This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

So I’ve had a difficult time coming up with something this week. It wasn’t a week where awful things happened that I had to climb out of; it was a week that wasn’t bad, but where nothing really stood out as making me happy. These kinds of weeks are actually more difficult, when it comes to this blog, than the weeks where something bad happened.

And when I thought that thought, I immediately scolded myself. My mother-in-law, Michael’s mother, died last week. Another death, and another significant being gone from my (still alive) life. Kathie, I scolded, how can you think nothing bad happened? Your mother-in-law died!

Michael’s mom was fabulous. From the moment I met her, we clicked. She loved thrifting, I love thrifting. She loved Michael, I love Michael. We both have (had?) a wicked sense of humor and she could just send me rocking.

One Christmas, she gave my oldest son present after present of Green Bay Packer themed things. Each one more ridiculous than the next, which was appropriate for someone who was obsessed (then) with the Green Bay Packers (now, it’s the Milwaukee Brewers). But the kicker, the final present, an itty bitty thing…was what looked like a miniature toilet brush, but was intended to scrub out your belly button.

I laughed so hard, I literally fell off the couch.

Of course, the funniest thing happened later, when I discovered that my most gullible child took the present seriously and actually tried to use it. It broke.

So I totally loved my mother-in-law, and she was a great example of anti-mother-in-law jokes.

But every time someone told me or posted to me or sent an email, expressing their sympathy, I always said thank you…but I felt like they were feeling sadder for me than I felt for myself.

So of course, I began to ruminate on this.

And here’s the thing. My mother-in-law was 91 years old. She’d lived an incredible life. How many people do you know who actually ran away as a teenager, joined a circus, performed around the world, caught malaria, and ended up on the stage of the Ed Sullivan Show as a contortionist? How many mothers-in-law out there have photos of themselves in front of a television camera, where she’s standing on her hands, her arms erect, her body and legs straight overhead, her knees bent, and her feet resting gently on her skull?

At 91, my mother-in-law was so ready for the next step. She was in in-home hospice, in a hospital bed in her living room. She apparently had blood clots making it difficult to breathe, cancer, and heart issues, and the doctors said, “There isn’t anything more we can do.”

She also firmly believed she would be meeting up with her husband and her youngest child in Heaven.

When I was told that she was gone, the first thing I felt wasn’t loss and sadness. It was relief. For her. I was happy for her.

So the ruminations continued.

Michael was only 59 years old when he died. He was finally in a job that he loved, a job where he felt indispensable and needed and respected and, maybe a weird word for a professional job, but treasured. He was in full stride. But a passenger van interrupted that stride. He survived for five more months, but he was confused. He was in pain. He was having to relearn things that he didn’t understand why he had to relearn them.

There are three big moments during that time that I relive over and over and over again, and that I will never forget.

1. Opening his eyes with purpose for the first time after the accident, while I was saying goodnight to him. His eyes immediately shifted to me, and then both his arms opened.
2. The day he managed to walk up to our third floor and out to our deck. He sat outside in the sun and open air for the first time since the accident. He looked up at the sky and smiled, then turned the smile to me.
3. Day 3 in hospice, when he suddenly opened his arms to me again and pulled me into a hug that had me dangling over the bedrail. We set off the bed alarm. “Michael!” I said. “The alarm is going off! You have to let me go!” He hugged me tighter and said, “I will never let you go.” He then went silent and he died two days later.

With the other deaths I’ve experienced in the last two and a half years, there are similar stories. My cat, Muse, had a stroke and died the day after her 20^th birthday. My cat, Jake, had a stroke and died the day after his 18^th birthday. But my cat, Cornelius, died at only 8 years old of cancer. And my cat, Cleocatra, died soon after her second birthday of feline leukemia.

There just is no comparison. Some deaths are just so wrong and unfair. And some are a relief to the person, and to those who love them. But all of them reverberate with loss.

I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this.

I am so happy that my mother-in-law experienced the amazing life that she did. I am so grateful for the way she took me in, and treated me as her own. And, as awful as it sounds to say, I’m glad she died and is no longer in pain or misery, and I hope she’s where she so dreamed of being. To have a significant death be a moment of happiness feels odd to me…but, to use a phrase I absolutely hate, it is what it is.

But my rage and overwhelming sadness at losing Michael continues. As I was getting dressed this morning, my cat Oliver jumped up to sit by me. He is the remaining half of the duo I called The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers. Our new cat Poe has helped, but Oliver and the rest of us are still deep in missing Cleo and angry over her sudden departure. I looked at Oliver, scratched his head, and asked, “Oliver, do you think I’m ever going to be okay again?”

He smiled as only a cat can, and bumped his head in a hug against my arm.

Mom, I’m so glad you’re not in pain anymore. And I’m so glad you had the life you did, you circus-joining contortionist, you. I am honored to have had you in my life, and you remain there as well. If you see Michael, please tell him…well, just tell him.

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

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

I am a bit of a fiend when it comes to organization and putting things in the right order in the right place. In a sense, it’s out of necessity. My life is busy-messy, and if I let one ball drop, things topple like dominoes (using two cliches and a mixed metaphor there – not bad!).

Since Michael’s death, my home has been the victim of a reorganization sweep. I understand easily where that comes from – a need to try to get my life back under my control, which of course, it never really was. But Michael’s been gone over two years now, and the sweep continues. Just when I exhale, settle in my recliner, and think it’s done, I notice something else and a new keep-throw out-donate episode ensues.

Recently, I started moving around the artwork in my home, which is extensive. I love art, and I love knowing the artists who created the artwork. Having the artwork makes me feel like I’ve helped someone make a living in an impossible field. It’s why I don’t purchase ebooks either, even when that “purchase” is free, because I know what that means for authors – little to no royalties. I’ve already said to my daughter Olivia, who rolls her eyes, that if I ever do downsize from here, it has to be a place that will still hold my books and my artwork.

She mentioned to me recently that I even have artwork hanging in my garage. I do. The artwork was stuff that I love, didn’t want to get rid of, but couldn’t find a space for on my walls. So this made me conscious of my walls. And an episode ensued.

In my classroom, I had the original artwork for my book covers, which are done by artists that I commision, and also photographs that I’ve taken and Michael also took. One cover, for my short story collection, Oddities & Endings, Michael took the photo, but the painted mannequin in the photo is my artwork. There were also other places in my home above the classroom where my book covers were framed. After studying my stairwell from the first to the second floor, I moved all the book covers, going in order of publication, of course, and so there they all are now, marching up the stairs. I’ve made arrangements to purchase the artwork for The Birth Of A Widow. However…I’m missing 9 of the 18 covers, and so I’ll be working at getting those soon.

That left blank wallspace in the classroom and in my home. Some things were just moved to new spots in the classroom, but…in came many artworks from the garage. There are only 3 left in there.

Whew.

So I sat down in my recliner, exhaled, and picked up my remote to watch an episode of The Golden Girls. I’ve never seen the show in its entirety, so it’s on my list now. Yes, even my tv watching is organized. But as I turned on my television, I glanced into my kitchen. My gaze rose to the clocks lined up on top of my cabinets.

I collect clocks. Mostly antique clocks – they have to be key-wound or chain-driven. But over the years, people have given me clocks as gifts that don’t quite fit that bill. They run on battery. When we moved here, having open above-cabinet space delighted me, and the clocks that stand on their own went on up.

And suddenly, as Dorothy and Blanche and Rose and Sophia argued on my tv, the clocks looked crowded.

The next time my son Andy came over, he obligingly climbed up on a stepstool and lowered the clocks I’d selected to find new homes. I carefully packed them in a large box. They all got loving pats. Now, there is one clock to each cabinet, a symmetrical state that makes me sigh in contentment. And all the clocks are antiques.

But there’s a benefit to this kind of organization and clean sweep. Sometimes you find something you forgot about.

Tipped over on the cabinets were two small matching gold clocks in the shape of books. When Andy handed them to me, I gasped. They were modern, run on battery…but they weren’t going anywhere.

Michael and I committed to becoming a couple over a Labor Day weekend, when I drove to Omaha and stayed with him for the first time. He moved to Wisconsin in April. In between, on Christmas, he came for a visit and he gave me a golden clock shaped like a book. That same Christmas, my kids gave me an identical clock. Michael and the kids did not know they were giving me the same thing.

But the magic of the gifts appeared when I opened the covers of the books. Inside the front and back cover of the kids’ clock were their group portraits. All three of my kids grinning at me.

And then Michael’s gift.

After Andy handed it to me, I opened the front cover first. There was Michael, twenty-seven years younger, on that Labor Day weekend. He’s standing in a cornfield at Boys Town, where he took me on an afternoon jaunt. Then I opened the back cover, and there I was, that same weekend. 36 years old. Sitting on a bench. And looking at Michael like I just can’t believe he’s real.

He was very, very real.

Since Andy took those little forgotten clocks down from the cabinets last weekend, I’ve looked at each a dozen times or more. They did not go in the give-away box. They are sitting on the mantel, under my tv. I see them every day.

I see him every day.

What a gift. Then, and now.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

My first marriage lasted seventeen years. Our relationship started as my first date ever when I was sixteen years old and so was he. We were married when we were twenty, in between our junior and senior years of college. It ended when I divorced him. On the day our divorce was declared final, he and I stood outside the courthouse, each of us in front of our cars. My tears wouldn’t stop, and I told him, “If I’d known how hard this was going to be, I would never have gone through with it.”

He crossed his arms. “Oh?” he said. “Well, if I’d known how easy it was going to be, I would have done it much sooner.”

There was a lot of pain, before, during, and after.

My second marriage, to Michael, lasted 24 years and 8 months. Our marriage didn’t end by either of us making a choice. Unless you count my decision, as power of attorney, to withdraw life support and sit and watch Michael in hospice. Where he lasted not quite 5 days. I told him I loved him, right before his last breath. He didn’t answer, but he exhaled and relaxed, and that was it.

Also a lot of pain, before, during, and after.

A couple months later, when I was on retreat on the Oregon coast, I ran into a couple on my morning walk. They told me they were there to celebrate their 35^th anniversary. “Oh,” I said. “My husband just died. Four months shy of our silver anniversary. I guess I’ll never get to experience that.”

They quickly moved away.

It’s a thought I’ve had often since Michael’s death. In total, I’ve been married for 41 of my 66 years. But not to anyone long enough to experience that silver anniversary.

My ex-husband, a couple weeks ago, took his family, which contains our children and our children’s families, and his second wife’s family, on a cruise to celebrate their 25^th anniversary. The silver anniversary.

So I’ll sound like a child for a moment. It’s not fair that he and his wife got to celebrate a silver anniversary, and Michael and I didn’t.

Lot of pain.

The first anniversary that Michael was gone, which was our 25^th, I truly only remember one thing. I went online and ordered a crystal ornament, for a Christmas tree. Our anniversary was in October, and so I thought it could be a new ornament for the year. I had it engraved, with our names and our wedding date. The ornament itself said 25^th Anniversary. When it arrived, it lasted for all of a half hour before a cat knocked it from the counter where I’d left it to show Olivia. It shattered on our concrete floor. Hoping this wasn’t a commentary sent from Michael, I ordered it again. This time, I hung it on a wall in our bedroom. It’s still there. It never made it to the tree. But I never packed it away with the Christmas stuff either. It’s always where I can see it when I go to sleep and when I wake up.

It would have to do.

A few days ago, I went along with two of my kids to a large thrift store. I wasn’t really looking for anything in particular. But I love thrift stores. They’re like gigantic treasure boxes, filled with things that you might see as treasure, or things that others see as treasure. I eventually wandered down several glassware aisles, displaying, well, glasses, but also plates, serving dishes, cups and saucers, vases, and on and on. Partway down an aisle, on the left, I saw a silver number. 25. I stopped by it. The number was on top of a lovely china figurine, and it was for a 25^th anniversary. I touched it.

Livvy stopped beside me. “Twenty-five,” she said. “Like you and Dad.”

I nodded. “But we weren’t married for 25 years,” I said. “Dad died four months shy of our anniversary.”

She shrugged and wandered off.

I’ve wondered a lot if I’m still married. I feel married, even though I haven’t seen Michael for a couple years now. Whenever I have to fill out one of those stupid forms that asks if you’re single, married, divorced or widowed, I have a very hard time. Legally, I’m a widow.

But I feel married.

I guess I’m a married widow.

I walked away from that little figurine. But then I pictured it, sitting on top of Michael’s urn, which sits on top of my piano in our living room. So I turned around and went back. I nestled it into my cart; I had a blanket and some shirts in there, and so it was easy to keep it safe. I bought it and brought it home. I wondered if the checkout clerk would ask me about it, but she didn’t. That was a relief. I found that I didn’t want to explain myself. I just wanted to bring it home, and, in a sense, share it with Michael.

Every night since, after I turn off the television, prepare the coffee for the morning, and make sure the cats have food, I stand and look at the figurine and the urn. When I climb into bed, I look at the ornament on my wall. Then I look at the empty side of our bed, Michael’s side, of course. I rest my hand on his pillow.

I simply can’t imagine Michael saying to me, “If I’d known how easy it was going to be, I’d have left you much earlier.”

Yes, this is a Moment of Happiness. I feel like I’ve done something for Michael, and for me. I’ve acknowledged who we were, and who we are, together.

I gave us a silver anniversary.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Not happening. I’m sorry. I found out late last night that Michael’s mom is in hospice, and so Olivia and I are getting on a plane and going to see her in Omaha. It’s been frantic.

I’ll be back next week. Good thoughts please.

 

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

This week, I’ve been cat-sitting my grandcat, Kubota, my son Andy’s cat. In the weirdest of ironies, Andy, and my son Christopher, Christopher’s wife Amber, my granddaughter Maya, and my daughter-by-proxy Rayne, are away on…a cruise to Alaska. They’re with my first husband, who is celebrating his 25^th wedding anniversary with his 2^nd wife, and they decided to bring a whole bunch of family with them.

What is it with cruises to Alaska?

I joked with one of my favorite Starbucks baristas that I should have been brought along on that celebration cruise, because my ex and his wife would never have gotten married if it wasn’t for me. Divorcing him, donchaknow.

But anyway. Besides cruises to Alaska, my life lately seems to be full of cats too. There was Cleo’s sudden death. Then the adoption of Poe. And now daily visits with Kubota. So my days and sometimes nights are filled currently with trying to pet Poe (still haven’t been able to, but she’s getting a lot better), yelling at her because she’s gotten comfortable enough to start doing naughty things, encouraging Oliver to teach Poe to be friendly AND good, and running to Andy’s house to feed Bota who initially yells at me because he’s starving, he thinks, and then sitting on the couch with him, listening to him purr. And wondering if my son would notice if I swapped Poe for Bota. Just kidding. Maybe.

But this Bota Boy is someone special. He oozes relaxation vibes. He has owl eyes and a tail that dances and a purr that rumbles his whole body. When I have to leave him, he stares at me, and I really wish I could just bring him home. But he’s not very happy around other cats, or so we were told by his previous owner.

But Kubota has done an amazing thing, though he probably isn’t aware of it. He’s forcing me to take a break every day. At home, I also pat one cat and listen to the purr, but it’s in between as I’m going from here to there, to the next client, the next class, the next whatever. But with Bota, I’m in someone else’s home, and I have to sit down to visit.

I’m visiting in chaos, the chaos that is a bachelor’s apartment. Holy moly. But it’s not my chaos. The only thing I have to do when I’m there is feed Bota and pet Bota and relax into the beat-up bachelor couch.

And it’s been wonderful. When I start to itch to clean that place (actually, to get a forklift, empty it all out, and start over), I just close my eyes. Then there’s only the warmth and vibration of a happy cat on my lap.

When Andy gets home, I may have to arrange a daily, or maybe weekly, Kubota Visit. When my son isn’t there. But I’m pretty sure that once the necessity is taken away, when I don’t really have to visit Kubota for Kubota’s own good, I will start cracking my eyes open to look at my phone, check the time, and start tapping my foot because time’s a’wastin’, and there’s so much to do.

Maybe if I swap the cats…

“Really, Andy, Kubota was always black and white, not tabby and white. And he was always female. And skittish. And naughty. Really. You just don’t remember because you’ve spent a week looking at whales.”

Maybe.

But those moments of sitting on that couch this week, ignoring chaos that isn’t my chaos, and petting a cat…lovely. Just what I needed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 66 years old, which is amazing to me. I don’t feel like I’m 66. I feel like I am permanently stuck in my forties, particularly 43. That’s the age I always give when people ask what age I would be if I could choose. I loved being 43. It was old enough to be taken seriously (finally!), yet young enough to still feel…young.

The 6s in my age and the year captured my attention. I turned 6 years old in 1966. And now I’m 66 years old in 2026. Something about the 3 6s in my age and the year has just really roped me in.

I remember my 6^th birthday really well. I was entranced then too, by “6 in 66”. It wasn’t my “golden birthday”, that wouldn’t hit until I was 29. But 6 in 66…I remember clearly, clearly thinking, Well, it’s all downhill from here.

I was a serious kid.

So now, 66 in 2026. Despite everything that’s happened in the last 2 years, I don’t feel like it’s all downhill from here. In many ways, I feel like I’m shaking off the difficulty of the last two years, similar to a dog shaking off water after a bath. I’m not leaving it behind – Michael will never be left behind – but I’m looking around. I glance at his photo often. But mostly, I look outward.

As much as we complain about social media, there are times it’s a real miracle. Starting the day before my birthday, through the day, and even still today, my Facebook page was deluged with birthday wishes. They came from people I truly know to people who only know me and follow me, through my posts, my books, my teaching, my experiences. Despite the losses of the last two years, it was impossible to feel alone on my birthday. I was surrounded by support, caring, and genuine friendship.

I had dinner in my favorite restaurant with 3 out of 4 of my kids (one lives in Louisiana – hell of a commute) and my only grandchild. I was surrounded, even though the chair directly across from me was empty. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.

And here’s the thing – if I hadn’t canceled the cruise I’d scheduled, I wouldn’t have had my birthday dinner with my kids and grandkid. I needed to be with my family.

I know there are people who think I’m crazy for canceling the cruise. I see it as the exact opposite. For a change, I listened only to myself, to what I was telling me. Eight months ago, when I booked that cruise, I thought I’d be able to handle it. I thought I wanted to do it. As the trip got closer, I knew this wasn’t the case at all. With everything that’s happened, I need to be home, to keep a hand on what’s still familiar, still there. Though I was told by many that the cruise would be good for me, I knew it wouldn’t. And when I found myself realizing the night before that I was doing the cruise for others and not for myself, it was time to let it go. To let me go from the expectations of others, and do what I wanted to do.

So I did.

It’s funny, because all the way through this, starting on January 17, 2024, when Michael was struck and run over by the passenger van, people have said to me, “You’re a strong woman. You can do this.” I am a strong woman, I am very aware of that, but on that day and for a long time afterwards, I felt like my strength had been ground to the roadway, run over by the same passenger van that hit Michael. I was asked, and did, many things that I never wanted to do, and that I didn’t feel like I could do.

The hardest of these was to make the decision to remove all life support and transfer Michael to hospice. That haunts me still.

But truly, it wasn’t until I said no to the cruise, a few hours before I was supposed to leave for the airport, that I felt my strength soar back. I was standing up for myself, and I was doing what I knew was right for me.

A good friend who is fighting a cancer diagnosis said today, “Being told I got this and I’m so brave makes me feel like I can’t break down.”

Exactly.

When I took a six-week hiatus from teaching, back in February and March, I stepped back and let it all drop. I let myself break down. I went against everything that people think of me, and I let myself be what I was at that time – full of grief and rage, depleted, scared, confused. And last week, I stepped forward and said no, I thought I could do this, but I can’t, and it’s okay. I have to do what’s right for me, and re-enter my life as I’m able.

Now I’m 66 in 2026, and unlike when I was 6 in 1966, I am not thinking, Well, it’s all downhill from here. I am just looking ahead, all while glancing at Michael’s photo, where it sits across the room from me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Tomorrow, I leave on a trip that I don’t want to go on. I chose it, I arranged it, I thought I’d be ready for it…but now that it’s upon me, I’d much rather stay at home.

It’s been a hard week. I’ve always described myself as a living breathing roller coaster, and that has definitely proven its truth this week. Just last week, in the 7/16/26 blog, I said, “So this is my moment of happiness: that I was too immersed in my life and in what makes me happy to even think about it.  It was just what my life is supposed to be.”

And this week? I’m up to my neck in my life and I’m questioning everything. Should I be doing what I’m doing? Am I still effective? Is it time to just put everything down and move on to something else, or is it time to just put everything down and then go sit quietly in a corner?

Sitting quietly in a corner sounds very good right now. Make it a dark corner.

Lately, and lately meaning the last two years, when people ask me how I am, I always give the same answer: “Tired.” Sometimes I change it up and use two words, “Very tired,” or a new word that means the same thing: “Exhausted.” Even when I’m feeling happy, I have a sense of sadness, and trouble just around the corner.

And a sense that I really don’t have a handle of what’s going on in my life at all.

Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis, which would be a good thing, because then I’m going to live to 132 years of age. Maybe it’s just that there’s been a lot of challenges in the last two years, including the loss of my husband. It’s not easy being alone.

Or maybe it’s true that I don’t have a handle on what’s going on.

Either way, tomorrow, I will be flying to Seattle. On Saturday, I will be getting on a gigantic boat and cruising to and through Alaska. A trip I don’t want to take. And I’ll be turning 66 too.

Then again, maybe it’s a good thing that I’ll have a small cabin all to myself, with a balcony that overlooks the ocean. I can sit there with a good book and a cup of coffee and listen to the waves. Or I can put the book in my lap and stare at the ocean, that has always had a comforting shoulder for me before. It’ll be a little bigger than a corner, but it’s all I need, really.

So what is my Moment of Happiness this week?

Well, I did get the first draft of a new story completed. That felt good.

I managed to run my hand down the back of my new cat, Poe.

I’ve slept.

I had my first mani-pedi. Of course, now I’m terrified that I’ll bang my hands against something. And I’m keeping my lovely toes protected in sneakers, so no one sees them but me.

And…I’m still talking. Still watching and waiting for the roller coaster to go back up, the way it always has. The way it always will. I hope.

Hope always rises.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Me walking on the Oregon coast. Photo by Michael.

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

Oops. I kinda forgot. But I forgot for a good reason! Really!

Today is the first day of the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat, which is my creative writing studio. We’re international – and we offer online and on-site courses and workshops in every genre and ability of creative writing, as well as coaching and editing services. I’m the director and founder. This is our 19th retreat. It would have been our 21st, but we didn’t have one in our first year, because we were just too new. And we didn’t have one in 2020, during the pandemic. But we’ve had one every year besides those.

Writers come from all over the country (this year, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois, Massachusetts, New York, and Texas) to spend four days fully immersed in the writing life. They have already written work put through critique, and they work on new writing without interruption. They’re in the middle of a community…which I would also call family.

And I’m the head of all of it.

This is a massive event to plan and a complicated event to put through its paces. It’s gotten harder without Michael to make sure the background is running smoothly. But I have the support of two of my faculty, Carrie Newberry and Ross Hightower, plus the generous help of my students. By Sunday, I will be depleted…and happy.

So I’ve been running all day, getting students settled, unpacking, putting things where they’re supposed to be, making sure everyone is happy, and giving a lecture. And just now, when I sat down and became aware that I was feeling happy, I remembered the blog.

Oops.

So this is my moment of happiness: that I was too immersed in my life and in what makes me happy to even think about it.  It was just what my life is supposed to be.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

One wouldn’t think that a Moment of Happiness would come from picking up your dead cat’s ashes, but then, I don’t think Moments are predictable. If there’s ever a time to expect the unexpected, it’s with Moments of Happiness.

So my cat Cleo has been gone for two weeks now. You know, I’ve had a cat die at 20 years of age, 18 years, 17 years, 14 years, 8 years…and now 2 years. Not in that order, by the way. The order would be 18 years, 17 years, 8 years, 14 years, 20 years, and 2 years. I’m finding they’re all hard…but Cleo’s death at 2 years just feels profoundly unfair. For her, and for me and my family. Including our cat Oliver.

No death is unexpected. We all know it’s coming, for us and those around us. But at 2 years of age? Ridiculous.

Cleo came home with me when she was 12 weeks old. She was the easiest new cat transition I ever had. She walked in, said hello to Oliver, who was six months older than she was, and made herself at home. She and Oliver were fast friends by the end of that day, sleeping together at the foot of my bed. Their no-limits energy and ability to get in trouble made me dub them The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers. Oliver was an orange tabby with short hair. Cleo was an orange tabby with long hair. Oliver could be shy; Cleo was never shy. But together, they were fearless. And happy.

Cleo’s hair was pervasive. Magical. It was there, even when she wasn’t. Every night, when I was done with work, I took a cloth for wiping down laptops, wiped all the Cleo hair (and some Oliver hair) off my keyboard and screen, and shut the lid for overnight protection. Cleo spent the night with me, curled at the bottom of my bed. In the morning, I got up, lifted the lid of my laptop, and found Cleo’s hair scattered over every letter.

When I asked her how, this happened, she just flicked her tail and smiled.

If I picked up a pen, a fork, a piece of paper, a muffin, I’d have to pull off a Cleo hair. There were Cleo hairs in my car, my closet, my shoes, and I even found one on a brand new roll of toilet paper.

Flick. Smile.

Two weeks ago, Cleo spent all day at the emergency vet. Overnight, she went from her normal active self to sprawled on the floor with no interest in food, water, playing, or Oliver. The emergency vet said she had fluid around her lungs and around her kidneys. They were suspicious of a nodule in her lungs. Ultimately, they sent us home with anti-nausea medicine, Gabapentin for the pain, and an appetite stimulant, and orders to bring her for a follow-up with her regular vet.

That was a Thursday. On the following Tuesday, Olivia and I brought her in for her follow-up. She still hadn’t eaten, and never voluntarily drank. I resorted to using a syringe to put water down her throat every hour, and I also added chicken broth, in the hope of revving up her appetite. She moved slowly around the house. It wasn’t until after her death that I realized she was visiting all of her favorite spots one more time. When the vet came in to see her, we found that Cleo’s temperature was dropping. She was cold. And despite not eating, she’d gained 2 pounds, all in fluid. She sprawled on the table, not even able to pull her legs under her.

The vet thought it was Feline Infectious Peritonitis. Because Cleo had Feline Leukemia, she was more prone to illnesses and disease. One led to the other.

I explained to Olivia that we had to let Cleo go. It’s been a rough two years, with our cat Edgar (14 years) dying in February 2024, our cat Muse (20 years) dying in April 2024, Michael dying in June 2024, our dog Ursula dying in September 2025. And now Cleo. At 2 years old.

The vet additionally explained to Olivia that Cleo was very sick and she was suffering, and there really wasn’t any hope. I told Livvy that I trust our vet.

She administered the sedative in preparation for the final injection. But before we even got that injection, Cleo started leaving us. She was gone a few minutes later.

I am very tired of grief and of being sad.

I arranged to have Cleo cremated and wondered that night just what would happen to all of these little urns of ashes I’ve accumulated over the years. In all, I have ten. Jake, Einstein, Corny, Cocoa, Blossom, Penny, Donnie, Edgar, Muse, and now Cleo.

And of course, Michael.

Yesterday, I got the phone call that Cleo was ready to come home. I picked her up. Her ashes are in a pretty little wooden box. I was also given another package, which was wrapped in a cardboard sleeve. I carefully slid a small black box out. There was a lid that clicked tightly shut. I opened it slowly.

Inside was Cleo’s big pawprint, pressed into a mold and sealed with a clear plastic cover.

And…a scattering of Cleo hair. Not inside the plastic cover. On the outside. Like the magical hair that appeared under the laptop cover.

I laughed out loud. “How?” I said. “How do you do this, Cleo?”

Wherever she is, I’m sure she looked at me, flicked her tail, and smiled.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news…one day late. Longer than normal too.

Lordy. I said I would write this today, since I ran out of time yesterday, and I am. At 7:30 at night. And I’m just eating lunch now.

That should give you an idea of what my week has been like. Part of the busy is a new cat in my family. An 11-month old black and white female nervous tornado named Poe (not named by us, but by the animal rescuer who found her and her siblings, brought them to a cat rescue, who in turn brought them to Elmbrook Humane Society, the only humane society in my area that tests the cats for feline leukemia before they place them). Michael’s favorite non-living author was Edgar Allen Poe, which was why our cat Edgar’s whole name was Edgar Allen Paw. Seeing a cat named Poe, who also had the restriction of only being available for adoption to someone who already had a cat in the house, and our having Oliver, who was lonely and missing Cleo, well, it seemed like a huge arrow darted out of the sky and said, THIS ONE! So far, she absolutely adores Oliver. She’s not so sure about me or Livvy. We’ve had her since last Monday, and neither of us has managed to pet her yet. She has sniffed my fingers, and she will come to Oliver when he’s leaning against my legs, so we’re making progress. But she’s a super-hider, and so quite a bit of time has been spent on fruitless searches. Whew.

There’s also the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat to prepare for, coming up on July 16 – 19, and the venue let me know last Friday that our usual gathering room is now being used as an exercise room, but “we have plenty of space for you.” When I emailed back questioning this, I received an automatic reply, stating that the person was out of the office until after the 4^th of July.

Sigh.

BUT – yes, there was still a Moment. A couple of them, in fact.

I’m going to talk about dreams. There are two kinds, really. The kind of dream you have when you’re conscious, and you’re dreaming of goals you’d like to achieve. And there’s the dream you have when you’re sleeping, so you’re not really conscious, and you’re surely not in control. Both of these types of dreams gave me Moments this week.

So the conscious one first. Way back in 1987, when I was publishing short stories and becoming known as a short story writer, but no book yet, I read author Tim Sandlin’s first novel, Sex And Sunsets, and promptly fell in love with him. In his third novel, Skipped Parts, he included a note to readers, saying if you wrote him about the book, he would send you a picture postcard of the Tetons (he lived in Wyoming) with a note from him. I did, and he did, and we struck up a dialogue that lasted until his death last March, soon after the release of his final novel, Lit.

In that original postcard, which I still have, Tim wrote, “Dear Kathie, This is actually a picture of the Gros Ventres, but you can see the Tetons if the photographer turned around. Most of my female readers (at least the ones I hear from) think I’m one of the only males who understands them. Or at least tries to. I’m accused by critics of being a feminist. One female reviewer said any man who writes from the viewpoint of a woman is a rapist – so I didn’t please her, but for the most part, women aren’t offended. At least not enough to tell me. Writing is hard enough work. If you tell what you see as the truth, you can’t worry about who you offend. Good luck in your writing. I’ll look for your name.”

I’d written to him about my penchant of writing about difficult subjects. I have held his words, “If you tell what you see as the truth, you can’t worry about who you offend,” close to my chest ever since then. Tim apparently kept my name close too, because he did watch for me, and I always had a message from him after one of my books appeared.

Tim went on to start the Jackson Hole Writers Conference, growing it from a modest meeting of local authors to a highly successful and premier literary gathering. He led it for over three decades, and the event will celebrate its 35^th anniversary this year.

To say I’ve wanted to be a presenter at this conference is an understatement. It’s been my goal since it started. But I never felt comfortable asking Tim about it, because I felt that was taking advantage of our relationship.

Well, as you’ve probably guessed…I’m going to be at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference in 2027. I met last Monday with the current director, via Zoom. He’d heard of me through Tim, and also through one of my very enthusiastic students who lives out there. He’d told me that the 2026 event was already booked, so I wasn’t sure why he wanted to talk now. But partway through, he suddenly said, “How’d you like to be a presenter in 2027?”

Ohmygod.

Goal achieved. Dream achieved. And I’ll get to stand where Tim stood, and speak where he spoke, and I’ll get to see the area he loved so much. If you’re talking to me and I suddenly burst out into the silliest of grins, it’s because I’m thinking of Jackson Hole and 2027.

And then a sleeping dream. I was extremely puzzled a few mornings ago when I woke up after a weird dream. I was sitting at the AllWriters’ classroom table, and in front of me, I had a huge pile of stuffed rabbits. Specific rabbits…they were all, I knew, the Velveteen Rabbit, from the children’s book of the same name, by Margery Williams, originally published in 1921. I was cutting out red velvet hearts and amazingly sewing them onto the backs of these stuffed rabbits (I don’t sew. I am famous for stapling my oldest daughter’s Brownie and Girl Scout badges to her sash.). Once sewn on, the red hearts looked like angel wings on the rabbits, if you looked at the rabbits straight on. In the dream, Olivia came into the room, looked at all the rabbits, and asked me what I was doing. “I’m remembering your father,” I said. And then I woke up.

Remembering Michael? As far as I know, there is no connection between Michael and rabbits. He never liked rodents, including Mickey Mouse, even though he grew up in Florida. When Michael and I first got together, two of my kids had guinea pigs…and Michael couldn’t bring himself to touch them.

So I thought about this for a few days. I’ve wondered, of course, if some of the things I’ve experienced since Michael’s death were real. I want them to be, of course. I’ve also been very conscious of not wanting to turn Michael into a saint. He wasn’t, and I’m not, and our marriage wasn’t perfect. A lot of the reviews of The Birth Of A Widow have brought up the intense love that I express in the poems. In the most recent review, by a lovely woman named Nicole Pyles who took part in the blog tour of Widow, she said, “Her poems and some essays reflect the complexities of grief, memory, loss, and, most of all, love.”

Love. Now I have to tell you, one of the unexpected aspects of grief is the rise of the question of reality. Am I remembering Michael accurately? Did we have a wonderful, imperfect marriage? Am I missing the real person, or just the role of being a wife and having a husband?

The mind works in really, really weird ways. Add being a writer to that, and well, it can get messy in my brain.

So, The Velveteen Rabbit. The main storyline of the book is that an old, beloved stuffed animal, the Velveteen Rabbit, wants to become real. And he thinks he can become real through the love of the child, who is now grown. This is the line from The Velveteen Rabbit that I remember the most. I once took a photo of all the beloved stuffed animals from my childhood, sitting on a bench in my bedroom. When I had the photo printed, I framed it with this quote beneath it:

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

And now, here I was, in my dream, attaching hearts like wings to Velveteen Rabbits, and wondering about reality.

I loved Michael, I still do, and Michael loved me. Most everything that I’ve accomplished has happened since I met and married Michael. I was no longer squashed, cut down, made to feel less than. I was loved, I was respected, I was believed in. I became me. I became Real. And Michael became Real too. Our love for each other was Real, because we weren’t perfect. We didn’t just play. Even through the hard parts, even when those hard parts were our relationship, or one of us, we still loved, and we still stayed together.

Real.

I need to find a Velveteen Rabbit. And then I will staple a red velvet heart to its back.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.