s Moment was about moving step by step through the grief I’ve experienced, and then, within an hour of posting that blog, I found out that a very close friend died unexpectedly on the operating table. She was supposed to be on that table for three to four hours, then recover in the hospital for three to four days, then go home to celebrate a late Thanksgiving. During her at-home recovery, we were going to continue to work on her new novel.

That didn’t happen. Leslie was diagnosed with liver cancer three weeks prior to Thanksgiving. She was told, through testing, that the tumor was small and contained – it hadn’t metastasized. It would be removed, and her life would continue. I spoke to her in the days before surgery and messaged her on Facebook the morning of. After writing the blog, I went on Facebook again to see if anyone posted an update, and found instead an announcement that she died. The tumor was larger than expected and more pervasive. Leslie hemorrhaged and then went into cardiac arrest. And then she was gone.

Ten minutes after reading this, a friend of Leslie’s, who had been given a list by Leslie of people to notify after the surgery, called to tell me the news.

A week later, I am still stunned and overwhelmed.

I met Leslie close to 30 years ago, when I was still teaching for Writers Digest for their Online Writing Workshops. She and I hit it off, and eventually, she began to work with me one on one. This was before I even started AllWriters’. We quickly moved into a friendship as well as the professional relationship, and set up our meeting times so we could get the work done, then just jabber for an hour or so. Michael always knew when I was talking to Leslie, because I’d be laughing so hard.

Leslie was a special ed teacher and she followed my daughter Olivia closely, talking to her on the phone and cheering for her, and using quotes from Livvy to share with her own classroom. Leslie was hoping to come to Olivia’s graduation from graduate school this spring.

When I was in grad school in Vermont for my MFA, and complained about the lack of good Midwestern food (the school was connected to a culinary school, who used us as guinea pigs. I remember looking down at my salad and thinking it resembled a bowl of evergreen needles. Where was the lettuce?), Leslie drove to me from Connecticut and we scoured the surrounding area until we found a grilled cheese sandwich.

Whenever Michael was sick and in the hospital, she sent baskets of gifts. From the time Michael was hit by the passenger van, through his attempt at recovery, through his death, to last week Wednesday, she was as by my side as much she could be, with the miles of Wisconsin and Connecticut between us.

And she continued to write. Three books were published, and a fourth was underway. I am included in her gratitude at the front of every book. The new book is a mystery. And now I’ll never know whodunit.

But here’s the thing. Here’s why I’m writing about this here, in a blog about a Moment of happiness. First off, she provided many, many, many Moments of happiness in 30 years.

But…Leslie and I were polar opposites politically. Complete and total polar opposites.

But we were still the best of friends.

I’ve watched so much divisiveness as people have severed friendships and family connections over politics. It makes me want to pound my head against a wall.

If Leslie and I had let our politics define our friendship, I would never have had the gift of knowing her. Or she the gift of knowing me. I wouldn’t have joined in with her laughter, which was so contagious that people within earshot would start laughing without even knowing what was so funny. I wouldn’t have known her gentle care for children, and her belief that all children of all abilities deserve the best in life. I wouldn’t have had her lifting me up when I didn’t think it was possible to get up anymore. I wouldn’t have been able to admire her steadfast faith, when I find it so hard to believe in any higher power at all.

We both kept our ears and minds open for each other. We listened to what each believed, and if we didn’t agree, then we just didn’t agree. We also both learned that there is a spectrum in political beliefs, just as there is in everything. You might believe this part of a political framework, but not that. You might not believe that, but believe this.

And so when I see people throwing those they’ve been close to out of their lives because of political disconnects, I look at Leslie – and now I think of her, because I can’t see her anymore – and feel oh so grateful that we didn’t allow any of that to come between us. That we recognized the kaleidoscope that is our personalities and our personhood and we clung to each other.

I am beyond grateful to have had Leslie in my life, and even with her gone, her influence and memory will still be here.

I am bereft. Again. Still. But because of Leslie, I know I can pick myself up and continue to move forward.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(There won’t be any photos today. I don’t have any of Leslie and me.)