Author: Kathie

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

So I’ve just spent the last ten minutes, scrolling through Facebook to avoid starting to write this blog. Because I have absolutely no idea what I want to write about.

It’s been a week where nothing much happened, really. Which at times can be a great relief. I did nearly slice the top of my left thumb off as I attempted to actually cook a real dinner in the crockpot. It was an easy recipe. Cube some sirloin steak, cut up chunks of russet potatoes, Throw it all in the crock pot, add onion flakes, salt, pepper, and garlic powder, mix together some beef broth and Worcestershire sauce, put on the lid, cook for 8 hours. Top with cheddar cheese fifteen minutes before serving. I thought, I can do that! So when I finished with my morning clients, I ran downstairs to my kitchen, got the steak in the crockpot, peeled the potatoes and began to chunk them. And that’s when one wet potato shot out of my hand and left my thumb exposed on the cutting board like a tied-up woman on the train tracks. Or a more appropriate comparison, a woman tied up with a sawmill blade rolling toward her, because my knife sunk into my thumb like it was what was for dinner.

One trip to the ER later, where they GLUED my thumb back together, I came home, cleaned the blood off of everything in my kitchen, realized my shoelaces, blood-soaked from tying my shoes before driving myself to the ER, were a loss, found a whole unpeeled potato stuffed into my garbage disposal, thanks to my cat Cleo, and eventually finished the recipe. Which turned out very well, by the way.

That was really the most noticeable thing to happen this week, and it hardly counts as a moment of happiness.

It was one of those weeks of looking around and thinking, and sometimes saying out loud, “What the hell?”

This is one of the really odd things about grief, I think. Mostly, I’ve seen it portrayed as dark and depressed, an inability to get out of bed, tears that are so constant, they’re not even noticed anymore, long sighs, gazing out of windows.

And I do have those days, trust me. Right now, given a choice of innumerable activities, I would always choose sleep. I’m asleep as soon as I close my eyes. I sleep as late as absolutely possible. While sleeping, I have weird dreams, and while waking, I have weird almost-awake hallucinations. The weirdest one was lifting my head toward Michael’s side of the bed, seeing a hole in the wall just beyond it, and inside that hole was a man sitting in a chair, reading a magazine. He waved at me, I waved back, and went back to sleep for another half hour. When I woke again, he was gone, and so was the hole in the wall. I did not recognize him, but he was comforting. I haven’t seen him since.

What the hell?

I took up sleepwalking for a while too. I live in a three-story condo, with my bedroom on the third floor, and one early  morning at four, I woke as I opened the outside door on the first floor, preparing to step outside into the snow.

I don’t wear pajamas.

But the sleepwalking seems to have gone away.

Facebook Memories hits me across the face sometimes, which probably wasn’t the original intent of this social media site. This week, on the preview it gave on my news feed, I suddenly saw Michael looking out at me. It was a photo from rehab, where he’d just been moved. He was out of a hospital gown and in one of his favorite shirts. He was holding a stuffed Ursula, a special pillow I had made for him, because he missed our dog so much. At that time, he’d been in the hospital for six weeks, and he was in week one of what would be three weeks in rehab. His right eye is closed in the photo, not in a wink, but because the eye simply did not want to open.

But it was a moment of hope for us. He was out of the hospital. His memory seemed to be coming back. On his first day in physical therapy, he walked several steps. It was easy to push aside the troublesome signs that all was not well…the way he would repeat things a million times. The pain he was in. The complaining about the constant roaring in his right ear. That winking eye.

And then, of course, despite the hope we felt, he died.

Looking back now, I can see all of the signs I ignored and covered over with hope. I didn’t cry over them then, but I do now. I wish I would have let myself be more prepared. I wish I’d prepared him more. I wonder how much he knew, but he tried to cover up, so that I wouldn’t worry.

Writing all this is not making me feel any better. I had a client say this week, “I can tell you’re feeling sad today.” Well, I feel sad every day, actually, though I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it away. Maybe I’m letting hope push aside signs that all is not well.

But that’s the thing, really. I do still have hope.

I have moments where I lose myself in laughter. There are times now when I can think of a memory of Michael, even speak of that memory, and not collapse into tears. While our dog Ursula still comes downstairs every morning and looks for Michael in his recliner, I don’t. Though I do reach over every now and then and pat the arm that separates his recliner from mine. For a while there, I was only looking at my feet, trying to focus on taking the next step. Now, I’m looking all the way down the block, even though I’m walking down this street by myself.

This past Sunday, my daughter Olivia came home from work, and walked in just as I was reading a column from the Sunday paper out loud. I explained to her that, while her father was alive, I read him this column, an advice column we both liked, every Sunday. Now, his recliner was empty, but his urn sits on the piano, and so I still read to him.

“Oh,” Olivia said. She nodded, told me about her day, and went off to her bedroom, like it was a perfectly normal thing for me to be doing, and for her to see, walking in.

And that’s the thing too. It is the norm now. A norm that I can’t change, no matter how much I hope. But also a norm that is allowing me to laugh again, and resume moving forward.

I think that’s about as good as I can do today. And you know what? That’s all right too.

Even though hope let me down, there is still hope to feel, and I feel it thoroughly and always. Even through the sadness.

Hope always rises, donchaknow.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

There are still nice people in this world.

I just felt that needed to be said up front. There’s a lot of craziness happening now, and I think it’s easy to lose sight of that. But over the weekend, I was just awash in nice people, people who were face to face with me, people who were surrounding me online, people in my memories. I was doing a very hard thing, all alone, but I wasn’t alone at all.

I’ve read, and now I’ve found, that one of the hardest things after a loved one dies is going through their belongings and clearing it all out. Now of course, this doesn’t have to be done – the things have a place in the house already, but it turns out there’s this feeling that just comes over you, of having to take care of it all, get it somewhere…and for me, I think it was all about trying so hard to feel like I was in control of my life again.

Since Michael died, I’ve gone through a lot…the clothes closet, the dresser drawers, his counter, his hoarder’s closet, the bag he carried back and forth to work. All of it was hard. But then there was the off-site storeroom.

This was really a lesson in practicality. The storeroom costs $150 a month, and most of it was taken up with Michael’s overflow, things that didn’t fit in the hoarder’s closet, but that needed space, that he wouldn’t let go of, and that I didn’t have the patience to deal with. There was no need to spend that kind of money anymore. And so, last weekend, a weekend where my schedule allowed me a Friday and Monday off, so I had four days, I plucked up my courage and went in.

Now granted, some of the things were mine, and some were jointly owned, like our Christmas stuff. But so much there was Michael’s. Three floor model old time radios. A desk that he loved to write on, but in the room deemed his office, he just couldn’t stop himself from loading it with so many things, he couldn’t even reach the desk, and I ended up removing it all and claiming the space as something else. But we kept the desk anyway, because he couldn’t stand to see it go. Boxes and boxes of stuff, a lot of which contained things from his desks at work, and that he brought home when he lost yet another job.

I dug into it all. And in all of it, I kept finding memories of nice people. As I dug through the box he brought home from his dream job at a local theater, I remembered how the theater decided his position was unnecessary, especially at his pay rate…but they didn’t let him go until I was through with my radiation treatments, so that we would have the health insurance to pay our medical bills.

Nice people.

The latest box, brought to me from the job he was coming home from – not walking away from – on the day he was hit by the passenger van. He only had that job for a year, but we both felt he’d found a home away from home. His boss and coworkers came to the hospital to see him, and visited him once he was at home. The phone calls they made to me, to make sure I was doing okay. Keeping his desk for him, ready for his return, until we all knew he wasn’t coming back. Coming to the Celebration of Life and crying with me as if they’d known him for years and years, and not 12 months.

Nice people.

The boxes from work were what affected me the most. There were so many things he kept at work, to remind him of home. There was a photo of me, professionally taken soon after we were married. I surprised him with it at Christmas. I dressed in a men’s business shirt, wrapped Michael’s tie that boasted old time radios around my neck, posed with his model of an old time radio microphone, and held a sheet of paper, as if I was on an old time radio show. I showed up at the photographer’s with a box full of antique radios and this get-up, told him what I wanted to do, and he even helped me to tie the tie.

Nice person.

In one frame, there were many, many photos tucked, many of our daughter Olivia. Pictures of him with our baby daughter. And more pictures with each of my kids from my first marriage. The role Michael loved the most was father, even when that role had “step” in front of it.

And then I found the journal Michael started writing to Olivia before she was even born, but after an ultrasound determined who it was we’d created together.  I’d forgotten about it, Olivia never knew about it.

She has it now.

You know, it’s very hard to sort through things when you have to keep clearing your eyes of tears, and then having to sit down for a while because the tears become a storm and you just can’t breathe.

But I did it. Around me, people on social media, some whom I’ve never met in “real life”, encouraged and cheered.

Nice people.

Then came the finding new homes for Michael’s radios and his desk. First, someone I only knew from Facebook came out with her husband, to claim the smallest of the floor model old time radios, and also two of my mannequins. I paint mannequins, but I’d had these for years, and knew I’d never have the time to paint them. This friend and her husband arrived at the storeroom and greeted me with hugs and gifts. The wife gave me an envelope full of cards made from her photography. The husband carried a hibiscus he grew for me from a cutting, after he learned of my losing my very much loved hibiscus, Carla. He also brought me a pot of growing daffodils – he handed me spring. And my favorite flower.

The next day, another husband and wife team came for the other two radios. They came, not from my own pages on social media, but from an ad I put on Facebook Marketplace, explaining the story of the radios. The wife flung herself out of their van, hugged the stuffing out of me, and then said, “I have something for you, whether you want it or not!”, which made me laugh. A calming candle, and calming lotions and sprays. The couple left with a promise to send me a photo of the radios after they had them set up in their house.

Nice people.

And then the third, also from Facebook Marketplace. I’d posted the desk, also with the story behind it. She walked into the storeroom, laid both her hands on the desk’s surface, and said she would treasure it.

Nice person.

I can’t say that this was the hardest time since Michael died, because as every new thing pops up, it seems to be the hardest. It’s easiest, and likely more truthful, to just say it’s all been hard.

But swirling through all the hard are nice people. People who know me, people who don’t, people who knew Michael, people who didn’t.

I am alone. But I’m not.

The storeroom is almost empty now. I have to find a home for the metal conference tables that used to be in my classroom at AllWriters’. But once they’ve found their way, I will be rolling down that garage-type door for good.

Do I feel a sense of control now? In a way. The things I brought home from the storeroom are beloved. Tucked in Olivia’s bedroom closet is the cradle I found at a flea market, when I was pregnant with my first child. It was homemade, artist-made. Instead of spindles, it has solid walls of wood, other than one side, which is carved with the moon and the stars. All four of my children have slept in that cradle, and my granddaughter too. Things like this don’t get sent away…they are saved for the future generations of my family.

We didn’t put up Christmas decorations this year, but next Christmas, all of the Christmas decorations, including the tree, are now safely at home. They will be brought out easily and with joy.

On the shelves of what I called Michael’s hoarder’s closet are the photo albums, neatly lined up, even the photo album from my first wedding. There are a few bins of loose photos. All are there for my kids and granddaughter to look through when they want to dig through their own memories and see their own histories.

I feel a little more in control again, even though I know we never are. But I also feel surrounded by nice people.

And yes, that helps (enormously). Despite. Anyway.

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

In general, I’m not someone who likes surprises. I’m big on organizing. I’m big on planning. I’m big on sticking with schedules and knowing what’s about to come around the corner.

One of the things 2024 taught me is you cannot always plan on what’s coming around the corner.

But planning is still within my comfort zone. I’ve had to learn, with running a small business and having a new baby at the age of 40, to never expect plans to be 100%, and to be prepared to change direction in one hot moment.

But still. I like to know what’s coming.

I’ve had some odd things happen since Michael died. I can’t explain them; I don’t really want to explain them. I want to just wonder about them and marvel.

The first one happened soon after his death, when I was cleaning out his hoarder’s closet. With a couple shelves done and more to do, I fell exhausted into bed one night and cried out loud, “Oh, Michael, where are you?”

The next morning, when I got out of bed, my feet landed on either side of something small, rectangular, and white. After bending to pick it up, I found that it was a magnetic poetry piece. “In here,” it said.

Michael, of course, or at least his remains, are in an urn. And this type of humor is all Michael.

That magnetic poetry piece now sits in front of his urn. Whenever I wonder where he is, I just have to look at it and know. “In here.”

During Christmas week, I fell very ill, as I’ve written about. Bronchitis like never experienced before. A sinus infection that felt like my entire head was going to blow up. For two weeks, I didn’t teach, and the only people to come into the AllWriters’ classroom on the first floor over a three day period was my son Christopher, my faculty member Richard (and his students), and a handyman who was installing a chair rail for me. Early Tuesday morning, Christopher came to let the dog out, so I wouldn’t have to attempt to breathe down and back up through two flights of stairs. On Wednesday, Richard came to teach. On Thursday morning, the handyman came to finish the chair rail. Those were the only people who’d been in the classroom by the time I came down late Thursday afternoon, dragged by a dog who just couldn’t wait any longer.

On the classroom table, right in front of my teaching chair, was a miniature Philadelphia Eagles football. That’s weird, I thought. The Philadelphia Eagles were Michael’s favorite football team.

I called Christopher and asked if he found a football when he took the dog out. “What football?” he said.

I texted Richard and asked if he or one of his students brought in a miniature football. “What football?” he said.

I asked Dave, the handyman, and he said, “Oh, I saw it, but I didn’t bring it.”

So somewhere between 9:00 p.m. Wednesday night when Richard’s class ended, and 8:00 Thursday morning when Dave showed up, the football arrived. There was no explanation.

But…I had just decided to read a section from Michael’s unfinished novel at the AllWriters’ 20^th Birthday Event. And the football was in the AllWriters’ classroom, at the teacher’s chair.

I think I got his approval. Or maybe he was telling me to bet on the Philadelphia Eagles at the Superbowl. I didn’t even know they were playing. But the football now sits next to the urn.

Then came Rudolph. When we first built our condo 19 years ago,  I purchased a large stuffed Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with a battery-powered blinking nose for our first Christmas. He stood by one of our living room windows, looking out over the city parking lot. At the end of that first Christmas, I was preparing to pack Rudolph away with the rest of the Christmas stuff when Michael protested. “He looks cute there,” he said. “Leave him.”

So I did. For the next 19 years. His nose stopped blinking at the end of the first year, and we never bothered to change the batteries. The batteries in the battery holder inside his stomach are the same that he arrived with when I bought him.

So the Wednesday after the arrival of the football, I saw a red blinking light reflected in my living room window. I thought it might be a police car, and so I got up to look.

It was Rudolph. I took a video, to show my kids. It had been so long, I couldn’t even remember how to turn him off. He blinked and blinked, and then finally shut off on his own.

After Michael died, during my cleaning fit, I considered getting rid of Rudolph. Now, he’s not going anywhere.

And now, the latest thing.

Last week, I wrote about how hard it was to go through Valentine’s Day. The week before that, I wrote about things that I’ve been wearing to offer encouragement during moments that I’m having a hard time. A sweatshirt that says Keep Going… on the front. A ring that says, “Keep walking past the open windows,” another ring that says, “You’re enough,” and a third that says, “Your story isn’t over yet.”

So Valentine’s Day. And no, I haven’t found my jewelry box. But on Valentine’s Day, there was a package waiting for me at my front door. I puzzled over it as I carried it upstairs. I hadn’t ordered anything. There wasn’t any return address. The package was soft and squishy, so it wasn’t a book I’d pre-ordered, the most common culprit when I receive a surprise package.

I sliced the package open, and then pulled out a black and gray speckled sweater. I held it up in front of me, and across the chest, written in very subtle silver, is the word, “Beautiful.”

Whenever Michael arrived home, he had two ways of greeting me. One was, “Hey, Punkin.”

And the other… “Hi, beautiful.”

And it was Valentine’s Day.

The package was definitely addressed to me, by name. I have no idea where it came from.

But I very much like to believe that I do know. Just as I know why Rudolph blinked, and where the football came from, and I laugh whenever I read, “In here.”

(Now if he would only show me where the jewelry box is.)

The sweater fits perfectly.

I don’t like surprises. But I love these.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I didn’t expect Valentine’s Day to be difficult. I even told a few people that I was relieved that the mad line-up of holidays and events that we had to endure from October to January – October: our 25^th anniversary and Livvy’s birthday, November: Thanksgiving, December: Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Michael’s birthday two days after Christmas, January: New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, the first anniversary of Michael’s accident – was all over, and we have a kind of quiet period between now and the anniversary of his death in June. We never did much for Valentine’s Day, I said, shrugging. And we didn’t. We usually exchanged cards. He brought me a small box of conversation hearts and a small box of chocolates. I bought him some sort of sweet treat too.

But…there’s the pendant.

On our first Valentine’s Day as a couple, before we were married, Michael gave me a small heart-shaped pendant made out of diamonds and rubies. Rubies are my birthstone. I loved it, I still do, but rarely wear it, as it’s just too fancy for everyday wear. But I wore it faithfully every Valentine’s Day. Each time I wore it, I remembered him giving it to me, and I’d smile.

Until last year. Last year for Valentine’s Day, Michael was still in the hospital. He’d been in the ICU twice, and on that day, was in his second “step-down room”. He still wasn’t always there cognitively, he insisted I was his sister, he’d just had a feeding tube put into his stomach and he’d suffered a fall. My schedule every day was to finish with morning clients, grab my lunch, run to the hospital, and spend the afternoon there, until it was time for me to head back for evening clients and classes. I didn’t realize until recently how much I was on auto-pilot.

On Valentine’s Day, as I walked by the hospital’s gift shop, I stopped. I wasn’t planning on getting Michael anything – he couldn’t eat and he thought I was his sister. But the balloons were so cheerful, bobbing near the ceiling, and so I went in and bought two. When I arrived in Michael’s room, he was sleeping. I carefully tied the balloons to the foot of his bed so he could see them upon waking.

I didn’t wear the pendant. I don’t think I was even wearing something red. Until I saw those balloons, it was just another day on auto-pilot.

This year, of course, Michael is gone. As my thoughts turned to Valentine’s Day, I thought of the pendant. And that’s when I realized that I have no idea where my jewelry box is.

I’m a jewelry nut. I actually have a tall antique cabinet called a chimney cabinet that houses my jewelry, most of which is artist-made. But I had a small jewelry box, only about ten inches by ten inches by ten inches, with several drawers, that held jewelry I treasured, but didn’t wear often. The wedding ring from my first marriage. My engagement ring from Michael. Pocket watches from my maternal grandfather and grandmother. The teeny tiny diamond cross that my father gave my mother on their 25^th wedding anniversary, that my mother gave to me to wear on my first wedding day.

And…the pendant.

When I realized the jewelry box was missing, I stood and stared at the spot where it used to be. In a corner of my bedroom, there is a corner desk, triangle-shaped, that fits snugly there. Before it was there, there was an old time floor-standing radio. On top of the radio was my jewelry box. When Michael was home from the hospital and rehab, I rearranged, bringing the corner desk back to that corner, and moving the radio to our off-site storeroom. It was always too big for that corner, and I was constantly banging my toe on it. But…I don’t remember what I did with my jewelry box. It didn’t fit well on top of the corner desk, and so I moved it. Somewhere. It’s a big blank.

Suddenly, Valentine’s Day was important. And suddenly, it was beyond important that I have my pendant to wear.

I’ve turned the house upside down, looking in every closet, on every shelf. I went out to the storeroom, found the old radio, but no jewelry box. No pendant, no pendant, no pendant.

In a way, I guess I feel like I’ve let Michael down again. I haven’t been able to find a way to make sure that the driver who killed Michael received consequences. And now, I’ve lost something precious that he gave to me before we were even married. He’d never given a gift like that to any other woman before. But he gave it to me. He said he was giving me his heart.

To say I’ve been sad is an understatement.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I will not be wearing the pendant.

But then this last Tuesday, I received a phone call. THE phone call, that I’d been waiting for. Remember the blog that I wrote on 12/21/24? You can still see it – it’s still up.  I decided to have our wedding rings made into one ring. Not just attached to each other, but the rings were to be melted down and the metal re-used to form a new ring. The diamonds from both rings were removed, then styled into the new ring. A whole new and unique one-of-a-kind design was created, and I decided I would wear this ring on my right hand, not my left, because this is a new chapter for me, and really, for Michael too.

I was wiping tears from my face over the missing pendant when I got the phone call. The ring was ready.

I dropped everything and ran.

The lovely woman, Becca, who designed my ring was not there when I arrived, and neither was Craig Husar, her father, who came and sat by me while we talked about the ring and Becca sketched out her ideas. But another lovely woman who knew the whole story brought my ring out to me. She took it from its box and she didn’t hand it to me. Instead, she slipped it right onto my finger.

Where it fit like it belonged there all along.

And it’s breathtaking.

The ring is made of curves, all entwined together, as Michael and I were, and are, entwined. The original rings were silver and gold, and this ring is as well. Michael liked gold, and I love silver, and so I wear the silver side toward me.

In my mind, when we wore our wedding rings, they were reminders to each of us individually that we belonged together. When Michael died, I wore his ring with mine for several months. But then I wanted to put them together, just one ring, to show that we are still entwined, even as my wedding ring finger is bare and I’m still in this world, all by myself.

I have the ring, and because I have the ring, I also have both wedding rings and all the history those rings went through on our fingers. And I have it in time for Valentine’s Day.

I will find the pendant. Maybe when I find my heart again. But for now…I have the ring. And we are entwined.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Michael. Tomorrow, I will go out and buy a small box of conversation hearts and a small box of chocolates.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

This one is going to be circuitous, so bear with me. It took me a while to put all the pieces together too.

Today is a day off for me. A couple years ago, I implemented a new schedule, where I take a different day off every week. It goes in a set routine, and it allows me to keep my very full schedule while still having a day somewhere in the week where I can sleep in, take a breath, hopefully relax, but get caught up if I need to. It also gives me a place to agree to appearances and presentations without taking time away from my students and clients. They also all know that about every five weeks or so, they’re going to have a day off on their specific day. It’s worked well.

This week, it’s Thursday.

Since Michael died, I’ve added a few more rules, if you will, to my day off. I don’t get dressed right away, but stay in pajamas. I don’t have my breakfast in front of the computer, reading my emails, as I do every other day of the week. Instead, I go downstairs, turn on the fireplace if it’s winter, sit on my recliner with a cuddly blanket and usually a cat, and read a book while I have breakfast. Right now, I’m reading Elizabeth Strout’s Tell Me Everything, her newest novel, and I have been on a devouring tear of all of her books.

So I woke up today at a little after noon (bear in mind I usually go to bed at three in the morning – last night was not an exception). I checked my phone to get an overview of my emails before going downstairs to my breakfast and book, and found that my payment for my health insurance hadn’t gone through. I recently had a debit card hacked and I had to close it, and the health insurance was auto-paid on that card. So I did go to my computer first, before going downstairs. I thought it would only take a minute to change the payment info.

Frustration. Difficulty with the website. Finally hit the chat button and asked for a phone number so I could talk to a person. Got it, got the person, took care of it, hung up the phone, and burst into tears. It took 45 minutes.

This was something I would normally hand over to Michael. He was an accountant – he was better with the numbers stuff. But…Michael isn’t here, and I had to learn how to do this by myself, without any guidance.

Sometimes, it feels like the last year and two months has been nothing but a very steep learning curve. It’s always going up; it never rolls back down.

I did go downstairs then, had my breakfast with my book, had a breathing treatment because I’m still recovering from bronchitis, took a long hot shower, and went to my closet. I didn’t even think about what I was going to wear. I reached in immediately for a hoodie I bought recently. On the front, it says, “Keep going.” And on the back, it lists 100 reasons to live. Just above the cuffs on each sleeve, it says, “You are needed. You are not a burden. You are loved.”

Even before Michael died, I’d begun kind of outfitting myself with things that I could glance at in moments of stress or sadness. It started in 2017, when I had breast cancer. One of Michael’s students brought me an amazing fidget ring. She’d asked Michael what my favorite quote was, and he told her, “Keep walking past the open windows,” from John Irving’s Hotel New Hampshire. She had this quote engraved on the ring, the part that spins when I push my thumb against it. It was spun a lot that year. It was spun a lot in 2024 as well, and now, in 2025.

I also have a ring that is engraved with the words, “My story isn’t over yet.” On my other hand, there is a ring that says, “You are enough.”

Since Michael died, I added a Zox bracelet that, on one side, shows an hourglass. On the other side, it says, “Time heals.” It came with a plastic card that I have sitting on my calendar, always in view when I’m at my computer. On one side, it has “Time Heals”, just like the bracelet, and on the other, it says, “Take a breath, and take your time, as healing can be slow. It’s going to be okay, my dear, once you’re ready to let go.”

And of course, I’m having the new ring made out of our wedding rings. On both rings, the metal was melted down and blended, the diamonds removed, and then a new design was made, entwining the material all together. As Michael and I were entwined.  I saw the ring this last Saturday, and thoroughly embarrassed myself by bursting into tears again. It’s stunning. I don’t have it right now, because somehow the sizing got messed up, and it was too small. The jeweler let me wear it for the weekend (on the wrong hand – I want to wear it on my right hand, not my engagement/wedding ring finger, because this is a new chapter in life) and I brought it back on Tuesday. They’re putting a rush on it, so hopefully I will get it back soon.

So. I have these reminders. And this morning, I reached for my Keep Going hoodie without even stopping to think about it. I pulled it over my head, nestled it around me, and sighed.

Sitting down on the loveseat in my bedroom, my dog Ursula jumped up to sit next to me. I looked at her and said, “I miss your dad, Ursy.”

Ursula is the only animal (I hesitate to say fur baby, because I don’t like the term. Ursula and the cats are more than animals, and more than pets – but I don’t have a word for it, other than family.) in the house who really knew Michael. Oliver, one of my cats, was adopted about a month before Michael went into the hospital for the final time. Cleo, the other cat, was adopted afterwards. I talk to Ursula a lot. And anyone who has a dog knows how intently they listen.

“I miss your dad, Ursy,” I said. And cried again.

She leaned hard into me. Her nose pointed at the Keep Going.

“But I did it, didn’t I?” I said. “I fixed the problem. I figured it out.”

And I got a nose kiss.

Keep Going. Keep walking past the open windows. My story isn’t over yet. Time Heals. I am enough.

Even all by myself.

At the AllWriters’ 20^th Birthday Celebration last Friday, former mayor of Waukesha Larry Nelson said that my name is synonymous with Hope.

Well, Hope Always Rises, doesn’t it. Even for me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s a late Moment. Two days late. But for a very good reason, if you consider me running in 20 directions at once a very good reason!

Last night was the AllWriters’ 20^th Birthday Celebration event. My studio, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, is officially 20 years old. This is at once stunning and “of course”-ing to me. You live a split life when you own a small business. One life is being afraid all of the time – there is no such thing as absolute confidence that your business will survive. Small businesses can change on a dime – and sometimes, it’s a dime that changes them. But the other life is absolute pride in what you’ve done, absolute confidence that what you’re offering is worthwhile, and absolute love in what you do.

I went from walking into a bank to get a small business loan, to walking out after being told I had no business being in business and my idea was not viable, to starting the business anyway, to 20 years of existence. All of the two lives mentioned above pertain to me on a daily basis – no less so now that Michael is gone and I am my only source of income.

It’s scary. It’s wonderful. Well, it’s what I do.

Last night was an incredible night. I rented the large room in a park & rec building to hold the studio’s party. This room was the first room I ever taught in, when Waukesha Park & Rec asked me to teach almost thirty years ago. On this night, the room was packed. My nerves are always jangly before an event; I’ve filled a room with 400 people, and I’ve had nights when no one showed up at all. This night was amazing.

I was introduced by former Waukesha mayor Larry Nelson, who was also my middle son Andy’s 8^th grade English teacher. I hardly recognized myself as he spoke about me. I went on to talk a little about the history of the studio, and then about this last year, which has been the hardest year of my life, and thus the hardest year for the studio. This was followed by readings by my faculty, including my reading an excerpt from the novel Michael was writing before he died, and reading from my own work. Three students read as well.

It was such an evening! An evening of words, of the love of literature, of community and support and encouragement…and I don’t think I have ever felt so appreciated.

It’s interesting what stands out to me though. There was a gift bag and a card that keeps playing through my head. I received the card first. On the outside, it said, “Sometimes we wonder if all the hard work is really worth it.”

Oh, yeah.

I’ve been asked several times if I would speak to entrepreneurs groups. I have done so – but I’ve always warned them that I might just say, “Don’t do it!” depending on the day. Running your own business is definitely a labor of love, and it’s a 24/7 deal. I’ve laughed when people have told me that it must be wonderful to be able to pick and choose when I work. Not even close. But the difference is…and it’s a BIG difference…I love what I do. I have a family member who counted down every day until his retirement…for years before the retirement came to be. I cannot imagine living – and working – such a life. I am sixty-four years old, and I don’t plan on retiring. Cutting back, maybe, someday. But I will never stop what I’m doing.

Then there was the gift bag. The gift itself was so lovely…a framed print of a photo of me and all of my books, along with a photo of my student and all six of her books. But the bag, oh, the bag. On the bag, it said, “You were created to make a difference.”

I may just cut that part out of the bag and have it framed as well. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, in writing and in teaching.

Let me tell you, getting to see, to experience, all around you, absolute proof that you are doing what you’ve set out to do, and not only are you doing it, but you’re doing it well, you’re doing it beyond your wildest dreams, your biggest expectations…that just doesn’t happen very often. But I experienced it last night. I spoke with, and was hugged by, former students, current students, and future students. I was in the room where the teaching experience all started, and it was now almost thirty years later (I’ll have been teaching thirty years in April – I taught for ten years in community and continuing education before starting AllWriters’) and what began as a reluctant step into a classroom has become a fulfilling life.

With bumps and bruises along the way. But one of the things I teach is that just because you find yourself on the path you’re supposed to be on, doesn’t mean that path is going to be straight or easy.

There are days when you wonder if all the hard work is worth it. But then you realize you were created to make a difference.

And holy moly. I’m doing it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Up in front, speaking at the party.

JUST A FAST NOTE:

There might not be a blog post today, for a good reason! Tomorrow is the 20th birthday of my creative writing studio, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop. I am holding a big event celebrating the 20 years, and so today is all about doing my usual schedule, plus adding in things to get ready…and it’s a little bit nuts.

My schedule? Clients from 8:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. Hair cut and color from 11:30 to 1:30. Doctor follow-up to make sure that the bronchitis and sinus infection I’ve been dealing with for weeks is running out the door at 2:00. Pick up a student who is flying in for the event at the airport at 3:30. Drive home, then clients at 5:00 and 6:00. I’m not sure when I’m going to fit in lunch (or Starbucks!), let alone write a blog.

If you’re subscribed, you’ll get a note when I post. We’ll see how it goes! If I don’t get a chance, I will blog late tomorrow after the event, or on Saturday.

It’s nuts. But a good nuts!

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

Last Saturday, I walked through the doors of the high school from which I graduated way back in 1978. I was ushered in by the rustling leaf sound of pom poms as a row of uniform-clad girls shouted out a “Welcome back!”

How weird was that. I’ve never been pom-pommed. I was never involved in sports.

Waukesha North High School celebrated its 50^th anniversary last weekend. My class, the class of 1978, was the first class to attend all four years there. Personally, I didn’t – I didn’t arrive at Waukesha North until second semester of my junior year. It was my third high school. But, as I told the crowd assembled for the event, it wasn’t long before Waukesha North made me feel like I’d come home.

I went to a lot of schools. I attended kindergarten in Berkeley, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis. First through fifth grade, I was in way northern Minnesota, living in Esko, between Duluth and Cloquet. Sixth through tenth grades, I attended junior high and high school in Stoughton, Wisconsin. First semester junior year, I was at Cedarburg High School, in Cedarburg, Wisconsin.

And then Waukesha North until I graduated. Of all the schools I attended, I was at Waukesha North for the second-shortest amount of time (Cedarburg was just one semester). But it’s the school I call my own.

I was asked to attend the anniversary event because I was inducted into Waukesha North’s Wall of Stars in 2020. According to the school website, to be on the Wall of Stars, you “must have demonstrated citizenship during and after high school, and must have made a significant contribution to the community and society.” I can’t tell you how proud I was to be included, both in the Wall of Stars and to be asked to participate in the anniversary event. As a gift, I donated a copy of each of my books for the school library (it remains to be seen if they’ll actually go there – they have to go in front of the District for approval, which is very different from the school when I was a student there). And I had to speak, talking about what Waukesha North meant to me.

So I did.

When I arrived at Waukesha North that second semester junior year, I was a very angry, very sad student. My school experience, and my life experience, kindergarten through first semester junior year, was not good.  I just wanted to escape. I was already escaping through writing, losing myself in my own stories. When I wasn’t writing, I was reading. When I was in the first grade, in an elementary school that was separate from the junior high and high school, my teacher received permission to drive me to the high school during lunch hour once a week, so she could find books that were appropriate for me topic-wise, but written at a level that would challenge me.

Words were a lifesaver. By the time I got to Waukesha North, it seemed like there was very little else in life that was worthwhile.

But then I went in to register for classes. I walked out of that building, that same building I walked into on Saturday, clutching my list of classes and feeling excited about school for the first time in years. By the time I graduated, I took creative writing, journalism, Mystery & The Macabre, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Growing Up In Literature And Reality, and I worked on the school’s creative writing magazine (a creative writing magazine!) and newspaper. The books I read for class! The Catcher In The Rye, Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack, Wanda Hickey’s Night Of Golden Memories, Death Be Not Proud, The Pill Versus The Spring Hill Mine Disaster, On The Road, Howl. Gritty, beautifully written books, all part of the actual curriculum,  that laid the groundwork for my own development and future as a writer.

As I stood in that Waukesha North gym last Saturday, a place where I never took class because I’d already fulfilled the gym requirement in other schools, I felt amazingly lucky. I was lucky to have arrived at Waukesha North when I did. I honestly don’t know what would have happened to me if I hadn’t had that experience. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be here today.

But I was also lucky to attend school when I did, at a time when literature was accepted as a valuable learning experience for students. Not just the classics, but books that spoke of the current experience, the lives that students were living, the real world, and did so in such a realistic, but positive way, that the reader couldn’t help but feel a connection and also feel hope for a future. The books I was exposed to, and read voraciously, could have been about me. And they showed me that these characters turned out okay. Life was worth living.

And you know what? I turned out okay too.

I said on Saturday that Waukesha North High School saved my life. And it did.

I hope that legacy lives on and on and on. I am hoping this Moment of Happiness grows into a second Moment of Happiness, when my books are placed on a shelf in the school library, and I return to see them there.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s Moment of Happiness Despite The News.

I’ve been sick for two and a half weeks now. I’ve finally been given clearance to return to teaching on Tuesday, “as long as I behave myself”, whatever that means.

Yesterday, my dog Ursula and I had a long day. Ursula has an odd autoimmune condition that causes her toenails to grow in (when they grown in) sideways or corkscrew. They are often a shell, appearing normal from the top, but underneath, wide open, exposing the quick. She takes meds to try to harden the nails, and she’s done well for several years now. But apparently, one of the nails nearly broke off, but not entirely. When she walked, it would flap and drag, and she would high-step or limp or do this weird paddle motion.

I brought her in to the vet and she went through having the toenail removed, and her other toenails trimmed that needed to be. She was put in a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding. Because I was still sick, my daughter Olivia went into the vet with Ursula, and I stayed in the car. I was put on speaker phone so I could hear everything.

She and I both came home exhausted.

Partway through the evening, I figured I needed supper, and I had a craving for waffles. I had some in the freezer, but to my dismay, there wasn’t any syrup. I sat and stewed for a bit. And then thought of Dennys.

I love Dennys.

It was later at night, after 9:00, so the restaurant shouldn’t be crowded. I considered ordering DoorDash, but cripes, that’s expensive. The thought of sitting in a booth, by myself, with a book, while a hot meal and a hot cup of coffee were placed before me, was very appealing. I patted Ursula, told the cats to please behave themselves (they didn’t), and off I went.

The meal went as I pictured it. I was in a booth. I ordered my favorite, the French Slam, and made my usual request to please burn the bacon to the point that it crumbles when I bite it. They did. Everything was warm, everything was delicious, everything was quiet.

My server made some small talk with me while I ate. I found out he was nineteen years old. At one point, near the end of my meal, he said, “I’m sorry to keep checking on you, but you and that other table are the only tables I have right now! And it’s my last night…I’m going back to school tomorrow.”

“Where do you go?” I asked.

“Madison,” he said, and beamed.

“I went there too,” I said. He asked me what I majored in and I told him English, with a creative writing emphasis (there wasn’t a creative writing major yet). He told me he was in legal studies, but he was considering a second major in creative writing.

I could hear Michael laughing wherever he is. He always said that wherever I go, I attract writers. And I do.

I told him that Madison’s creative writing department was stellar, and he said he knew, that he’d read everything by all the professors. “Well now,” I said, “you’ll have to read me.”

“What???” He sat down and we talked writing. Eventually, he asked me, “Which is your favorite baby?”

This made me laugh. Not my favorite book; my favorite baby. He was destined to be a writer.

“I know you’re supposed to say all of them,” he said.

I shrugged. “I used to say the one I’m working on,” I said. “But now…”

He got his phone out and sat poised. “Tell me.”

“Hope Always Rises,” I said, and he tapped it down, along with my name. “That book…that book wrote me.”

“Really!”

After I collected the bill and went to pay, he was at the cash register. “What’s your favorite classic novel?” he asked.

I smiled. “What do you mean by classic?”

“Like…what would be taught to a high school senior.”

“J.D. Salinger,” I said, and he interrupted.

“The Catcher In The Rye? I love that book,” he said.

“No. Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters.”

“He wrote other books?” he exclaimed and I withheld an eye roll. His phone came back out and he typed in the title. “I love Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale,” he said.

“I liked that too,” I said, “but I liked Cat’s Eye better.”

Tap tap tap.

I wished him well, told him to have a great semester, to drive carefully, and went out, where it had begun to snow, enough that I had to clean off my car. But I felt warm and satisfied.

Earlier in the week, I’d spoken with someone else who bemoaned the inauguration to take place next week. I admitted that I’d been so caught up in my own issues, grief, illness, grief, illness, that I hadn’t really spent much time thinking about it. I’d seen some of the ridiculous headlines, about renaming the Gulf of Mexico and buying Greenland and so on, but I hadn’t paid attention. There have been, for me, other things to think of.

But as I drove home, I thought about this 19-year old boy. Majoring in legal studies, thinking about going into politics, double-majoring in creative writing. Taking the time to talk to me, someone who is 45 years older than he is, listening to me, writing down what I had to say, the suggestions I made. A reader. Intelligent. Enthusiastic. Open-minded. Young.

I didn’t feel doomed.

Hope Always Rises.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m late writing this because I was out searching for a heated sinus pain mask to hopefully give me some relief. That might tell you how this week went.

One thing that has been amazing to me (among many things) are all the events and activities and nudges that grief brings that no one writes about. I’ve been inundated with books about grief, and while I read the first few, I gave up after that, and after paging a bit through some of the new additions, most have gone out into the Little Free Library. They’ve all disappeared too, leaving me to think that grief is a pretty pervasive thing, that nobody is writing about very well. My favorite of the batch was Debbie Weiss’s Available As Is, which I alternately wept and laughed through. But while I loved the book, Debbie and I are enough different that there was a lot I didn’t see happening to me. And it’s the little things you just don’t expect that seem to have the biggest impact.

I’ve been sick this week. From the time of Michael’s accident until his death, I wasn’t sick once, I think mostly out of absolute determination, because I had to take care of him. Since his death, I’ve been sick several times, enough to knock me out for a day or so. My body was reacting to stress, and once I let my guard down, everything I missed seemed to move back in.

But this week, I’ve been really, really sick. Whatever this is, it’s worse than Covid, which I’ve had twice, despite vaccinations. It started with a sore throat on Saturday, moved into massive congestion, then an unstoppable cough and sneezing and wheezing and sinus headache and laryngitis and fatigue, and you name it, I’ve got it. I was supposed to return to teaching this week after a 2-week holiday break, but after meeting with my first 3 clients on Monday morning, my voice absconded for good, and no one can hear me.

One of my first thoughts, of course, was that there was no one to help take care of me. Michael was gone. My kids live on their own. There was a dog and two cats, but while they were sympathetic, the lack of opposable thumbs kept them from being very helpful.

On Tuesday night, I decided to take a bath. When we built this place, we put in a jacuzzi tub with jets. It’s wonderful. And so, late at night, I decided to climb in.

And then the bad thoughts hit. What if I slipped and fell as I got in or out? No one would hear. I could lay there for hours, conscious or unconscious, and not be rescued.

Some times, more than others, I feel very, very alone.

But I didn’t want to give up the nice hot water bubbling all around me, the steam clearing out my lungs, the heat easing the pain in my joints.

So I sat and thought about it. And I came up with a plan.

I let my daughter know, via Facebook Messenger, that I was getting in the tub. If she didn’t hear from me in a certain amount of time, she was to try to reach me, and if she couldn’t, she was to get the hell out here. Good. Then, I made sure my cell phone was within reach of the tub. Great. And then, I had the thought that I can’t dial my phone without my glasses on. So the glasses came into the bathroom too. I would deal with the steam if necessary.

And then…I filled the tub and got in. Heaven. Nervous Heaven, but Heaven. And all went well. I didn’t slip, I didn’t fall.

The next day, I dragged myself to Walgreens to pick up a prescription for Prednisone, which was supposed to calm my asthma, exacerbated by the illness. While I was there, I saw a Vicks display, and I stopped to look. Lo and behold, there are now Vicks Mentholatum bath salts! I absolutely love Vicks, and I love Menthol and I love eucalyptus. I bought some and planned another bath, which I took last night. I followed the same plan. Heaven, a little less Nervous.

I’m going back to the doctor tomorrow, because I’m not any better; I’m worse. I went to Urgent Care early in the week, which I shouldn’t have, as I’ve learned too many times that they’re useless. Among things they did this time: when I asked if I should be concerned about RSV, I was told that RSV only affects children. Um…no. I’d been running a fever of about 101 degrees, and I took ibuprofen before I went in. One of my favorite comedians is Steven Ho, an ER nurse who does fabulous shows about what happens in the ER. One thing he repeats over and over to parents is that they should go ahead and treat their kids for fever, instead of waiting to “show” the fever to the doctors. So I took him to heart, for adults too. Instead, the NP who saw me cheerfully said, “Well, you don’t have a fever now!” and wrote down no fever on my chart, as if it never occurred at all. So this morning, I made an appointment with my doctor, even though there was nothing available until tomorrow. No more Urgent Care.

But my Moment? My Moment is that I figured it out. I figured out how to soak in a tub full of Vicks bathing salts, sigh with relief, and know that I was relatively safe, even though there was no one else in the house except for an eccentric dog and two crazy orange cats. I hadn’t read about this in a book. I learned on my own.

My high school creative writing teacher emailed me last week, and he said, “You are capable,” which is what he told me over and over again when I was seventeen years old. And guess what?

I am.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.