Author: Kathie

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

On Tuesday night at 9:00, after I finished teaching a class, I came upstairs here to my office, on the third floor. Typically, I would curl up behind my computer, a cup of coffee in my hands, and settle in to reading student manuscripts. But on this night, I picked up my computer and coffee and moved out to the deck.

On one side, we have a big corrugated steel wall, with a flat top, like a counter. Look over it, and you see the parking lot, three stories below. I put my computer on the “counter”, my coffee too, then opened the next file in line. With one eye, I read the manuscript. With the other, I watched the intersection of North Avenue and Brook Street.

I wasn’t out there to enjoy the weather. The earlier heatwave was broken, leaving behind a familiar summer night, just warm enough, with a slip of a cool breeze. There were fireflies. There were stars.

But I watched the street.

Twenty minutes later, just as I was getting antsy, a white VW Beetle turned onto Brook Street. I quickly crossed to the front of the deck and watched the car as it tooled past the condo, then turned into the parking garage. It steadily climbed the three story ramp to the top, putting the car at my eye level, but across the street. I looked at the face behind the wheel.

My daughter. 18-year old Olivia.

Earlier that day, at 1:30 in the afternoon, Olivia passed her driver’s test. It was her second time taking it. Between test 1 and test 2, Olivia practiced off 20 points worth of mistakes that cost her her license the first time. This test put her far below the limit where she would have failed.

When we met her tester, it was the same man who flunked her three weeks ago. Olivia was stoic. She calmly led him to the car. And then she calmly nailed her test, though she didn’t know it. She calmly came back, followed him to the cubicle where they met me. She stood calmly as he told her the things she could improve on. When he said, “But that’s all. You passed!”, she lost all calmness, all stoicism, and leaped into the air with a little girl leap and shrieked, “YES!!!”

At 4:00, two and a half hours later, she left on her first solo drive: to work. And now, I stood on the deck and watched as she came home.

I watched the Beetle move through the parking garage and choose a parking space. I watched as it backed in and out of that space three times before the driver was satisfied with the car’s straightness. I watched her get out, beep the car locked, walk a few steps, turn and beep the car again, go a little further, beep the car, and then turn toward the elevator.

That’s when I called her. “Did you turn the lights off?”

“Oh, no!”

I admit it. I laughed. I watched her walk back to the car, turn the lights off, beep, beep, beep her way to the elevator, come out on the first floor, and walk toward home. She looked up at me and waved. I waved back.

Was there any better picture of watching my daughter enter adulthood? And step back? And enter adulthood? And step back? The adult took and passed the test. The little girl cheered and jumped. The adult drove to work and back and made sure the car was parked correctly and locked safely. The little girl kinda forgot to turn off the lights.

And through all of it, as I watched that Beetle come home, driven well by my daughter, I thought, This is the little girl who wasn’t ever even supposed to speak.

Look at her go.

And that is what she’s doing; Going.

But there will always be steps back. Always.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news. And I really struggled with this. I hope I said what I wanted to say.

Eons ago, when I was in high school, I was out to dinner with my family. I was a kennelworker at the local humane society at the time and I chattered about the dogs I worked with that day, the cats, the rabbits and guinea pigs, and yes, even the birds. Suddenly, my father interrupted. “I hope that someday, you love people as much as you love animals.”

I don’t remember answering. I do remember being dumbfounded. I’d never thought about love in that way before…I didn’t love animals more than people, and I didn’t love people more than animals. I just loved. Was that wrong? Was I supposed to love some more than others?

I was reminded of this in the past week.

My dog, Ursula, was diagnosed with heartworms, likely picked up before she came to us from Alabama. She seemed to be responding well to treatment, and then suddenly, late Sunday night, she vomited and went non-responsive. She was blinking, but not responding to anything, she couldn’t stand and she couldn’t walk. We rushed her to the emergency vet, and that’s where she stayed until Tuesday night, when she finally came home. She’s on two different heart meds and an antibiotic. The hope is that this was all caused by the heartworm treatment, and that she will be able to be weaned off the meds.

During her time there, we didn’t see her. We asked if we could bring in her pink security blanket; we were told no, that they would likely lose it. From Sunday to Tuesday, I grieved, wondering if my dog was scared, if she thought she’d been abandoned, if she was in pain. Ursula is a rescue dog. Her first three years of her life are unknown, but she is terrified of everything. We’ve worked really hard to make sure that she always feels safe, that she knows she can trust us, that she’s going to be fine. And now this. It was a long, long time from Sunday to Tuesday. For now, we are waiting for the heartworms to continue dying off. For now, she is on heart meds. But she’s home. And she has her blanket.

In one of my classes this week, I was asked about Ursula. Then a student said she couldn’t help but think of the kids being separated from their parents, kept in cages at the border. “You were worried about your dog with her blanket,” she said. “Think of those kids with just those aluminum blankets they’re given.”

I felt like I was at that dinner table again. I am horrified by our border situation. I’ve signed petitions, donated to resources, raised my voice. But did it mean I wasn’t supposed to be worried about my dog, without her blanket?

A few months ago, I was talking about the issues I’ve had with the breast cancer and our medical and insurance industries. We had to refinance our house in order to pay medical bills. Which is ridiculous. A student who recently did a mission trip said, “Now imagine being in a place where there are no medical resources at all.” I did. But I don’t see much difference between not having resources, and not being allowed access to resources unless you earn a certain income. Either way, people are doing without.

So was my choice to feel bad about my situation, or bad for the other country’s situation? I couldn’t feel bad for both?

I can’t help but wonder when compassion and love became an either/or proposition. Where does it stop? Are we supposed to constantly weigh our challenges with others, and as long as there is someone worse off than us, our own challenges then become unimportant or invalid? I actually overheard a conversation between two women at lunch once, where they were talking about grief. “I mean,” one woman said, “this really put it into perspective for me. My mom just died. But Karen just lost her son!” I sat back in my chair. Did that mean that the woman couldn’t grieve her mother?

In high school, I worked for a humane society. Now, I want to live in a humane society. When I looked up the definition of humane, I read, “showing kindness, care, and sympathy toward others, esp. those who are suffering.” It’s not specific to animals. It’s not specific to humans. It’s to show kindness, care and sympathy toward others. Others. Everyone.

I am sickened by the things that are going on in our country, and in other countries. I am very aware of them, and I do what I can to try to help. But my moment of happiness this week was when that door opened and my dog walked in, saw me, and came right over to put her heavy concrete head on my lap. My moment of happiness was bringing her home, seeing her lay down on her bed, and, after I covered her with her ratty pink blanket, watching her heave the biggest sigh and fall into a sleep that lasted for hours. My moment of happiness is my dog, who I do not love more than people. I just love.

I don’t believe that compassion should be a privilege, only offered to those who have reached a certain level of suffering. I believe it should be offered to all living beings.

I’m so happy Ursula is home.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

When a moment of happiness is caused by a dead bird’s skull looking in your front door, well, I suppose you just gotta wonder. I sure have been.

I’ve had a lot of odd things happen around animals, especially when I’m traveling. In Oregon, I walked the beach one morning and a pelican fell out of the sky and landed two feet in front of me. And I mean fell and I don’t mean nice gentle typical feet-first bird landing. I mean WHUMP. If I’d been walking a little faster, I likely would have been killed. This was a big, big bird. And bear in mind I’m scared of birds.

As I skittered away from him, it became clear that this pelican wasn’t well. He was alive, but no matter how close I got to him, he just sat there. I called the local aquarium and left a message. The rest of the day, I sat by the pelican and protected him from curious children. When night fell, I wished him well and went inside. In the morning, he was dead, but he was stretched out in the sand in full flight formation. Wings wide. Feet flying behind him. Amazing. The aquarium showed up and told me it was a pelican that wasn’t natural to the area, but must have been thrown off course by a hurricane. They took him away. But he remains in my mind.

In Maine, I grew frustrated with the rocky beaches. I was recovering from a back injury and sciatica and the rocks just made it too perilous for me to get to the water. There was a sandy beach at a state park close by. It necessitated my walking about a mile through a forest, and well, like birds, I am scared of forests. But I did it, just to set my feet in the ocean. On the way back, I heard a sound I’d only heard on a television show before, specifically, The Waltons. A bear. Walking beside me, just a line of trees between us, was a bear. Aching back and hip and all, I did the exact wrong thing. I ran. Thinking back now, I don’t believe the bear meant me any harm. He was escorting me through the woods.

There have been others. And now…a dead bird skull, looking up at me when I opened my front door. What the hell? There were no other bird parts. Just a tiny white skull.

I posted a photo of it on Facebook and people didn’t believe it was real. “It’s plastic,” they said. Hopeful, I went back downstairs and picked it up. No, it was real. Ew, ew, ew. I brought it in and put in on my desk. I was told it was illegal to keep it and illegal to throw it away. So what the hell was I supposed to do with it?

Late that night, I sat at my desk and stared at the skull and it stared at me. And then I remembered a This Week’s Moment from 10/11/18. We’d been experiencing a bunch of dead sparrows on our front sidewalk, caused, I believed, by the drunken flying after eating intoxicating berries, which were in full ripeness. On that day, I found a bird obviously near death in our parking lot. I couldn’t stand to think of it sitting there, a sitting duck, if you will, for a car to run over. So I pulled on a pair of gardening gloves, held the little bird at arm’s length from me (ew, ew, ew, ew!) and carried him down the block, across a street, and over a parking lot to the river, where I set him down under a berry bush that his kind loved so well. It was a peaceful place to die. Like the pelican, I wished him well and I left.

A peaceful place to die. And now this skull. Just sparrow size.

Maybe a cameo appearance to say thank you? So I said, “You’re welcome,” picked up the skull, carried it down the block, across the street, over a parking lot to the river and the berry bush where my little bird died last fall. I placed the teeny skull down, wished him well, and returned home.

It felt right.

I was called superstitious earlier this week. I wonder sometimes how superstition and faith differ. They both rely on believing in something we can’t see. I remembered there being a bible quote about sparrows, and so I looked it up. In the book of Luke, Chapter 12, Verse 6, it says, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God.”

I haven’t forgotten either. Not pelican. Not bear. Not sparrow.

It felt right.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(If you want to see the post about the sparrow, look at the menu to the right and click on October 2018, then scroll to October 11. )

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

Last week’s moment was about a conflagration of lightning bugs, collected in one small corner of Waukesha’s Riverwalk, and how it seemed like they performed a light show just for me. It truly was magical, a word I don’t use often.

So you can imagine how my heartrate picked up this week when I was in my car at a red light at an intersection right by the river, close to where the conflagration took place, and from my seat, I could see, around the corner, a bright flashing light. The fireflies! They were back! And I’d be able to see them from my car!

The light turned green and I turned and slowly approached the blinking light, not wanting to frighten them away. I almost hoped for a train, so that I’d have to stop and watch. There was no one behind me, so I could go as slowly as I wanted. Semi (my convertible) and I crept forward, getting closer and closer to the happily blinking light…

Only to find out that it was a tipped-over road construction sawhorse, its orange caution light blinking and blinking from the ground.

I laughed all the way to Farm & Fleet, where I was picking up my daughter from work. And I was really, really happy no one else was with me.

My imagination has duped me on multiple other occasions. When I was around eight years old and living in Esko, Minnesota, way, way, WAY northern Minnesota, I was out playing on a summer day next to the creek (pronounced crick, please) that ran between the neighborhood’s back yards. I saw a strange hunk of pink, streaked with white near the bank, and near where my brother’s friend built a treehouse that wasn’t in the tree, but at the base of it. I crept closer and saw more and more pink streaked with white. It was a ham! Someone left a ham out on the bank of the creek (pronounced crick, please).

I ran into the house and got my mother. “A ham?” she said. “Who would leave a ham by the creek (you know how to pronounce it now)?” She followed me outside.

It was a big sheet of insulation, probably stolen from one of the houses being built nearby, and tucked up to the treehouse.

I’m sorry. It was a ham. And that light was a lightning bug conflagration.

I also had a pet turtle for years. Her name was Myrtle. My brother had a turtle named Pokey, and when I found Myrtle, I was delighted to have a turtle of my own. My brother kept telling me (for years) that she was a rock. Well, she wasn’t. She had a perfectly shaped shell, and it didn’t matter that I never saw her head, tail or feet. Or that she never ate. Or moved. Or that she lived in a shoebox on the bottom of my closet and only came out when I thought to play with her. Or that she never died.

She was a turtle. I kept her until I was twelve years old and we moved from Minnesota to Wisconsin. My mother wasn’t willing to move what she saw as a rock. So I brought Myrtle out by the creek (remember? crick?) and set her under a bush, near a source of water and lots of green vegetation. I’m sure she’s alive and well today. Turtles live a very, very long time. Especially that one. She was magical.

A ham. A turtle. A lightning bug conflagration.

I visited a book club this past weekend, one of my favorite things to do. We got into a discussion on where the ideas for stories come from. I told them that I have a solid belief that fiction writers never lose that ability to pretend. Whatever it is as children that allows us to see our stuffed animals as real (I can still hear their voices), or to lose ourselves in sandboxes or sailing boats (sticks) down the creek (crick), or eating airy delicious fish caught from that same creek (crick) with a stick, a string, and a bent nail (no bait) doesn’t go away when fiction writers grow into adults. We don’t repress it. We don’t lose it. And frankly, we love it.

I love it. Some might see insulation, a rock, and a knocked-over construction sawhorse with a desperately blinking orange caution light. I see a misplaced ham, a loyal and faithful companion who never dies, a conflagration of lightning bugs, sending magic out into an otherwise normal life. And I also hear my own laughter.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Today is June 27^th. Which means that exactly two years ago today, I received the phone call that confirmed that I had breast cancer. I was in the shower when the call came in, of course. Luckily, I brought the phone in with me. I shut off the water and answered the phone with shampoo streaming down my face. I closed my eyes to keep out the burn.

“The biopsy was positive, Kathie,” my doctor said. He has an always-chirpy, always-happy voice, so that, combined with the word “positive”, which is usually a good word, confused me.

“So I’m okay?” I said.

“No,” he said. “You have breast cancer.” He then told me that someone would be calling me to set up my next steps, but I didn’t hear much. When his voice stopped, I said goodbye and hung up the phone. I resumed my shower.

I managed to get clean, get dry, and get dressed before my legs went all rubbery and I went down. It’s not a feeling I ever want to feel again.

But two years later, I am still here, and as far as anyone knows, I’m cancer-free.

38 years ago, on June 27^th, I was married for the first time. I was a month shy of 21 years old and I really didn’t know very much. And I was scared. 17 years later, I left that first marriage. I knew a lot more. I was braver. But knowledge and bravery still didn’t make it easy.

June 27^th is not my favorite day.

Last night, on June 27^th Eve, I went for a walk on Waukesha’s Fox Riverwalk, one of my favorite places. I take photos whenever I go, so I knew that the last time I managed to find time for this walk was on July 9, 2018, almost a full year ago. It’s a three-mile loop and it’s beautiful, as long as you’re not walking during red-winged blackbird baby season, when those damn birds bounce off your head, convinced you are a baby bird killer. People actually wear bike helmets when they’re walking during that time. I’m scared of birds, so I just avoid the whole thing. But now, on June 27^th Eve, while those birds gave their very distinctive call wherever I went, the attack season seemed to be over.

It was a gorgeous night. I worried that I might not be able to make the whole loop, since it was almost a year since I last did it. But I did, and at one point, I almost let myself skip. I said hi to the ducks. I waved cautiously at the geese. I saw frogs and this weird thing that swam and looked like a ferret. But for the longest time, I didn’t see what I was so hoping for.

Fireflies. Lightning bugs. Glowbugs.

Where I grew up, they were called lightning bugs. I never caught them in jars, because I knew they would die, but I did chase them and hold them in the palm of my hand so I could see them blink on and off. To a nine-year old, this was the most amazing thing, and at almost 59, that nine-year old inside of me always smacks both hands over her mouth and whispers, “Wow!” whenever she sees them.

Three-quarters of the way around, I’d pretty much given up on seeing them on this night. I wondered where they were, if the weather has been too cold, if the damned red-winged blackbirds ate them all. But then, in a grassy corner right next to the river, tucked in by the Moreland Avenue bridge…there they were.

Dozens. Dozens!

All lighting up. All blinking. Blue-gold light popping everywhere. I swear I could hear the sound. They didn’t leave their corner. They just flashed. Little flashlights. Little fireworks. Little bits of lightning. Absolute magic.

I was the only human there. And I smacked both hands over my mouth and whispered, “Wow!”

I don’t know how long I stood there. But I felt treated to my own private light show, which brought back my 9-year old self, and created delight in my almost 59-year old self.

Those lightning bugs weren’t the only thing glowing as I walked back home. On June 27^th Eve.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

So this week, my 10^th book, due to be released on September 26, showed up by surprise on my doorstep, and today, I drove to Techny, Illinois, to lead the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. We have a full house this year, 23 writers representing 10 states under 1 roof, and I pretty much sang the whole way. This is my favorite weekend of the year. And the moment of opening the box and seeing my tenth book was just…mind-altering.

I can’t tell you the moment when I first started writing, but I can tell you the moment I realized I was a writer. Before that moment happened, I spent a lot of time, once I knew how to read, tracing the pictures from my picture books and then rewriting the story the way I felt it should be written. I’m told it was sort of spooky to watch me play, because I would set up my toys (mostly Breyers horses and Barbie dolls) into a scene and then sit back and stare at them. In my head, a whole story was unfolding, with dialogue, characters, plot. When it came time for the scene to change, I would move the toys, then sit back and let it all play out in my head again.

When I was in the fifth grade, way up in northern Minnesota, a new English teacher named Mrs. Faticci introduced Creative Writing Thursdays. We had to have a separate notebook just for that, and I remember carefully picking out a blue one. On the cover, I wrote in block letters, MY CREATIVE WRITING. I wondered what it would be. On the first day, Mrs. Faticci told us she was going to put a record on the record player (please don’t say, “What’s that?”), and we were to listen to the song and write down our impressions. The song was “Oh, Shenendoah”. After we wrote, she had us each go to the front of the room and read our results. The kids had lists and senses – there’s a boat, I hear the waves, etc. When it was my turn, I read an entire short story. Characters, dialogue, setting. Conflict, resolution. When I finished, the room was silent. I thought I’d done something wrong. But all I’d done was write what appeared in my head as I listened to the music. I was ready to slink back to my seat when, from the back of the room, Mrs. Faticci whispered, “Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer.”

I will never forget the absolutely physical feeling of something settling into place inside of me. That’s who I was. And now I had a name for it. I was a writer.

Even now, I get goosebumps.

The thing is, and I’m going to be lecturing on this later tonight, when we find our place, land on our path, learn who and what we are, we seem to believe that everything is going to go smoothly from then on. For years, we’ve heard lectures on Follow Your Bliss, Live Your Dream, Do What You Love. But no one says what should come after that: Follow your bliss, but it won’t always feel blissful. Live your dream, but sometimes, it’s a nightmare. Do what you love, even when you hate it.

Holding that tenth book in my hands this week – I felt that physical settling in again. All was right. I’d started here, and I’d ended there, just as I was supposed to. And in between, a rollercoaster daredevil ride that left me wanting to throw myself off the tracks from time to time. That filled me with self-doubt and depression. But that ultimately, I just kept following.

My first short story was published when I was 15. My first novel was published when I was 51. Well, three months short of 51, but 51 nonetheless. And yes, I see the 1-5 and 5-1 of those numbers.

When I held that book this week, and then on the way here, driving to the retreat that I’ve led for 13 years now, I felt that settling. It hasn’t been easy. Not at all. But it’s who and what I am.

And you know what? It’s been worth every rejection slip. Every difficult moment that comes with running a small business. It’s been worth it. And I would do it again.

Our paths aren’t made of rainbows. They aren’t even yellow bricks. They are rough and bumpy and totally hard to find sometimes.

I am so happy to be where I am.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Earlier this week, I said to the Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop, “You know that saying, ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same,’? Well, where’s the same? I’d like a little more of the same!”

There’s been a lot of change recently. This past Saturday, my youngest daughter Olivia graduated from high school. The event started at noon and I was teaching until eleven. We had our timing down pat: She would leave at 10:15, with her father and brother and niece, and I would leave as soon as my students were out the door. Everyone else was meeting us there, and between all of them, I should have a saved seat. At 10:15, in my classroom, I heard the house door close and when I looked out the window, there she was in her purple cap and gown. She turned toward the window, looking back at her father to laugh. Her joy was sky-high. All I could think was, There she goes. There she goes away from me. She was outside the window and on her way.

So of course, I burst into tears in front of my class. No, that wasn’t embarrassing.

Then, when I arrived at the graduation and found my family in the seats, my older daughter Katie immediately came over to me. She’s just graduated from the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee with a PhD in math. I wasn’t even sitting yet when she told me she’d accepted a job teaching at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette, and would be gone by…July 1. This was June 8.

Oh, man. And there are other changes underway too, too many for me to grasp. I find myself wanting to clutch my own head, to keep it from blowing off.

Today, Olivia and I met with Katie for coffee. The two of them sat across from me. I should have taken a picture, but I was too busy watching them, my little girls. Not so little anymore. Both of them moving confidently into the future. I hope I gave them some of that, even as I’m not feeling so confident as I move into mine.

I hugged Katie twice as we left Starbucks. She headed for a bus stop to take her to her apartment and sorting and organizing and packing and Olivia and I went to the car to head for home. As we went around the block and then down the street, I watched the bus stops and then I saw Katie there. My girl. She stood under the sign, looking down the street, and I wondered for a moment if she was looking for me. She stood straight and tall, sunshine lighting those blonde waves that I used to brush and braid, her backpack flung over her shoulder, and she was smiling. But she kept looking down the street as I drove by. She wasn’t looking for me; she was watching for the bus that was taking her away.

Between my schedule and hers, as a new university instructor, I have no idea when I’ll see her again.

Oh, man. Where’s the same? I thought. I’m tired of change. I was quiet as I drove home. A home which has gone through many different definitions already, and a home that is facing more.

When I opened the door, there was our dog, Ursula LeGuin Giorgio. She’s always waiting, wagging her whiplash tail and grinning that special way dogs grin. When I dragged myself upstairs to my office, she followed. And as soon as I sat down at my writing table, she set her concrete head on my thigh. I swear, my thigh has an Ursula-head-shaped groove in it. Because whenever I sit, there she is.

There she is. Something, someone, that isn’t changing.

“Thank you, Ursula,” I said and hugged the stuffing out of my surprised dog.

And yes, that helps, Despite. Anyway.

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

Last night, I felt like a curmudgeon. I felt grumpy. Jaded. Not just a skeptic, but a super-duper skeptic. Negative Woman! Able to bring people down in five seconds flat!

I haven’t felt like that since partway through writing the year of Today’s Moment Of Happiness. I’ve now finished the first year of This Week’s Moment, and I’m into the second. While I would never describe myself as a unicorn and rainbows person, I did believe that my overall outlook had changed, pretty much thanks to The Moments.

Last night, that all seemed to fly out the proverbial window. Except the window was closed and it smacked against it and created a horrific splatter that would never be cleaned up, because I was so skeptical, donchaknow. I was Negative Woman.

I was at my daughter Olivia’s Senior Send-Away. I’ve never been to one of these before, and I’m not really sure of the purpose, since most of the senior class wasn’t there, and neither were the faculty. It’s final exam week, after all. But the orchestra played and the chorus sang. An English teacher gave a little speech. There was a video of the teachers, giving last-minute advice to the graduating class.

I heard things like, “Live what you love! Follow your dreams! Be whoever it is you want to be! Choose your life and follow it!” and on and on until the room was full of dancing unicorns and sparkling rainbows.

Except for the black cloud over me. I sat there, my arms crossed, and thought continually, like a mantra, Whatta crock!

Live what you love, I thought, and then try to get health insurance.

Follow your dream and then try to pay your taxes.

Be whoever it is you want to be, and then find out you’re not valued by what you do, but by how much money you make.

Choose your life and follow it and find the inevitable dead end.

Boy, was I ever in a mood. And when I thought of my daughter going out into this black cloud world, where there are no unicorns and rainbows only last for minutes, and I couldn’t do anything to protect her, well, there were tears.

After the orchestra performed, the kids came out and sat in the audience. Olivia sat right in front of me, so she wouldn’t have to crawl over me, since I had an aisle seat. At one point, one of the speakers said that the kids should look around them, see the people who love and support them and always, always will, especially their moms and dads, and that they should reach out and grab their hands and hold them tight.

Olivia didn’t turn. But she stuck her hand straight up in the air and then bent her arm at the elbow so that I could reach out and grab her. We both held on tight.

“These are the people who will always believe in you,” the speaker said.

Always. Always. I immediately thought of Olivia’s preschool teacher. The day Olivia started kindergarten, I stopped in the preschool room and told the teacher all went well. “We believe Olivia will grow up and have a normal life,” I said. “A great life. We believe she will go to college. She will be who she wants to be. And she will do it well.”

Be whoever it is you want to be, the teachers said. Follow your dream. Live what you love. Choose your life.

“We believe,” I said to this preschool teacher.

She hugged me and patted my back and said, “Well, we can always dream.”

Follow your dream.

Look at my daughter now. Look at what she’s done. And just imagine what she will do. We will always, always believe.

Earlier this week, my daughter admitted she was a little bit scared of college. She mentioned it casually, on the drive home from school.

I didn’t hesitate. “It’s okay to be scared,” I said. “Everyone is. But you are going to be great. Just look at you. And you are going to have the absolute best time.”

I wanted to say, with all my heart, that this girl is the brightest star in my sky. But I thought that would sound too much like a Hallmark card. Sometimes Hallmark cards are just the exact right thing.

By the time I got home last night, the black cloud was no longer over me. If I had to listen to those speeches all over again – and I probably will, on Saturday, when she graduates – I would still roll my eyes and think, Whatta crock.

But then I would look at my daughter. And all I would feel is hope. Look at her.

I believe.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I finally did something I’ve been thinking about doing for a while. It took me almost two years, with the last four months containing three appointments, two cancellations, and…today. Today, I did it.

No, I didn’t get a tattoo or a new piercing.

I went boob shopping.

I’ve debated what I would consider my “cancerversary”, the day I became free of breast cancer. To be exact, Stage 2 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. I’ve finally decided on July 25^th (2017) as that was the day of my surgery, the day cancer was carved out of my body. I considered the day I finished radiation, September 25^th, 2017. But I went back today into my Today’s Moments, and on the day of surgery, I wrote:

One of my ABCD mentors (After Breast Cancer Diagnosis) just texted me and said in all caps, THE CANCER HAS LEFT YOUR BODY! Shortly after, my other ABCD mentor texted and said, You are now over that first mountain and that beautiful valley is still ahead.

I did not have a full mastectomy, but a partial. My doctors use that term because of the amount of my breast that was taken. When the surgeon sliced me open, she found that the tumor was larger than she anticipated. When I woke up in recovery, I was told that a sizable chunk of me was gone. Then, a year and two months later, there was a sudden infection in the surgical site, requiring a drain to be inserted and six weeks of powerful antibiotics. The result was that my breast, already deformed, collapsed on one side.

Naked, it left me wanting to not be naked. Dressed, I felt increasingly self-conscious because I was obviously lopsided. I found myself wearing looser and looser shirts and consistently crossing my right arm over my breast.

In February, I made an appointment at the Cancer Center’s in-house store that carried prosthetics and mastectomy bras. The day of, I canceled. A couple months later, I did it again. A couple weeks ago, they called me to see if I wanted to reschedule. I said yes.

I had great trouble with this. It feels vain to me. It feels shallow. But dammit, every morning when I get dressed, every time I go shopping, every time I pass a mirror, my eyes zero in on that sad little right breast, no longer at all what it used to be.

This morning, I considered canceling the appointment. I had things to do. I always have things to do. But then I got in my car and went. As requested, I wore a snug-fitting white shirt. A favorite that was no longer a favorite because of that sad breast.

In a comfortable room in the little store, the nicest woman took care of me. She measured me and then measured me again. She didn’t react in any way to how my breast looked.  I kept my right arm crossed over it until she had me lift my arms to my sides and then, I closed my eyes.

By then, I’d told myself, You’ll just try it on. Then you’ll say no. You can do this. You can accept who you are now. This is who you are.

She brought in three styles of bras. Each had a special little pocket sewn to the inside of the right cup. Then, she opened a little pink zippered cloth box and she pulled out the fake breast. It was shiny and smooth and I watched as she slid it into the pocket. I put the bra on and then together, we maneuvered the prosthetic into place. I watched in amazement as the bra filled out…with what looked like me. Then she had me pull on my shirt. I raised my eyes to the mirror.

And there I was. There I was.

Just as I was on June 19^th, 2017, the day before the mammogram went south. As I was through ultrasounds, biopsies and an MRI. As I was on July 25^th, 2017, in the morning, before I was rolled into surgery.

Oh, there I was.

I admit it. I cried. And I also wished I hadn’t waited for so long. If it’s vain, if it’s shallow, I don’t care. I have never been so relieved to see someone I know in the mirror.

I drove home, wearing the new bra and my right breast’s new best friend. Ever try driving while continually glancing down to admire symmetry?

I had an Elton John CD playing and the song Electricity came on. And I heard these lyrics:

I suppose it’s like forgetting

Losing who you are

And at the same time

Something makes you whole

Yeah. It’s just like that.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

A couple weeks ago, I was sick with pneumonia, which just felt like the ultimate insult during a finally-warming-up spring. A student suggested I visit a salt room. I’d never heard of such a thing, so I checked into it and found one close by. A salt room is exactly what it sounds like – a room made of salt. The walls, ceiling and floor are covered in white, the salt loose on the floor like gravel, and textured on the walls like plaster. A machine embedded in one of the walls blows more salt out, ground to a barely noticeable mist, and as you lay in anti-gravity chairs, you breathe it in. You’re covered with a blanket to protect your clothes and the temperature is kept at seventy degrees. I walked in a skeptic and walked out a believer. The salt thins the mucus, so it’s great for sinus and lung issues. It was amazing.

But it was also a different sort of reprieve. It wasn’t until my third time there that I realized it. Everything is white – there is no visual stimulation. The only sound is the machine pumping in the salt. It’s like walking into a desensitization chamber – the only thing you have to do is sit and breathe. Everything slows down. I brought a book with me the first two times, but that third time, I set the book aside and fell instantly into a sleep so deep, it was dreamless and all awareness fell away.

All because everything in my life slowed down for that 45 minutes.

I’ve been thinking, Slow down! a lot lately. The other day, Michael and I were discussing what we might want to do in five years, and I heard myself say, “In five years, I’ll be sixty-four –“ and I came to a dead stop. Sixty-four? 64? Of the Beatles’ When I’m 64? How the hell did that happen? Slow down, slow down, slow down!

My grandbaby, Maya Mae, is six years old now. The other day, Facebook gifted me with a Facebook memory, a photo of her beaming in her stroller, happy, happy baby, not even able to sit up yet. A short time later, I was driving past the Fox River, and there was my son and my granddaughter. “Hi, Maya!” I yelled and she gave me her queenly wave. She was so tall, striding by my son. No stroller. Absolutely under her own power. She wasn’t even holding his hand.

Slow down, slow down, slow down.

And then, of course, Olivia. She went to prom last weekend. I watched as she had a make-up session, and then I helped her into her dress. She slipped into high heels, grew suddenly taller, and strode confidently across the room. Strode confidently to meet her boyfriend, walk with him hand in hand, laugh during photos. Michael and I watched them cross the street in downtown Milwaukee and head into the Bradley Pavilion ballroom. My daughter, my youngest, in a ballroom.

Slow down, slow down, slow down.

I breathed deep, pretended I was in the Salt Room, with everything coming to a stop. Not forever. Just for a while. Just until I felt like I could catch up. Like I could accept all the changes, but hold tightly to the past. That happy, happy grandbaby. And my little girl, who used to spend hours lining up hundreds of colored plastic bears throughout the house, in a persnickety order only she knew. Who belted out Laura Branigan’s Gloria when she was only three years old and couldn’t quite speak. Who looked at her anxious parents on the first day of kindergarten and said calmly, “You can go now.”

You can go now.

Slow down, slow down, slow down.

Later that night, after we came home, Olivia washed all the make-up from her face, leaving behind pink cheeks and a bright smile. She asked for my help hanging up her beautiful dress. And then she put on…her fuzzy one-piece Care Bear pajamas.

Oh, that’s better!

She came out to the living room and sat next to me, on the armrest of my recliner. Olivia has never been a lap-sitter. She likes to be close by, cuddled in, but still her own independent entity. So just as she sat next to me when she was three, when she was seven, when she was twelve, and just last week, she sat next to me in her fuzzy pajamas and rested her head on my shoulder.

And there it was. Everything slowed to a stop and was its own crystal clear moment, even as it reflected back over the fuzzy-pajamas cuddle time moments from our past. It was all there – the promise of her future, the joy of our past.

That was all I needed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.