Author: Kathie

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

Today is Thanksgiving in this part of the world. It’s a moment when we’re supposed to sit back and think about what we’re grateful for. One of the things I’ve learned through doing the Moments is that we can’t reserve that for just one day. It has to be a daily, year-long, lifelong process.

I have to start this again with The Waltons, though technically, not The Waltons television show. The show was born from a made-for-TV movie, The Homecoming. The kid actors and Grandma Walton remained for the television show, but the adults, Mama and Daddy (Olivia and John Walton) and Grandpa Walton (Zebulon Walton) were played by different actors. Near the beginning of the movie, Mama, played by Patricia Neal, comes up from the cellar and says, “Who wants to see something pretty?” Of course they all do. And she shows them her blooming Christmas cactus. Everyone is delighted.

My Christmas cactus bloomed this year. It’s blooming its crazy head off in the AllWriters’ classroom. And I was delighted. It struck me that, sometimes, maybe most times, we look for big things in our moments of happiness. We look for big things to be grateful for. But those small things really are what gets us through our days. So I paid attention this week to what little things got me through, instead of watching for that one Moment Of Happiness.

1. The Christmas Cactus.

Michael bought this little Christmas cactus for me two years ago, when I was fresh off of radiation therapy and still reeling from the breast cancer diagnosis. I waited in the car to pick him up from the grocery store where he was working. When he came out, he said, “I got you something.” And then he pulled out the Christmas cactus, handed it to me, and said, “Who wants to see something pretty?”

Seeing that little cactus bloom this week reminded me of my favorite show. But it also reminded me of a kindness from someone who really knows me and understands what makes me happy.

2. A song that lifts me up.

I love music and I always have. I sing with the best of them in my car. But from time to time, a new song comes on that just makes me want to close my eyes and listen. Dangerous when you’re driving, let me tell you. But this week, I bought the new Coldplay CD, called Everyday Life. I stuck it in my car and the first song came on and I was just…gone. I kept my hands on the steering wheel and my eyes open, but all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sink into it. There were no voices, but there was a violin that sang. I played it six times before I returned home – I didn’t play the rest of the CD until later. And when I sat down at my desk, I looked it up on YouTube and I played it again. And you know what? While I was with the song, that violin immediately connected me to my daughter, Olivia. I pictured her playing it. And I rejoiced.

The song is called Sunrise. You can hear it here. Be in a place where you can safely shut your eyes. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H97NQznnvZo

3. Writing that takes me away.

Note that I didn’t say a book, though it was a book that did this. But good writing, whether it’s in a poem, an essay, a short story, a novel, a memoir, can make me just melt. Sometimes, I have to stop reading for a minute, stare into space, and think or say out loud, “Wow.” Absolute admiration. And an admiration that makes me want to do my very best when I sit down to work on my own stuff.

The book that did it to me this time: The Confession Club, by Elizabeth Berg. Thank God I was on break when I began to read it. I was able to just live that book for the couple days it took me to read it. I. Loved. It. I don’t know how many times I Wowed.

4. The pristine thoughts from a child.

I brought my granddaughter, Grandbaby Maya Mae, to see Frozen II. She’d been waiting to see it for so long – she is a true Frozen fan. After the movie, we had lunch at McDonalds, and out of nowhere, Maya suddenly told me she didn’t understand a part of the movie. She didn’t understand why Anna, one of the characters, didn’t fight (at first). I explained that Anna always had help around her before – her sister, Elsa, her friend, Christoff, and a goofy snowman named Olaf. But now she was alone and she had to learn that she could do it, she could be strong and she could be smart. Maya considered this, then said, “I knowed I am strong.” She bent her arms to show me her muscles. “I knowed I am smart.” She tapped her head.

She is. She knows it. Despite being into princesses, which is frowned upon by some these days. But this is a child who knows what she likes and who knows who she is. She’s writing stories. She makes amazing things out of mosaic tiles. She’s quiet and introverted out in public and she’s okay with that. And she loves princesses, dammit.

I knowed she is strong. I knowed she is smart. And I am so happy she knowed it too.

5. Nights without sleep when the morning didn’t matter.

Being on break this week, I’ve been able to sleep as long as I want to. And, I can tell you, my morning hasn’t hit before 12:30 all week. But bear in mind my day doesn’t usually end until two or three in the morning either.

Two nights this week, I couldn’t fall asleep. So I went downstairs, put on the fireplace, wrapped up in a blanket, and read. First, I read the Elizabeth Berg book I already mentioned, and then I started in on Andre Dubus’ III book, Gone So Long. And in the middle of it, I looked around my quiet home, the firelight flickering, a single lamp shining on my pages, all alone in my living room, and it was quiet outside too, and I felt at peace. I felt of a piece.

That doesn’t happen often. But I’m so grateful when it does.

So. This week’s moment of happiness despite the news? That there were so many moments that lift me up, keep me going, and that I am finally, finally aware of.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s really amazing how many times I can tie something back to my favorite television show, The Waltons. This, then, is the story of Little Literary Lion.

I was around 23 years old when I first saw the episode of The Waltons called The Book. At this point, the show was off the air, but was run in syndication on the Family Channel. I was hugely pregnant with my first child, and I was struggling to figure out what being a writer meant, now that I graduated with my degree and I was on my own and, amazingly, publishers were not breaking down my door to offer me a contract. In this episode, John Boy is discouraged when he’s raked over the coals in his first serious creative writing workshop in college. John Boy’s mother, Olivia, picks up on his discouragement. There is a new business in town called Majestic Press. She brings John Boy’s selection of short stories to the publisher, and lo and behold, they accept them. Unfortunately, and too late, they find out that this is a vanity press, or a self-publisher. In the end, all they have is a box of 50 books and a bill for fifty dollars.

Before they know this, a professor stops John Boy on campus, and says, “Mr. Walton, you’re getting to be a regular literary lion!” And later, Olivia says to her husband, “Imagine! Our son, a literary lion!”

At 23, and for all my life, I wanted to be a literary lion too. That phrase stuck with me.

In Manhattan, outside of the New York Public Library at Fifth Avenue and 42^nd Street, there are two very well-known statues of lions, also known as Literary Lions. Since the 1930’s, they’ve been named Patience and Fortitude.

I wanted to be a literary lion. I wanted to have patience and fortitude. These are so necessary to be a writer.

And so, this led to me always wanting to live in a place with a lion out front. A regal lion. A literary lion.

LITERARY LION #1

When we moved to our current location, I despaired of ever having a literary lion. Instead of living in a place steeped with history and classic architecture, we chose to move into a brand new, industrial style, modern live-where-you-work condo. AllWriters’ is on the first floor, and we live on the second and third floors. But on a shopping trip to Sam’s Club, I came across a large fiberglass and resin sitting lion. He looked…very literary. So I brought him home and sat him in a little cutaway by our front door. He lasted about a year. I drove home one day and saw all these black pieces on the road. I wondered what it was. Then I saw that Literary Lion was missing. Someone attempted to steal him, but then must have grown tired of lugging him and dropped him, where he shattered. A part of me shattered too.

LITERARY LION #2

But I wasn’t ready to give up. Sam’s Club still had one left, on clearance since he was last summer’s stock, and I brought him home. He actually lasted a few years. Then I found him sitting in the middle of North Avenue, just waiting to be hit by a bus. Again, abandoned by a thief, but at least this time, not dropped, but left for certain death. I brought him home and moved him into the classroom, where he sits to this day. I vowed to buy a concrete Literary Lion, who would be too heavy for a thief to take.

LITERARY LION #3

On June 15, 2011, I drove to O’Hare Airport, to pick up my daughter who was flying home from grad school in Florida. My middle son came with me. On the way home, we stopped at Garden Star Garden & Art Gallery in Kenosha. I passed this business many times and I always admired the amazing array of concrete statues on display. This time, I stopped, on a lion hunt.

And I found him. Little Literary Lion. He was smaller than #1 and #2, but he had an intelligent and benign face. He wanted a conversation, not a kill. And he was heavy as hell. My son and daughter both struggled to carry him and put him in his place. At that time, it was at the base of my hibiscus tree, in a pot outside the studio. During the summer, Little Literary sat in a jungle of potted flowers. And in the winters…well, he put up with the snow.

In April of 2014, I added a Little Free Library to the front of the studio. Little Literary took up his post under it. I often heard people talking to him as they looked through the books. Children in particular took delight in the little lion. Students spoke to him. He became a guidepost – “You’ll know you’re at AllWriters’ when you see the concrete lion sitting under the Little Free Library.” I gave him a pat on the head every time I filled the library with more books.

AND NOW…

Last week, someone took Little Literary Lion. He’s gone. Whoever took him had to work as a team with someone. All I know is he’s missing. Someone also stole almost all the books in the Little Free Library. And this is about so much more than a missing garden statue.

I want to be a literary lion. I want to have patience and fortitude. And I want to believe in the common goodness of people.

This year, I turned 59. Obviously, in 2020, I’ll be 60. One of my favorite books is Elizabeth Berg’s The Pull Of The Moon. In it, a newly-turned 50-year old woman enters a time of personal grief. I read the book when I was 36, and I grieved for her. Then I read it again when I turned 50, and I grieved with her. There is a line in the book that says, “The season of losses is upon me.” She was talking about her daughter going off to college. The loss of many things for her physically as her body changed with age. My youngest daughter just went to college and my oldest daughter just moved away to Louisiana to teach at a college, both within a couple weeks of the other. My body has now dealt with cancer.

With turning 59, I’ve ached with these losses, but my aches are particularly sharp around dreams. There are things I want to achieve that I haven’t, and I know the likelihood decreases every year. Having a book made into a movie. Being on the New York Times Bestseller List. Having Oprah on my speeddial.

And, you know, being a literary lion. Despite 10 books published, the 11^th book accepted this week, and who knows how many stories and poems in magazines and anthologies… “Ms. Giorgio, you are becoming a regular literary lion!” has not happened to me.

It’s been hard to think about.

And so the disappearance of Little Literary Lion is like a metaphor to me. My literary lion has disappeared. Just like the dream.

Add to this the feeling that the world has spun into such a negative cycle, I can barely breathe. I struggle daily to find the good. Just in the last week, there’s been the impeachment hearings, a video of a koala screaming in pain while being burned by out-of-control fires in Australia, a video of a tiger being so abused in performance in a circus that she had a seizure and was then dragged by the tail and had a bucket of water thrown on her before being beaten. In front of an audience that did nothing. There’s been more school shootings and attacks.

And the books from my Little Free Library, meant to provide entertainment and solace to those who love to read, were stolen, along with my Little Literary Lion.

In this world, not even a little literary lion was safe.

So things turned pretty black for a bit. Yes, I am going to turn this into a moment of happiness.

On the AllWriters’ Facebook business page, on Thursdays, I leave a tip for writers. This week’s tip was how to make yourself pay attention to the positives, like acceptances, and turn away from the negatives, like rejections.

Last night, I stood by my front door and looked at the empty space where Little Literary Lion used to be. My heart ached. And then I said, despite the clichés, “Healer, heal thyself. Practice what you preach.”

Two people stole Little Literary Lion. Too many people to count are trying to find him for me. The community has shared my posts, the local Waukesha Patch did an article, and I am receiving emails and phone calls of support, along with photos of a variety of concrete lions to see if they’re mine. People have shared tales of stolen gargoyles and angels, all of which were way more than gargoyles and angels.

Which means there are still more good people in this world than bad. I lifted my eyes from the dark shadow beneath my Little Free Library and I looked at the light.

As for me? Did you see that one line in the middle of this? My eleventh book was accepted this week.

MY ELEVENTH BOOK WAS ACCEPTED THIS WEEK!!!!!! Its title is No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See.  It’s a full-length collection of poetry.

I’ve had patience. I’ve had fortitude. I still do. And I AM a literary lion. Despite no movie. Despite not being on the New York Times Bestseller List. Despite Oprah not having a clue who I am.

Let me tell you, she should.

And who knows? Maybe Little Literary will still find his way home. To those who are helping, I can’t thank you enough.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

If you follow my Facebook page, you might think you know what my Moment is this week. Yes, I found out If You Tame Me won second place in the Women’s Fiction division of the Pencraft literary awards. Yes, I found out that two of my students received awards too. Yes, one of my students signed a book contract this week. Yes, yes, yes!

Yay!

But my Moment happened just about a half hour ago. When I walked out of the dentist’s office.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am terrified of two things. Terrified. Not scared. Not freaked out. TERRIFIED. Those fears would be birds and the dentist.

I’m not sure where the bird fear comes from. But I know what caused the dentist fear. I really don’t know anyone who enjoys the dentist, though my husband has fallen asleep in the dentist chair. But he’s narcoleptic, so that doesn’t count. For me, there was trauma after trauma in that chair, to the point where I can’t stand sitting in any chair that is remotely similar.

When I was a kid, ether was still being used. I was ethered a lot – my baby teeth’s roots did not dissolve, and so as the adult teeth sprouted behind the babies, I was hauled off to the dentist, who strapped a foul-smelling rubber mask over my face and pulled out the teeth. I also endured five eye surgeries, and until the fourth surgery, ether was the anesthetic of choice. I have ether nightmares to this day. It had a smell similar to gasoline. It caused me to see and feel as if I was spinning down inside a huge black tornado. There was a sound of funhouse laughter – awful, maniacal laughter. I could also hear breaththrough bits of the dentist and hygienist talking, and I’d hear screaming – me. I also heard the crack as a tooth or teeth were pulled from my mouth. When I woke, I was dizzy and nauseous, often throwing up out the car window on the way home.

Terrifying.

Add to that my being immune to novocaine.  And no one believing me. When there was a cavity, I’d be given shot after shot after shot, until the dentist would say I was faking it and he’d go ahead with it. Sometimes my wrists were tied down to the arms of the chair. By the time I was a teen, I stopped screaming. I knew it was useless. But I couldn’t stop the tears.

All of which leads to my beyond-terror of the dentist, despite knowing that dentistry has improved by leaps and bounds.

Today, I had to have a cleaning and have two fillings done. I’d cracked a tooth about a month ago, which led to going to the dentist, which led to the cracked tooth being filled, plus the one behind it, and then the discovery of the two cavities on the other side of my mouth. I had a cleaning a year ago, and the hygienist who did it was fully pregnant with twins, and she was also in love with Wally Lamb. She had the gentlest touch – I told her what a good mother she was going to be and we discussed books. The cleaning was a breeze. But, as I found today, she decided to stay home with her babies. Today, I had…Attila the Hun.

Any time I said, “Ow,” she dug in more, and when I said ow again, she said, “Okay,” poked somewhere else and then returned to the scene of the crime. I could taste the blood in my mouth. At one point, where she was particularly harsh, I said, “Ow, ow, OW!” and she said, “Okay, okay, okay,” and then said she was going to tell the dentist because there must be a problem there. Like she was punishing me. I gathered my wits and said, “The tooth didn’t hurt. You are sticking that thing into the same place in my gums and digging for gold.” She smirked. When she was done, she approached me (and my bleeding mouth) with floss. And I found the voice I never had as a child, where I felt like I had to open my mouth to whoever asked me to and do what I was told.

“No,” I said, and removed my bib. “No flossing. You’ve already poked between my teeth with your spear. That’s enough. No more.”

She didn’t say anything. She stopped. Wow.

The fillings weren’t fun, but they were better than the cleaning. At one point, during the first injection (I received 3 of whatever they give me now, to make sure I get numb – and I do!), the dentist actually shook my shoulder and said, “Breathe! Breathe! You’re turning blue!” I breathed, but as I waited for the numbing to take effect, I shook and shuddered. I had student manuscript pages with me to read, but I had to set them aside, as I couldn’t make my hand steady enough to write. But the numbing worked. The procedure didn’t hurt, other than the fear hammering at me.

And then it was done. I shot out the door. I didn’t even put my coat on first. And the sky was there. And the scary birds were there, but they were singing. It was cloudy, but as far as I was concerned, there was sunshine and rainbows and eighty-degree temps and maybe even a unicorn, though I’m not a unicorn kind of person.

And there was me. And my mouth. Me and my mouth that were intact. And learned how to say no. And mean it. And be heard.

If I ever see Attila the Hun again, I will say no immediately and ask for someone else. I have no need of that kind of punishment.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I really had to work hard to come up with a moment this week. It’s been on the gloomy side here, not helped at all by the first major snowfall arriving on Halloween. I feel like I haven’t had a chance to catch my breath between summer and winter because there wasn’t a fall. Honestly, I had the a/c on a couple weeks ago, then a few days later, had my windows open, and a few days after that, slammed those windows shut and put on the furnace. And then the snow fell. The weathermen announced it was coming, but who believes weathermen when they’re screeching warnings about the first of something in a season? They’re always premature. But that night of the predicted six inches (or early morning, depending on your perspective), I was heading toward bed at two in the morning, glanced out my bedroom window, and saw the snow falling in the glow of the streetlights. Some people might be struck dumb by the beauty, by the serenity, by the lacy loveliness falling like stars from the night sky.

Not me. I skidded to a stop on my beeline to bed and shouted, “Oh, hell, no!”

Since that first snow, we’ve had more snow, and I have been putting up a resistant front. Semi, my convertible, is in the garage with the top still down, waiting for one last ride of the season. At Starbucks, I’m still ordering my drink iced, not extra hot. One of the baristas even called through the speaker, “It’s cold now, Kathie! Why aren’t you doing extra hot?” “I refuse!” I called back. “Summer is NOT over.”

Well, outside it is, I guess. But the heat of summer burns eternal in me. I was born in St. Louis, but by the time I was 6 years old, I was living in the tippy top of northern Minnesota. From there, I dropped down to Wisconsin. You would think the cold would just be a natural part of me by now.

No. There is a small space heater sitting on my desk all year. It runs even when the a/c is on. I have an electric throw that I curl under and fight the cat for. There are three blankets on my bed. My cars have heated seats, and often, even in the convertible, they are turned to high. I swear my next car will have a heated steering wheel as well. I wear a lot of sweaters.

I despise the cold.

Why don’t I move? I wonder that too. But my business is here. And my youngest just started college here. Until she graduates, I won’t venture very far away. So instead, I’ll stare out the window and shout, “Oh, hell, no!”

But there was a Moment.

I had insomnia one night, something I’m hit with a few nights every week. It was another reason toward this week’s gloom. Lately, when it hits, it stays, and I can’t fall asleep until an hour or so away from when I need to be up. I used to fight it, staying in bed, snarling, saying, “Sleep, dammit!” But more recently, I just give in and get up. Usually, I work. But on this night, I wandered downstairs, my heated throw in hand. I turned on my fireplace (gotta love gas fireplaces), plugged in my throw, curled into my recliner, and put my feet up. I turned on only the light by my side – the rest of the house was in darkness, and I had the flickering firelight and the steady lamp-glow beside me. I had a good book. Soon, I had a small gray cat purring on my lap. The dog came downstairs and settled in the seat beside me. Around me, the house was sleeping, Michael upstairs, Patrick down the hall, and I knew that in various spots in Waukesha, in Wauwatosa, in Louisiana, my kids and granddaughter were sleeping.

I live right in the city, but at that hour, it was so quiet, I might as well have been in the countryside. I was warm. And no one was asking me to do anything.

There are floor to ceiling windows in our living room and I could see very clearly that it was snowing again. But for that moment, with all pressure off, I could see its prettiness. It really was lacy. It really was like stars falling from the night sky. I didn’t yell, “Oh, hell, no!” I just burrowed into the blanket further, turned my eyes from the falling stars to the flickering flames, then burrowed further into my book.

A student this week started his pages with a quote by Ranulph Fiennes: “There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.”

Heated throw. Fireplace ablaze. Purring cat, snoring dog. Sleeping family. Good book. I was dressed appropriately.

(Did I snarl at the snow the next morning, as I went out on two hours of sleep? Of course. But you know – this is a Moment, not a Constant.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Ever since June 20^th, 2017, it seems like my world has become framed with visits to the Cancer Center. At first, the visits were frequent, even daily, there for a while. Now, the visits are stretched out, to every six months. But because I still see both the medication oncologist and the surgeon (the surgeon because of the issues I had with an abscess developing a year after surgery), and their appointments are staggered, it feels more frequent. I saw the oncologist in April, the surgeon in July, and had my mammogram in July too. I saw the oncologist this past Tuesday, in October. Now I will have an MRI done in January (approximately six months after the mammogram), and then see the oncologist in April and the surgeon in July. It’s maddening. I thought the surgeon would have dropped off my radar by now, but no, thanks to the abscess. I thought I’d only be going to the Cancer Center once a year, to see the oncologist and have a mammogram. But…no. Not quite.

Originally, I hated going to the Cancer Center. I would have to lean against my car and take several deep breaths before going in, because I couldn’t believe I belonged there. During radiation, I cried every day. It’s not that the people weren’t nice – I really believe that they only hire folks that can put compassionate and understanding on their resume. I was always surrounded by the best.

But going in through those doors always meant one thing: I was sick.

So on Tuesday, the oncologist and bloodwork. It was a gray day. But as I drove into the clinic and made that special right turn into the special parking lot, I actually found myself breathing a sigh of relief. The Medical Center side of this clinic is very cold and sterile. They meant for it to look modern, I think, but the effect is just…Brrrrrrr. The Cancer Center side is lovely. Lots of windows. Bright walls. Greenery. Smiles. And fireplaces in every waiting room, that burn even in summertime. Comfortable leather furniture. I brought a book with me for the hour-long wait between the blood-letting and my visit with the oncologist.

From the moment I stepped in, I was greeted by name. I didn’t have to give it. I don’t know how they do that. I understood it when I was there every day, but even now, over a year later, I hear, “Hi, Kathie!” as the sliding door closes behind me.

Upstairs, my blood was taken and then I broke my fast at the café, with a warm meal that was delivered with a smile and a discussion of the book I’m reading (Where’d You Go, Bernadette? by Maria Semple) and a comparison to the movie. When I wandered back to the waiting room, I found a chair right next to the fireplace. I pulled it a little bit closer still, curled into the warmth, and read in the quiet provided by low conversations around me. I was warm. I was reading a good book. If I looked up, I saw smiles. Even among the patients.

And you know. I was alive.

I realized, as I set my book aside and just sat back and basked in the heat and the wide windows and good company that would talk to me if I wanted, and leave me alone if I wanted, that I was no longer there because I was sick. I was there because I was well, surrounded by the people who made me well, and who have every intention of keeping me this way.

That particular waiting room was filled with stopping places on my journey. Those chairs in the corner were where I sat with my husband, the day I came in for my grueling four-hour appointment to meet my medical team – the surgeon, radiation oncologist, and medical oncologist. I was recognized by a volunteer, who used to work with me on the book festival committee. He said, “I really never wanted to see you here,” and I wept into his shoulder.

Over there, in the opening to the hallway, was where a woman, with a port in her neck and carrying a basket, stood and announced to the room, “I’m terminal! And I have some angels I’d like to give you.” She went around and handed us each a hand-made angel, made out of netting, and with a bible verse glued to the back. That’s the chair I sat in, took an angel because I’m polite, and wanted to swat the cheerful cancer-filled woman and her basket out of the room. Weeks later, I shredded that angel and sent her on a piecemeal flight off my third floor deck.

Just down that hall was where I was held by two radiation techs as I cried on my third day of treatment because I realized I forgot my daughter, forgot that I had to pick her up at school, when I made the appointments for the impossible 20 days straight of radiation.

And there was where they told me I’d be okay. Over there was where they said I’d be fine. And there was where so many different people held me and said it was okay to be scared, okay to be sad, okay to be angry, and just flat-out okay.

And I am.

I realized as I sat there on Tuesday that now, I felt safe. Cared for. Protected.

Okay.

Across the room, away from the fire, a woman sat huddled in her chair. She seemed to be on her own. Unobtrusively, she was crying. The chair next to me, by the fire, was empty.

I walked to her and patted her shoulder. “Hi,” I said. “Come sit with me by the fire. We’ll wait together.” I took her hand. She kept it after we sat down.

We talked.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

When I wrote and posted last week’s Moment on the woman who killed herself on the train tracks in Waukesha, I expected it to be controversial. Actually, I braced myself to be slammed. I was sure there would be the usual derisive and angry retorts that anyone who killed themselves was selfish, self-centered, thoughtless, didn’t care about others, and so forth. What I wanted to do, and say, was that I honored this woman for the years she lived, and I didn’t want to focus on her choice of death. Her suicide did not define who she was.

Instead, I was really startled when I received an outpouring of gratitude and support. I think the fact that the human race still continues to surprise me – in a good way – at my age is a good sign. I’m not as jaded and skeptical as I thought. Turns out there is a continuous stream of hope that runs through me.

How about that? I surprise myself too, even though I’ve been in this skin for 59 years.

But here’s the really special thing. Here’s the Moment for this week.

I received a private message. I don’t know the person. I don’t know how she came to read the Moment, if she’s a regular reader or if someone sent it on to her. But she said:

“I saw your This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News.

I was planning to kill myself that night.

I’d told myself that even my wanting to do that showed how completely worthless I was.

You showed me I still had worth, even if I’d gotten to a point where I wanted to destroy myself.

I had worth. And I had to save that.

I didn’t do it. I am getting help.

Thank you. I honor you.”

Sometimes, my Moments of Happiness come from the words of others. Somehow, everything came together that week to cause me to write that Moment, and a life was saved.

Which means that the anonymous woman on the train tracks saved a life, even as she lost her own.

Amazing. I hope she knows.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

This will be an odd one. And it’s actually more a moment of peace, not happiness.

On October 6, the city of Waukesha was shocked when a woman stepped onto one of our railroad crossings, curled down in a fetal position between the rails, and allowed an oncoming train to take away her life. News sources told us that she was 60 years old, and that her identity wouldn’t be released until her family was notified.

Five days later, they said again that her identity would be released when her family was notified.

And then everything went silent.

I found myself pulled into this story. This woman was a year older than I am. She chose an incredibly fail-proof and instant way to die. I felt for her. I felt for the train conductor. I felt for her family, wherever they were. I felt for all of us, aghast at the story.

A week after this woman, another woman died in Kenosha on train tracks. That story has also gone silent – she was identified, but nothing was said as to what happened. Last February, a 47-year old man made the same decision on a different set of tracks in Waukesha.

A few months ago, a friend’s niece killed herself, and the family wrote the most incredibly beautiful obituary of acceptance and love I ever read.

A couple days ago, my daughter Olivia, turned 19 just today, asked me why a 60-year old would have anything to kill herself over. She said, “I just wonder what an older person could be going through that pushes them to their breaking point.” I felt my heart twist. I wanted to say, “Oh, honey, there’s so much,” but who wants to say that to their starry-eyed, compassionate daughter?

Every time I’ve driven over those railroad tracks since October 6, and I drive over them often, I look at where it happened and I just ache. It bothered me so that she didn’t seem to be known, and that no one seemed to be stepping forward. Why was she alone?

Last night, I contacted a resource and that resource contacted the police department, that said that the family had been found, but they didn’t want the name released. The woman, they said, had a mental illness and the death was a suicide, which, of course, we knew already.

I respect the family’s privacy. But oh, man. I so want them to step forward. To remember her. To honor her. And to celebrate the fact that she made it for 60 years. She fought through whatever challenges she had for 60 years.

60 years is a long time. She did it.

I’ve dealt with chronic depression for my whole life – I’m 59. It didn’t get called that until partway into my 20s, but it was there. My parents, not knowing, not understanding, made me feel ashamed. I was told I should be happy because I had a roof over my head, I had a small tv in my room, my own stereo. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t, and therefore it was because I was selfish and ungrateful. My high school saw red flags and stepped in and got me help, despite the fact that my parents refused to give permission. I consider this an action that saved my life. It led me onto the path that got me to further help when I was in college, away from home, and able to see doctors and therapists without my parents’ knowledge. My parents believed that all emotional help was “psychological mumbo-jumbo” and a way of “taking money from hard-working people.” So I made sure that my psychological mumbo-jumbo never cost them a dime. And it was priceless.

But it is always, always a challenge. There are days I don’t want to get out of bed, but I get up. There are days I don’t want to talk to anyone, but I talk. I remember what I’ve learned, and I do it. And I feel better for it.

My parents said I was ungrateful for what I had. Where am I grateful? That I didn’t end up on the train tracks. I am profoundly grateful for the help I’ve had.

And now there’s this woman. I wonder if she had anyone step out for her, the way I did.

So I will.

I want to honor her for what she lived through, whatever it was. I want to honor her for having the strength to get through 60 years, even if her strength failed her in the end. She’s caused, I’m sure, a tremendous amount of pain, of anguish. But I’m also sure she dealt with a tremendous amount of pain and anguish.

Knowing that she did have family, that someone has recognized her life and her loss, gives me some peace. But here, acknowledging that she lived, that she survived, rather than focusing on her death, gives me even more peace.

I wish I’d known her. Maybe I did. I wish I knew.

But I send prayers. I send understanding. I send love.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Hello, everyone!

There won’t be a This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News this week because…I’m currently living it! The launch of my 10th book, If You Tame Me, starts in just an hour at Books & Company bookstore in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Yesterday was Michael’s and my 20th wedding anniversary.

One of the things the Moments has taught me is when a Moment happens, you have to immerse yourself and savor. So I am savoring up to my neck.

This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News will return next week!

 

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

Late last week, when it was still summer (in true Wisconsin fashion, we’ve gone from 85 one day to 53 the next), I was driving home in the convertible. Top down, Starbucks by my side, one of my favorite singalong songs next in line on my CD. Linkin Park’s Roads Untraveled. I forgot I didn’t have the safety of car walls and a roof around me and I sang along with gusto in the welcome warmth of a September afternoon, with fall’s crisp colors all around me, but summer still in the air.

I’ve always loved to sing. But it wasn’t until freshman chorus that I realized I was terrified to sing solo in front of an audience. My chorus teacher asked me to go out for a solo in the annual solo/ensemble contest. I thought sure, why not. I picked out a song, I no longer remember what it was, and then went into the chorus room during lunch to practice with my teacher’s piano accompaniment. There were a few students in the room, hanging out, having lunch, and waiting for their own turn at practice. I stood by the piano, followed the score as my teacher played the introduction, and then opened my mouth to sing.

And nothing came out.

I was frozen. In my mind, the faces of the kids in front of me became millions, all laughing. I couldn’t inhale, I couldn’t breathe at all. My teacher stopped and asked me if I was all right. I managed to unstick my head enough to shake it and then I ran from the room.

Needless to say, I did not perform at the solo/ensemble contest. My teacher was so angry with me. I finished the school year, but then quit chorus and never joined again. I sang in the privacy of my bedroom, and then the privacy of my own house, and now, mostly in the privacy of my cars.

On this day, as I wailed happily along with Linkin Park, “Whoa, ohoh whoa, oh whoa!”, I was stopped at several traffic lights on the way home. I didn’t care – I wanted to get to the end of the song. At a stoplight, the final notes trailed off. And the man in the car next to me leaned out his window.

“I’ve been following you,” he said, and instantly looked guilty. “I wanted to hear you finish the song. You have a lovely voice.”

The convertible. Top down, no windows. I wanted to slide down to the brake and gas pedals. “Thank you,” I said.

“Really,” he said. “You’ve just made my day. What’s the name of the song?”

I told him the name and who did it. Then he turned right and I turned left. By the time I got home, I was beaming. In the safety of my garage, door closed, but my car’s top still down, I hit replay and sang all over again (don’t worry – I turned the engine off). At the top of my lungs. In my mind’s eye, in front of a crowd that wasn’t laughing at all.

Then, a few days later, a replay of sorts. The same CD was in the car, it was still warm, the top was down, Starbucks in the cupholder, the song was on, and I was singing. As I did, I glanced in my rearview mirror. Right behind me was a martian-green Kia Soul. Behind the wheel sat my oldest son, who waved at me.

Christopher is 35 now. Of my four kids, he is the first, and the only one who I had solo time with. We had 26 months together, before his first sibling, my son Andy, arrived. It was a lovely time.

When Christopher was five years old, he and I were going somewhere…I don’t remember where. By then, my son Andy was three and my daughter Katie was two, so it was rare I had just one child with me. But there was Christopher, in the back seat, and he was newly enthralled by music. This was 1989, but he was already showing a love and respect for older songs. His favorite was Red, Red Wine by UB40, to my mother’s horror. I had the radio on – no car with a CD player or even a tape player yet – and on came Phil Collin’s Another Day In Paradise. It was almost Thanksgiving, and Milwaukee local DJs Bob Reitman and Gene Mueller (94-WKTI!), put together a version with a voice-over by a woman from a local food pantry. It was so well done and so stirring, and without thinking, I began to sing along with it. When it was over, my son spoke up from the back seat.

“Mommy,” he said, “you sing really really good!”

I had that same sink-in-my-seat feeling then that I had with this man in the car who followed me through stoplights. But then the beaming came. And from that point on, I sang in the car, even with my kids in seatbelts beside me. They became my audience that didn’t laugh. Olivia and I now share a lot of the same taste in music, and we sing together.

But that day, that five-year old boy. The reverence and surprise in his voice. And now, there he was again, behind his own wheel, waving at me from his car, while I sang in mine.

I thanked the man at the stoplights all over again. For complimenting me on that day, and for bringing back that memory.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(If you want to hear the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCnKl5VQ10s)

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

Olivia’s been out of the house and at college now for about a month. Some folks have been asking how I’m dealing with that. My answer really depends, not only on the day, but on the minute. If I’ve just walked past her bedroom and glanced in to see the empty spaces where things used to be, gaps on the walls, her violin, guitar and ukulele no longer leaning against the wall, and Olivia herself no longer reclined on her bed, headphones in, feet pumping with the beat of the music only she can hear, her hands fluttering like birdwings, well, then I’d say I’m not doing so well. But, if it’s 3:05 and I’m still seated comfortably at my desk, writing, not having to interrupt the flow to drive through let’s-get-out-of-here-fast parent traffic and dodging new-kid-driver amateur mistakes, then I’d probably cheer. And then there are the moments where cheers and tears are only seconds apart. Because while her room is empty (tears), it’s cleaner than it’s been in years (cheers), and while I don’t have the jaw-clenching terror of picking her up at school (cheers), I no longer have the drone from the passenger seat of “Nothing happened today,” followed by the endless speed-speak chatter of everything that did happen (tears).  I was usually exhausted by the time we pulled into the garage from listening to everything that was nothing.

So it’s been a mix. Yes, I miss her.

Last week, Olivia came home for a violin lesson. She thought she knew the way well enough that she no longer needed the GPS. Which is why, at 8:30 p.m., I received a wailing phone call. “I’m lost, Mama! I don’t know where I am! I’m in the parking lot of that Applebees we always go to! I think I was headed toward Madison!”

So for those of you that don’t live here – Mount Mary University is 15.7 miles away. The route takes Olivia from the parking lot, through a couple turns, then turn left on a well-marked major road, follow for a couple miles, turn right on a well-marked major road and follow it home. For Olivia to end up at one of our usual Applebee’s, she’d either be in Delafield, which would overshoot Waukesha, or in Pewaukee, which would put her on a road she’d have to take a whole other route to. It didn’t make any sense.

“Put your GPS on,” I said. “It will tell you where you are.” And tell me too, I thought.

So she did. She was in West Allis. She never turned right on that second major road and just kept going. In general, she was heading more toward Chicago, not Madison. We’ve never been to the West Allis Applebee’s.

Even though her GPS was now on, I got in my car, found her, and she followed me home. It made us both feel better.

But I did my share of swearing on the way out there. No tears, no cheers. Lots of muttered curses and head-shaking. But you know. I got my girl. And I made sure she was safe.

So today, she’s coming home again. She works this weekend. Earlier today, while I was talking to her on Facebook Messenger, I verified she was indeed coming home tonight and not tomorrow, and said, “No getting lost!”

She answered, “I swear I won’t accidentally end up in West Allis.”

The words I typed in return were simply, “Just end up home.”

If I’d said them out loud, I would have emphasized the word, “Home.”  “Just end up HOME.”

And if Olivia had been in the room with me, she would have heard me add the words:

Because this house just isn’t the same without you.

Because I need to hear your voice.

Because I need to feel you wrap your arms around my neck, press your lips to my cheek and say, “Goodnight, Mama,” as you have almost every night for almost 19 years.

Because I miss you so.

She typed back to me, “I will, Mom.” And then told me she needed more quarters for her laundry.

Now, today is the release of my tenth book (fifth novel), If You Tame Me. The book has received some wildly wonderful reviews. I am more than excited about it. Ten books feels like…like something I can’t put a word to. Accomplished? Validated? Like I’m real? None of those will do. But it feels like SOMETHING. You would think the release would be my moment of happiness.

No. It’s those words.

“I will, Mom.” (cheers)

The use of the word Mom instead of Mama…(tears).

But she’ll be HOME.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.