Author: Kathie

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.

 

 

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

A couple days ago, I set something into motion, for the third time, that I’ve been wanting to do for most of my life. The first time – didn’t happen, by my choice. The second time – didn’t happen and wasn’t my choice. The third time – maybe it will be the charm?

Two years ago, Michael was working jobs that were not in his field (accounting), basically just to keep us in health insurance. He’d had a dream job, one that he loved and that fit him so perfectly, but he was let go when his employer decided Michael’s job could be done by someone without as much education and experience, and paid significantly less. When Michael said he would take the lower pay, just to stay where he loved, the employer said no, and Michael was crushed. And so he worked these other jobs, met people he became strong friends with, but dealt with low pay and next to no vacation. Michael couldn’t find a job in his field…but to be fair, he wasn’t trying very hard either. He dealt with a lot of depression after losing that particular job.

I’ve always wanted to go to London to see Big Ben. And I refer to it as “meeting” Big Ben. I collect antique clocks, my first published novel was set in a clock museum, and clocks just…make me tick (sorry). Big Ben to me has loomed large and distant. I want to walk up to him, touch him, hear him, see him…and now that his rehab is done, I guess you can actually go up inside him and see the workings. Yes, please.

But with Michael working these jobs without much vacation time, that dream seemed far, far away. Eventually, frustrated, I signed up for a tour on my own. I was going to London and to Paris. I would be with a tour group, so while I was going by myself, I wouldn’t be alone, and I would have guidance. Still, I was scared, but determined. I told Michael I was done waiting. I was turning 63 years old, and I needed to go while I still could.

This seemed to light a fire under Michael. His job search picked up. And then…he landed another job, a job he absolutely began to love on the first day, with people he enjoyed, an environment that was healthy and happy and pro-active…and that provided decent vacation.

I breathed a sigh of relief and celebration, canceled my trip, and instead, planned with Michael a cruise to London and Paris and many other places for our 25^th anniversary. It would be the first time for both of us to be abroad (I’ve only been to Canada and Mexico), it would be a first cruise for both of us, and we’d be celebrating our 25 years of marriage. Our anniversary wasn’t until October, but we would set sail in August.

Well, we all know what happened 17 days into the new year of 2024. Followed by five months of trauma. And concluded with Michael’s passing on June 19^th, 2024. He wasn’t even alive for our 25^th anniversary. Somewhere in there, amidst the chaos, I canceled the cruise. I didn’t know if Michael would recover well enough to handle such a trip. I didn’t know if he would recover, period. And, for awhile there, after June 19^th, I didn’t know if I would recover either.

And so now here we are at the beginning of 2025. Grief hits you with weird thoughts and realizations, things you don’t read about in all the books written about grief. As I was getting ready for bed last night, I suddenly realized that I was now living in a year where Michael didn’t even exist. At all. Not a breath, not a sound, not a blink.

It’s just me in 2025.

And that hit really hard.

On Monday, the day before New Year’s Eve, I talked with someone who worked for the tour I originally signed up for, two years ago. I explained that I was signed up for this exact tour, but decided to cancel. He said, “Yes, I see that.” I explained why, and then I told him everything that happened since.

He was silent for a minute. And then he said, “Let’s get you to see Big Ben. It’s time.”

And so I signed up.

I hung up the phone and sat there for a few minutes. I’m going, I thought. I’m going, I’m going, I’m going.

Fear set in, as I knew it would. I was once again going by myself.

But…I’m going. And I set it up, here in the first week of 2025, the first year by myself, so that I have something positive to look forward to, as I continue to walk my way through grief. As I continue to recover.

I turned to look at the shelf behind my desk. Years ago, a student who traveled to London brought me one of those heavy metal pencil sharpeners, often in the shape of a well-known travel destination. This one is Big Ben. This sharpener sits on that shelf and I look at it every day. Downstairs, on my kitchen counter, is a tall teapot that was made to look like Big Ben. Another student brought me that. On top of my kitchen cabinets, the majority of my clock collection sits on display. There is one that is not an antique – it’s a replica of Big Ben.

I picked up the pencil sharpener and held it so tightly in my curled fingers that it left indentations. It was a squeeze of fear, for sure. But it was also a squeeze of excitement.

I’m going to see Big Ben. I’m going to meet him, my face to his clock face. I’m going to touch him, hear him, see him. The man from the tour told me I would be able to see him from the window of  my hotel room. I don’t know that I’ll be able to sleep for looking at him. I am going to go up inside, see the workings. See Big Ben’s big heart. Hear it tick.

Ohmygod.

I will be going without Michael. But if he is somewhere, watching, I know he’s clapping and saying, “Go! Go! Go!”

I’m going. June 7^th to the 15^th. Then, from Paris, I will fly to Oregon and stay for ten days in my little house on the coast, decompressing.

Ohmygod.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

It’s finally here. The very last day of this very awful year.

We had 16 days of a normal year. January 1 – 16. January 17^th started out normal. All the way to 6:04 p.m. That is the moment that Michael was struck, then run over, by a passenger van.

One of my coaching clients wrote in his memoir, “I felt the dismantling of my world.” I wrote that quote down in my own little notebook that sits by the side of my computer, because it so accurately described what happened at 6:04 p.m. on January 17^th, 2024.

This blog has been a lifesaver for me, for the entire year, not just the month of December, when I returned it to its original once-a-day postings. It forced me to notice the good around me, even when the days seemed impossible to get through.

Michael’s accident was on a Wednesday, and Thursday is when I post This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. I just looked through my blogs where I save them in my computer by date, and apparently, I didn’t write one on 1/18/24. I don’t remember not writing one. But one week and one day after the accident, on 1/25/24, I wrote this as my Moment:

“Without a doubt, it was when he said my name. As much as I felt the connection when he opened his eyes and then his arms, and when he said, “Hi, hon,” it was immediately followed by doubt. Did he recognize me? Was I the person he saw?

But when he said, “Kathie.” And his voice came out as his voice, not the strangled and pained voice I’ve been hearing, and not the silence I heard before that.

He saw me. He recognized me. He knows I’m here, and at some level, I hope he knows I’m doing everything I can to care for him, and make sure those around him are caring for him.

My name never meant so much.”

And that began a year of awful, but also a year of looking for the good. Noticing it, seeing it, hearing it, writing it down so that I would always remember it. Things like:

*the day he was moved from the ICU to a “step-down room”.

*the second time he was moved from the ICU to a “step-down room”.

*the day he left the hospital and was moved to rehab,

*watching him take his first steps since the accident, when all the PT expected him to do that day was stand. He walked to me.

*seeing him eat his first meal, even if it was mush.

*driving him home from the rehab. Seeing him sit in his recliner. Watching him hug the dog.

*seeing the feeding tube get pulled out. It had to be left in long after its usefulness until the wound healed enough that it would close after removal.

*seeing the catheter get pulled out. (Seeing things pulled out of your husband was something I never expected to be joyful.)

*the day he climbed the stairs to the third floor, not once, but twice, and sat outside on the deck. We both felt he’d not just turned a corner, but he left the corner behind.

And then, well, everything fell apart. So quickly.

But those Moments were there. They are in my head, and I can see them as clearly as if they happened today.

And mostly, I remember the second full day in hospice. Father’s Day. He was suddenly fully cognizant, and he opened his arms for a hug. I bent over the bed and he pulled me down to his chest. We set the bed alarm off. I began to laugh, and I said, “Michael, Michael, you have to let me go! We’re setting off the alarm!”

And he said, “Kathie, I will never let you go.”

He died 2 days later.

So my Moment of Happiness today hasn’t happened yet, but I know it’s coming, and so I’m writing about it now. At midnight tonight, it will be a new year. 2024 will be no more. I cannot wait for this year to be over. I cannot wait for the new year to begin.

But I will spend the hours between now and then remembering the good Moments. Not the bad.

And just a note: today is the last day of December. I said I would return this blog to its original format of Today’s Moment for the month of December. Tomorrow, January 1^st, Today’s Moment will fall silent. But on Thursday, January 2^nd, I will post in the returned This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News.

We’ll start fresh. Happy New Year, everyone. I cannot even begin to express my gratitude for all the help and support and encouragement I’ve been shown this year.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Very late tonight – it’s only a couple hours until tomorrow. But I was actually out, having some fun.

Last year, during the Christmas season, Michael, Olivia, Andy, Grandgirl Maya Mae, and I went on a Christmas lights boat cruise around Lake Geneva, here in Wisconsin. It was an incredibly foggy night; I don’t know how many times I got lost between home and the parking lot where we were to meet a shuttle bus to take us to the marina. But we finally made it, and it was so much fun. Santa apparently has a secret hideaway by the lake, and partway through our ride, he came out and read from his list of “nice” children. Maya’s name was on the list! Then, as we tried to make our way back to the pier, the captain announced we were having trouble getting docked because…they couldn’t find it in the fog. I would have been perfectly happy to just stay on the boat, but they did eventually find it and we disembarked. We decided that we would do it again next year.

Which is now, of course. And so much has happened between now and then. I asked Andy and Olivia if they still would like to do it again, and they both agreed.

It was different, of course. There was no fog this year, and because we went on a weeknight, we were able to park in the lot right by the marina, rather than having to take the shuttle bus. Santa still showed up, even though Christmas was a week ago. I had a drink called Santa’s Little Helper, which included heavy cream, kahlua, and caramel vodka. I now know what keeps Santa going all night long!

The lights were gorgeous. Christmas songs were sung. Children were delighted to hear that their names were already on the “nice” list for next year. It was a fun time.

The Moment for me – the realization that I can still enjoy myself, still have fun, still go out and do things that we did together and enjoyed before. This whole season of much-loved traditions has brought me to that conclusion. I recognize that I’ve been wanting to cocoon myself – staying at home, wrapped in blankets in bed, or in blankets on my recliner. It’s familiar. It’s comfortable.

Even though I am surrounded with newness here too. It’s interesting to me that it’s hard for me right now to go out and away from home, when it’s at home that I miss Michael the most, where I see so many places that he should be that he isn’t.

Grief doesn’t make any sense.

But on the boat tonight, I found myself laughing. I sang along with the others. I admired the lights and their reflections on the lake.

Last year, Andy, Olivia, and Grandgirl Maya Mae sat in one row. Michael and I sat behind them and we held hands throughout the ride.

My hand was empty this year.

Holding the drink helped. So did the drink!

Really, the only moment I choked up was during the song “Feliz Navidad” by Jose Feliciano. I first sang this song in high school, my junior year, and in my first semester of Spanish. I was so thrilled that I could sing something in another language, AND understand what I was saying. Now, I sang it with the others, but could hear Michael saying, “For God’s sake, Merry Christmas, already. We get it!” He found the song very annoying, which always made me sing it louder. But on this night, when I got to the English “I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas! I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas! I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart!”, well, I did. I wanted to wish Michael a Merry Christmas. And a Happy Birthday. I wished it from the bottom of my heart. And tomorrow night, I will miss sharing a kiss and a hug at midnight.

So I teared up and had to stop singing for a bit.

But I came home feeling warm – and it wasn’t just Santa’s Little Helper. It was a good night. And it’s so, so wonderful that I am still capable of feeling those. In some ways, I feel like I’m back in that first year Spanish class. I am learning a new language. And I am beginning to understand it.

I may have to buy some heavy cream, kahlua, and caramel vodka.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

It’s amazing, the effect strangers can have on you, especially those strangers that are only there for a short time, and then they’re gone.

The other night, I went downstairs to the AllWriters’ classroom to paint. The classroom has been quiet and dark since I finished my last class before Christmas break on the 20^th. Every time I’ve walked through the classroom, either to go through the garage to get to my car, or to take the dog out, I’ve said quietly, “Keep resting. Keep resting.” The room has felt quiet and peaceful, but it also feels like it’s waiting.

So I went downstairs to do an unusual activity in it. I do paint – though not often. I started, years and years ago, when someone challenged me to paint a self-portrait. I accepted the challenge, but was horrified. I couldn’t paint. I couldn’t draw. Well, at least, that’s what I was told, and so I didn’t think I could. After getting this challenge, Michael and I were walking past the window of an antique store, and there was a Styrofoam head in the window, like what wigs are displayed on. I grabbed Michael’s hand, yelled, “That’s it!” and we ran inside so I could buy the head. I painted on it, and I didn’t have to worry about how to make a face, because the face was already there. I enjoyed it so much, I went on to paint two more Styrofoam heads, a glass head, and then I bought a six-foot mannequin, and I painted her. She appears on the cover of my short story collection, Oddities & Endings. There are several other mannequins and mannequin parts as well.

When I went to the Oregon coast for the first time, I couldn’t bring a mannequin, obviously. But I felt compelled to paint, as well as to write. So I stopped in an art store and bought my first sketchpad, and I filled it during my time there. My favorite of those is framed and hangs in the stairwell leading up to the second floor. I painted every time I went to Oregon, and also when I went to Maine and to La Crosse, Wisconsin. My canvases line that stairwell. I am running out of room. Two canvases are on the wall that lines the stairwell from the second to third floor.

When I went to Oregon this year, the women who own the little house made sure my paints were out and ready. They store them for me in their attic, and they provide me with an old table to work on. Last year, they also provided a keyboard so I could practice the piano, and they provided it this year too. But I didn’t touch the paints or the keyboard this year. I was just too depleted. I didn’t think I would write either, but I should have known better. I wrote, and I’m still working on that book. I started a second book while I was there as well. One is a novel; one is a poetry collection.

But on this day, two evenings ago, I went down to paint at home. I recently signed a contract for my 16^th book, a poetry collection called Let Me Tell You; Let Me Sing. I’m supposed to come up with an idea for a cover, and I decided I would try to paint it myself. I can see what I want in my head. My previous covers have been done by friends and students who are artists. Michael’s photography is on my covers, and so is mine. But with this being a poetry book, and the title being in the first person – I wanted to see if I could paint the cover.

Will I show you when it’s done? We’ll see how it turns out first. I’m not feeling a lot of confidence. I still hear that voice that tells me I can’t do art.

The AllWriters’ classroom is one of my favorite places in the world. Everything in it has a story, holds a meaning, has a purpose. I felt it settle around me, a comfort, as I layered the table in paper towels and laid out my canvas. And then I started, trying to get what’s in my head onto the canvas. I laughed to myself as I thought I could call the painting, Let Me Tell You; Let Me Paint.

A lot of my life has been about “Let me!”

As I worked away, I realized that the quiet of the classroom wasn’t completely quiet. I could hear a voice, a male voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the voice was soft and rich and compelling. I thought maybe someone was walking past with their cell phone, but the voice didn’t leave. It stayed steady.

I finally walked around the table so I could glance out the windows. Right outside my door, a man stood next to my Little Free Library. He had a book opened in his hands. And he was reading out loud.

I couldn’t tell if he was reading to someone, maybe via Bluetooth, or if he was reading to himself. But he had on a winter jacket. The hood was up, and I could also see the fringe of a knit hat under the hood. I don’t use in-the-ear headphones, I can’t stand the feel, so I don’t know if these would work under that many layers. But he kept on reading.

As I painted, I listened. I couldn’t make out the words, but his voice flowed in a rhythm that was at once soothing and sincere.

He stayed for at least a half-hour.

Maybe he was homeless, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was reading to someone, maybe he wasn’t. He had to be aware of me in the classroom; the lights were all on and spilling out into the street, and I walked by the windows several times to get from one side of the canvas to the other.

Maybe he was reading to himself. Maybe he was reading to me.

All I know is that while I worked there, I was all alone, but I wasn’t. And as he read, he wasn’t alone either, as he stood by my door, under the outside light.

Eventually, his voice stopped. I was putting the last strokes onto what was going to be accomplished that night. I straightened and stretched my back, then walked to the windows. He was gone.

I went outside and looked in the Little Free Library. Someone had recently wiped out the entire bottom shelf, so there wasn’t much in there. I hoped whoever did was seeking to get gifts for people that couldn’t otherwise be afforded. From what I remember being in there, nothing was missing. I don’t think he took what he was reading with him.

But for a while this holiday, he was reading with someone, and even though I couldn’t hear the words, I shared his story. And for a while this holiday, I was painting an idea onto a canvas in an empty classroom, but it wasn’t empty at all.

When I’m done writing this, and posting it, I will be going back down to paint some more. Of course I hope he’ll be back. But I know it’s not likely.

I’ll be listening though.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I took off my smart watch yesterday. Laid it down to the side of my desk, walked away, and thus far, over 24 hours later, I haven’t put it back on.

I feel like I’ve set down a heavy backpack.

It’s not that I don’t like technology. Most of what I do is dependent on technology. Email, Zoom, Google, you name it, I’m on it. I’m horrified at the idea of AI being used in writing, and I draw the line there. One of my books, The Home For Wayward Clocks, was included in the thousands stolen to train ChatGPT. I’m seeing people who now use the hashtag #AIAuthor. They aren’t authors. They’re AI users. Authors create their own work. Nothing artificial.

But then there was this watch.

Back in October, I went to my cell phone company to do something I was dreading. It was time to disconnect Michael’s phone and phone number. I’d used the phone for all I needed to after his death, and now, it was time to let it go. All a part of letting Michael go, I guess. There are many ways we have to deal with death now that wasn’t a part of our past. Social media, email addresses, bills paid online…the list goes on and on. But I was done. It was time for the phone to go.

The person at the cell phone store was very understanding. We took care of Michael’s line, laid it to rest. I also wanted to upgrade my phone, but “upgrade” was loosely used. I wanted a new phone that wasn’t as worn as mine, but that did exactly the same things in exactly the same ways. My learning curve, with everything I had to do since Michael’s accident and then his death, was so steep, I just couldn’t take anything more in. The person took me right to a phone and said, “This is it. This is what you want.” Oh, lovely. Easy. And he was right. I had very little learning to do with this phone.

As he was setting the phone up, transferring the data and such, I wandered around. The young man called out that smart watches were free with a phone upgrade. “Even mine?” I asked. He nodded.

I hadn’t thought of these watches much. One of my sons has one and uses it frequently. The watch I looked at had a sleep monitor on it. Health monitors. It would let me see my email and my texts and my messages from social media. It pretty much did everything but set up my coffee pot for the morning. So I decided to give it a try.

I hated the watchband, an ugly thing, and ordered a new one as soon as I got home. And then I set about getting acquainted.

It wasn’t long before the watch began to dominate my life.

It was the last thing I looked at before closing my eyes at night. The first thing I looked at in the morning. Instead of stopping to consider how I felt about my night’s sleep, if I was feeling rested, if I thought I’d slept well, I looked at my watch to tell me how I did, and then I felt accordingly. The watch kept telling me I was under stress when I was sitting quietly, reading or watching television.

And I kept checking it, checking it, checking it. I was suddenly never unplugged. The only time I didn’t have the watch on was when I was in the shower.

I began to notice that I showered with a sense of relief, not relaxation. The first thing I did when I got out of the shower: put the watch back on and check it.

The watch even kept telling me to get up and get moving. I’d be in the middle of talking with a client, or in the middle of writing, and it would shout, “Move! Move! You must move!”

I am not the sort that likes to be told what to do. I’ll move when I damn well please, thank you.

I watched a video the other day about cell phone addiction. The therapist said that if you can’t walk from one room to another without taking your phone with you, that’s a sign you might be too attached to your phone. I didn’t take my phone with me from room to room.

But my watch? It was with me wherever I went, except for the shower.

And so I took it off, as an experiment. Would I miss it?

Not at all. In fact, I think I’ve been breathing more deeply since I took it off. When I wake up in the morning after a good night’s sleep, I feel rested. I acknowledge when I’m under stress, and I know when I’m not.

I replaced the watch with a bracelet I picked up at the Milwaukee County Zoo. It tracks a penguin named Braveheart. She has a nest with two chicks in it. When I have a moment, when I’m sitting back and relaxing, not under any stress at all, taking a break the way I like to take breaks, and when I’m rested because I know I had a good night’s sleep, I look to my phone and I track my little penguin. I’d much rather track her than feel like I’m being tracked all the time by something outside of myself.

No more watch. Bring on the Braveheart.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Today is Michael’s 60^th birthday. I don’t know if I’m supposed to say it like that, or if I’m supposed to say today would have been Michael’s 60^th birthday. So I’m going with a combo. Today is his birthday. He would have been 60 years old.

Michael’s age amazed me as I found myself attracted to him, living with him, marrying him. I’ve always been drawn to older men (though maybe not so much now, that I’M “older”). Michael and I met online, in a writer’s chatroom, and as it became clear there was potential for a relationship there, I asked him how old he was.

It nearly ended the relationship before it even began.

But we stuck with it. The hardest times were when I was in a new “decade” and he was still behind me. I turned 40 the year we had Olivia. I was, according to my doctor, a “geriatric mother”. Michael was 36. He wasn’t geriatric. When I turned 50, he was in his 40s. But the worst, by far, has been since I’ve been in my 60s. I turned 60 in 2020. Michael happily tagged along after me in his 50s.

At every one of his birthdays after I turned 60, I complained, “Would you hurry up? Get in your 60s already!”

He would just laugh and then strut around the house, shouting his age. Maddening.

Last year, Michael wasn’t home for his birthday. For his combination Christmas/birthday present, I flew him to Omaha to see his mother and sister. He hadn’t seen them in years, and I felt a sudden pressure to get him there. The best time for him to go was between Christmas and New Year’s, as he was in a new job and he didn’t have much vacation yet. Plus we were saving what vacation he did have for a cruise to London and Paris for our 25^th wedding anniversary. But because he worked for a technical college, he had more days off between the holidays because the school was closed down. So I asked him if that was what he would like. I wouldn’t go along, as I wanted to be here with the kids.

He was delighted. He told me it was his favorite Christmas/birthday present ever. He stayed with his mom and sister, visited extended family, saw people he used to work with.

I didn’t know, and neither did he, that it was his last chance to see his family. We didn’t go on the cruise for our anniversary either. He’d been gone for four months by then.

When I managed to get through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I breathed a sigh of relief, but then turned toward the next hurdle – his birthday two days after Christmas. And I had the oddest, most irreverent thought. He was never going to catch up with me. I was going to be married to a man in his fifties forever.

I swear, I swear, I swear (!!!!!) I heard him laugh.

Maddening.

(I am seriously tempted to go out and get him a birthday cake, with the number 60 written in frosting on it. Underlined. and with several exclamation points.)

Happy birthday, Michael. I love you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’ve learned that grief moments come out of nowhere. But so do the Moments I write about here. Could be that most of life, good and bad, is unexpected.

Today is the day after Christmas. It is also the day before what would have been Michael’s 60^th birthday. I turned 60 in 2020. Michael, 5 years younger than me, did not.

The five years difference in our ages really didn’t usually bother me. The only times I twitched were when we would realize that the year I started high school, he was only in the fifth grade. Or the year I started college, he was starting high school. Or the year he started college, I’d graduated, and I was married and expecting a baby.

But the year I turned 60, it bothered me. With each of Michael’s birthdays since then, I’ve complained, “Will you hurry up and get in  your sixties? I don’t like that you’re still in your fifties when I’m sixty (61, 62, 63…).”

Well, Michael died shortly after he turned 59. He will never be in his sixties. And at times, I can hear him laughing.

Last year, Michael and I were not together for his birthday. As a combination Christmas and birthday present, I flew him to Omaha, to see his mother and sister and other family members, who he hadn’t seen since before the pandemic. So the last birthday I spent with Michael was in 2022.

So I’m stuck in the mire right now. Christmas, Michael’s birthday, New Year’s, and the anniversary of his accident. Today was a day that pretty much reflected that. We’ve been under a dense fog warning since last night. During the day, it’s been gray and murky. Now that the sun, wherever it was, went down, it’s black with a wash of gray over it. Walking outside, you’re immediately immersed in cold and moist. All day, geese have been flying over, and they are gray shadows. I think they’re lost.

Me too.

Partway through the day, I glanced at the time and realized that Starbucks was going to close in 25 minutes and I hadn’t been there yet. Horrors! So I went out in the murk and drove through the fog to get there.

One of my favorite baristas made my drink. When he leaned out the window to give it to me, he asked if I’d gotten everything I wanted for Christmas.

There was only one thing I wanted for Christmas, and it was impossible. So I just said, “I really didn’t want anything this year.”

This barista was one who knew about Michael, from the accident on. He and another favorite came to the Celebration of Life ceremony. They brought me my drink, which was one of the few things that got me through that day.

“Would you like a gift card from here?” he asked. “My gift to you.”

It may have been murky, but I still lit up.

What I wanted for Christmas, which would have been to rewind this year to January 17^th, to call Michael right before he left work, so he’d leave late and enter that crosswalk five minutes later, would have been a miracle. A big one.

But miracles happen in all sizes.

Making me light up in the middle of the murkiest day, in the middle day between two hard days, in the fog of this year…Miracle.

Thank you, Sammy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Actually, I’m going to take the day off today. I am surrounded by most of my family, and the Moment is simply that they are here.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Christmas Eve. 2024.

One of the things Olivia and I have talked a lot about is how the days around a big event, like a holiday, or a moment that was completely unexpected, are harder than the actual holidays. I’ve said that I think it’s because we’re braced for the bigger ones. We know Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Michael’s birthday (December 27), and New Year’s Day are going to be hard. So we prepare ourselves.

And they are hard. But we’re braced.

Still, today, Christmas Eve, is hitting me really hard. I drove to the grocery store to pick up last minute things, started to sing along with “My Grown-Up Christmas List”, sung by Natalie Cole, and then had to pull over because I couldn’t see through the tears. The words that got to me: “No more lives torn apart,” and “that time will heal all hearts,” and “love will never end.”

My life has been torn apart. My heart is not yet healed. And love has, in a sense, ended. I’m a “widow” now.

So I’ve decided to step back from watching for a Moment today, and instead let that Moment be the memories I’ve being flooded with.

When I left and then divorced my first husband, Christmas Eve was the hardest day of the year, because he got our three kids on Christmas Eve. For the first years, we tried to celebrate Christmas day together, alternating homes, but that ended. When Michael moved in with me, and then we got married, he was very aware of this Christmas Eve sadness and he bustled around, helping to get our own traditions started. We wrapped presents together on Christmas Eve. He baked cookies. I made garibaldis for our Christmas Eve dinner. He came up with a new drink to try every midnight. We watched the made-for-tv movie, “The Homecoming” that created the tv show, The Waltons, and he didn’t tease me mercilessly about it, the way my first husband did. Though Michael did correct, every blasted year, the timing. In one scene, the Waltons family is listening to Fibber McGee and Molly (George Burns and Gracie Allen) on the radio, and Michael knew the radio episode, of course. He would sputter that they couldn’t be listening to that episode because it hadn’t aired yet.

Like grief, I braced myself for his rant every year, and got through it.

After the presents were placed under the tree, Michael made our newest drink and then we’d open our stockings together. Mine always had Junior Mints and Sno-Caps. I don’t know where he got the idea that I liked Sno-Caps, but I don’t. The little white pebbley things are annoying. But I never told him. He always got Circus Peanuts. We closed the evening by giving the pets their presents.

After Olivia was born, I had a little one to share Christmas Eve with again, but I still missed my big kids. We expanded our traditions to include going to a drive-thru Christmas light show here in Waukesha. We went as late as possible so that Olivia, as a child, wouldn’t have long to go to bed after we got home. The light show included an indoor electric train display, and Olivia was fascinated. There was a particular little red train car, that ran all on its own, that she loved. She’s 24 years old now, and when we go tonight, she will look for her little train car. I’d like to find it to give to her, but I haven’t been able to figure out what it is. And maybe that would take away the wonder of seeing it year after year.

Though we’re always braced for the year it’s not there.

We always asked someone to take our photo as we sat in whatever photo-op setting they had.

It was wonderful.

We didn’t know, of course, that last year would be our last year of being together. Of sharing the day and evening together, and then welcoming everyone else in the family on Christmas morning. First, the big kids. And then spouses, when some of the big kids got married. And then a grandchild.

But always, always, the cookies, the garibaldis, wrapping presents, driving through the Christmas lights, looking for the little red car, “The Homecoming”, opening stockings, and my exclaiming over Sno-Caps.

This year will be different.

Nobody is baking cookies, though my son is bringing some from the grocery store. I am not making garibaldis. I asked Olivia what she would like, and we are having chicken patty sandwiches and French fries. After I’m done writing this blog, I will be heading downstairs to wrap presents, by myself while I wrap Olivia’s, and then she will join me for the rest. We will go to the light show, with her sitting in the front seat for the first time. We will go in to the train building and look for the little red car. Please let it be there. I don’t know if we’ll do a photo. I will watch “The Homecoming”, and she might join me.

I hung everyone else’s stockings this year, but I did not hang up Michael’s. And I didn’t hang mine.

And so my Moment today?

Thank God for memories. Thank God for twenty-five years of marriage and twenty-seven Christmases together. Thank God for seeing the same lights over and over and still loving them, for watching a made-for-tv movie that I can recite all the lines to, and after a while, so could the man sitting beside me, even with his rant, and thank God for uneaten Sno-Caps.

As I walk through the new, it will be the old that gets me through. The old and well-loved and treasured.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Merry Christmas, Michael. I miss you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.