This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

This last Saturday, I traveled to the Oregon coast, to the little house I’ve stayed in at least once a year since 2006. It is as familiar to me as my own home. The back yard is the ocean. There is a writing nook with a wide-open window that allows me to glance up at the waves in between words. The owners of the house keep a bookshelf in the nook that displays all of my books. And I needed this place more this year than ever before.

It is a place where I come face to face with who I am, without all the roles I’ve taken on over the years.

My daughter Olivia has come with me here several times, but my husband Michael only once, on my second year here in 2007. I see him still, standing down at the ocean’s edge, looking out at the waves, with a little Olivia by his side. I wish I could share that photo here, but my photos are on my computer at home, not the small one I’ve traveled with.

But mostly, when I come here, I see myself.

Several times, I’ve come here feeling lost, and I’ve run out to the ocean upon arriving and shouted at her. It’s like those moments you see in movies, where people in crisis look up at the sky and shout at God. I don’t shout at God. I shout at the ocean. I call her Ms. Pacific.

But this time, when I arrived here feeling so lost that those other times felt like nothing, I walked out to the ocean and stood there, at first having absolutely nothing to say. I walked for a bit, then turned and faced her again and said, “What the hell?”

I think I’ve said, “What the hell?” a bajillion times since the phone call on January 17^th, when I was told that Michael was in the ER after having been hit by a minivan.

I’ve struggled since his death. I’ve struggled with his loss. But I’ve also struggled with what felt like the loss of myself.

Am I still married? Am I still a wife?

Should I still be wearing my wedding ring? Is it a lie now? No longer a part of me?

Am I a widow? What an awful, awful word.

I don’t know how to do this. What the hell?

When Michael was hit by the minivan, I was writing under deadline to finish my next novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, by March 1^st. I spent a lot of time in the ICU at the hospital, sitting next to a non-responsive Michael, talking to him, holding his hand. And so I set up a work station and I read the entire book to him, putting on my final touches, and finishing the book. I sent it off to the publisher. It will be released on October 3^rd.

And from that day forward, I didn’t write. Except for this blog. I tried. But my whole being was caught up with Michael, with his care, with being his advocate, being the power of attorney, and trying so hard to hold our lives together.

It wasn’t writer’s block. I knew what I wanted to write. I had ideas. But whenever I sat down at the computer, whenever I had a brief moment in time, all I could do was stare. And cry.

When Michael died, the advocacy turned into an amazing amount of work that had to be done. And it turned into such moments of heartache and stunned disbelief that it bent me double.

What the hell?

And so I came here.

When I’ve come here before, I’ve set aside every role that I’ve taken on and boiled myself back down to who I was as I grew up and realized the dreams and passions that were important to me. When I came here, I set aside the roles of small business owner, teacher, editor, community and writers’ advocate, wife, and even mother, except when Olivia traveled with me.

Everything moved behind me and waited for me back in Wisconsin. From the moment I got here and sat down in the writer’s nook, I felt the same thing, the same cloak, come over me as it did when I was in the fifth grade.

I was living in northern Minnesota. A new teacher came to town, teaching fifth grade English. Her name was Mrs. Faticci, an exotic name in the middle of a primarily Finnish community. And she introduced Creative Writing Thursdays.

I had no idea what that meant, but I biked to the Minute Mart by my house and bought a special blue spiral notebook. In black marker on the front, I wrote, Creative Writing. We didn’t have to have a special notebook for those Thursdays, but I knew I wanted something that set it aside from everything else, even though I didn’t know what it was. Creative Writing sounded as exotic and wonderful as my new teacher’s name.

That first day, Mrs. Faticci put a record on the record player. The song was “Oh, Shenendoah”. “Just listen to it and write what comes to mind,” she said. And so I did. Afterward, she had us each get up and read what we wrote. The kids wrote, “There’s a boat.” “I hear water.” “Floating.”

I got up and read a complete short story, with description, dialogue, characterization, you name it. And when I got to “The End”, the room was silent.

From the back, Mrs. Faticci whispered, “Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer.”

And that cloak fell on me with all the rightness of the world. It was like hearing my name.

When I came here, all those years, that cloak was the only thing I wore.

But I came here this year with my feet pulled out completely from beneath me. I was so lost.

I arrived on a Saturday. I spent Sunday sitting on the deck, looking at the ocean, but not always seeing it. I didn’t step into the writing nook until Monday. And it is stepping into – there is a step up to get into the nook.

I stepped up. I looked out at the ocean. And then, the next time I looked up, there were 20 pages of a new novel on my screen.

I felt the cloak. I wrapped it tight around me. I heard my teacher’s voice. And I felt so much relief, I can’t even begin to put it to words.

That evening, before putting my computer to bed for the night, there were also four new poems on the screen. One begins with the line, I don’t know how to do this widow thing.

What the hell?

I’ll figure it out. But one thing I do know… I am no longer lost. I’ve lost my husband and my heart aches with a hurt that feels like it will never end.

But I’m still here. Me. I’m here.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

For those who are looking for this week’s Moment Of Happiness, please know that I am on the Oregon coast this week, and so in a different time zone. I’m two hours behind where I normally am. The blog will be posted a couple hours later than normal, at 3:00 Oregon time.

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

Michael’s antique cash register is going to be on stage, in a play. Maybe several. And I know this would make him very, very happy.

Since Michael’s death, I’ve been on a cleaning bender. Make that a cleaning/straightening/clearing out bender. I want room in my rooms! I want space in my space! I want to open up a closet or a cabinet and be able to see clearly what’s inside, with room to add more if needed. I want to not feel crowded. I want…well, to breathe mostly. With all that’s happened this year, I’ve felt the walls closing in on me more than once.

Michael was an old time radio fan. He got his start in writing with old time radio drama. He fell in love with the genre soon after his father died, and his passion just kept growing. It didn’t take long before he decided to try writing them himself, and he had quite a bit of success. Some of his shows were internationally produced. He moved through the years from a gigantic closet full of cassette tapes of radio shows to flash drive after flash drive of mp3 recordings. And he collected old time radio paraphernalia, which takes the form of tabletop radios to full size floor model radios. These are scattered throughout the house. One is an RCA Victor radio/record player console, complete with the display protective covering on the turntable.

And many of them were gifts from me.

One oddity that stuck out was a working cash register from the early 1930s. I bought it for Michael for a Christmas present. He loved it, and often, when he walked by, he would hit the Sale button, just to hear it ring. There were times I’d pass by and notice random numbers sticking up in the glass display. I’d hit the Sale button too, just to make those numbers go back down, only to find more up again soon after.

A few of Michael’s radios are now in our off-site storeroom. A couple of the tabletop models have made their way to St. Vincent DePaul. But the cash register, the console, and one floor model radio were listed on Facebook’s Marketplace and CraigsList. I wanted to find owners that would love them as much as Michael did. I don’t love them as much; they deserve to be with people who really appreciate them, and Michael would want them with people like that too.

I mostly picked these three to sell because of their size and placement in my home. The cash register sat on top of the floor model radio, and they’re right in front of a window. Because of their placement, I can’t reach the window to open or close it without getting out a stepstool and climbing up. I would like to be able to reach the window with ease and without the threat of falling and breaking something – mostly me.

For a couple of weeks, there was no interest. Then one man stopped by, looked at all three, told me information I already knew, and invited me to his house to see his clocks. No. He left without purchasing.

Then I heard from a woman who was interested in the cash register. We went back and forth several times, and she mentioned that she was buying it for her brother’s business, which is to supply props to theaters for plays and productions. I swear I felt Michael lean over my shoulder, his breath in my ear, to read that email.

Because of his love for radio drama, Michael also loved the theatre. One of his favorite jobs, before he was downsized, was as an accountant for the Milwaukee Repertory Theatre. The job came with the perk of tickets to the shows, and we saw so many productions. On his lunch breaks, Michael would go to whatever theatre was having a rehearsal and he would sit in the theatre seats and listen.

It was one of his happiest jobs, surpassed only by his most recent, at the Milwaukee Area Technical College, where he was able to do accounting amidst a place of education and dreams. Well, teaching for AllWriters’ was right up there too.

But now…his cash register could live on in the theatre.

I told the woman about Michael, about who he was, and about what happened. At first, I thought she was shopping for the actual theatre where the play would be, and I told her I’d be happy to lend the cash register out for such a purpose. But then I heard about her brother’s new business. And she heard about my husband.

I understand what it’s like to start a new business. And so I leaned forward to read more closely too.

She called me the next day. “I talked to my brother,” she said, “and we’ve decided we need to get this cash register. Even if it doesn’t work out for this particular production, we want it to be on stage as many times as possible.”

I’ve had mixed feelings about selling these things, and I won’t sell them unless I feel like they’re going to places that Michael would approve of, and where the beloved items can be happy. But I turned over the cash register with a content heart.

The radio it sat on is still here, so I still can’t reach the window without a stepstool. But the window is fully exposed and the sun flows in. The cat now has room to jump on top of the radio and look out a new window. He’s happy. I’m happy. And I believe Michael can be happy too. The cash register is a star.

And I can breathe just a little bit easier.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

You know, this blog has always been about finding that Moment each week that made me smile. It’s not about gratitude; this isn’t a gratitude list. And the ultimate lesson from it, at least for me, since starting to write this in 2017, is that I have to take responsibility for my happiness. I have to look for it and I have to find it. It won’t just come to me.

This blog is also all about honesty. I don’t make anything up. Even though I am primarily a fiction writer, a novelist and a short story writer, what I write about here has happened, and sometimes I write about it even when it doesn’t make sense.

Which is why I have to say that, this week, a Moment of Happiness has been impossible to find. I spent most of last night and all day today (so far) raking my memory of everything that went on this week, trying to find a Moment, and I haven’t found one.

This absolutely bothers me. I feel like I’m not doing my job.

Last week, my daughter Olivia said to me, “I don’t understand why I don’t feel happy.”

“Sweetheart,” I said. “Your dad has only been gone (then) 7 weeks (8 weeks now). You’re in grief. Give it time.”

Words, maybe, that I should be saying to myself. Though I have been able to find a Moment every week of these now 8 weeks, until now.

I pondered over this through the night. At first, I thought it was maybe because of yet another go-round I had with the Assistant District Attorney assigned to our case. The following has happened since Michael’s accident on January 17^th, and his death on June 19^th:

1. I contacted the Milwaukee DA several times. He never answered me once.
2. I was finally contacted by an Assistant DA after Michael died. He told me that there would be no criminal charges against the driver, even though Michael died.
3. I found out the ADA never talked to any of the witnesses. I had a witness contact him, with a list of things the witness saw that were not included on the police report.
4. I discovered that the ADA didn’t even know what citations were given to the driver.
5. I discovered that the driver ran a red light and was speeding. But he was not cited for either of these things. He was only cited for failure to yield to a pedestrian. That’s a $73 fine.
6. The ADA also told me there is no vehicular manslaughter in Wisconsin. There is. There are two types: when the driver is under the influence of alcohol, and when the driver is negligent. This driver ran a red light while speeding, and he killed a pedestrian. I’d say that’s negligent.
7. The police did not do their job – they knew he ran a red light and he was speeding, but he was not given citations for these. The ADA made his decision about criminal charges without talking to anyone who was actually there during the accident, and without knowing what the police decided to do, or in this case, not do.

It’s very hard not to feel like no one who has the power to do something cares enough to do so. So let’s flip that last sentence. I feel like no one who has the power to do something cares enough to do so. They just want Michael to go away.

Well, the driver took care of that, didn’t he.

But there is something else too.

The day Michael died, I Googled “What do you need to do when a spouse dies?” I found a wonderful list that detailed, point by point, things that needed to be done, from planning the memorial service to all of the paperwork that needs to be filed and taken care of. Next to each item was a little box to check off when you accomplished the item.

I am a very goal-oriented person. This list gave me something to focus on, to achieve. One by one, I’ve gone through and checked off boxes. This week, I checked off the last two (with the exception of Social Security, which is done on Social Security’s time. They are calling me in September. So I have that little box half-checked off.). These two final items were to make sure that Michael’s name was removed from the voter registry, so that no one could steal his name and vote, and to contact the DMV and cancel his state ID. Michael didn’t drive, so he didn’t  have a license.

We had an election this week, so I went to vote and decided that would also be a good time to talk to whomever I needed to talk to and have Michael’s name removed. I arrived at City Hall with Michael’s death certificate with me. I went to vote first, and found that his name was already missing – there was just me and Olivia listed. While there wasn’t a blank spot, the whole page became blank for me then. Where was he? I voted, then went to talk to someone about it. It turns out that, at least here, if not in all of Wisconsin, the voter registry is connected to Social Security, and so when Social Security received the death certificate, everyone connected to SS was notified. So Michael was already removed.

But I felt bereft, in a weird way. He was removed without my touch, without my care, without my being able to make sure he was taken care of.

I went home shook.

Then I contacted the DMV. They told me I only had to email them Michael’s name, birthdate and deathdate. They said that the DMV was connected to the Department of Wisconsin Vital Records, so it likely was already taken care of, but this would verify it. I did, they verified it, and then they told me to destroy his ID card.

I have not yet been able to do so. Maybe because it’s the last thing on the list.

When my father died, I remember very well helping my mother plan the memorial service and the reception afterward. I watched her as she went through all the busy paperwork she had to do, and helped where I could. When the memorial service was held and the reception ended, I found myself standing at the front door of their house, looking out at the road. And I realized I was waiting for my father to come home, now that everything was done.

I think, in some ways, that’s what I’ve been doing. Goal-oriented – I’ve been achieving all that needs to be done, so then my life should go back to normal.

Which it won’t. I’ll achieve all the items, all the boxes will be checked off. But then what? Michael will still be gone.

A video of Michael, talking about his philosophy of teaching writing, came up in my Facebook Memories this week. I watched it, and it was the first time I heard Michael’s voice since right before his last day in hospice. On that day, he said, “I will never let you go,” while clasping me to his chest so hard in his hospice bed that we set off alarms. We both laughed.

I’ve been trying to help him to hold on. To never let me go. I’ve been trying to hold on too.

So this is all a very long way of saying there won’t be a Moment of Happiness this week. I am letting myself off the hook. And thank God for social media, which allowed me to hear my husband’s voice this week, and see his face, and see him animated and well and happy.

And, well, okay…I guess this is a Moment of Happiness. I am looking forward to next week, with the hope that I will have a Moment then.

Hope Always Rises, donchaknow.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

For those who want to see the video with Michael talking about his teaching philosophy, you can see it here (I hope):

 

 

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

While Michael Giorgio and I were happily married for 25 years (as of October 9^th, 2024, which I know is still coming up), there was one area where we were vastly different. And that’s in organization.

I am hyperorganized. Michael…wasn’t even close.

During the time that we dated, we had a long-distance relationship, Michael in Omaha and I was here, in Waukesha. Whenever I traveled to Omaha to see him, his apartment seemed spotless. But when I showed up to his apartment the weekend before he moved here, I got to see the truth, that he’d kept well-hidden.

For my visits, he took the detritus of everyday life (and then some, because Michael never threw anything away) and stuffed it under his bed, in the closet in the guest bedroom, in his storage unit, anywhere he could. What his place looked like after I left, I don’t know. But what I saw that weekend nearly made me call off the whole relationship. We seemed suddenly incompatible.

I have always been very neat and organized. There is a place for everything, and everything should be in its place. As a child, I organized my toys, storing them by size and levels of importance. In high school and college, I had a semester planner, which I filled out religiously. My notebooks, pens and pencils were all color-coordinated for each class, and organized on a shelf according to days of the week, and hours within the day. At college, as soon as I received a syllabus, I entered important days in the planner and I always had my papers finished at least two weeks before their due date.

Yeah, I was THAT girl.

Things got a little out of hand during my first marriage. I cleaned the house according to the day of the week: Monday, dust and vacuum the main floor. Tuesday, clean the bathrooms. Wednesday, clean the kitchen. Thursday, clean the basement (which included washing the appliances). Friday, dust and vacuum the main floor again. The hyperorganization extended to other areas of my life: I exercised according to the day of the week, advanced stepaerobics on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, weight training on Tuesday and Thursday, with upper body being Tuesday and lower body being Thursday, and weekends there was usually a brisk bike ride or walk. I joined Weight Watchers and lost 80 pounds and kept it off for over 10 years, mostly because I had one of those huge magnetic WW menu planners, and I loved checking off the little boxes for everything I put in my mouth. I also began to weigh myself at least 20 times a day and chart it on a graph hung on the door to the bathroom closet.

I am not totally blameless in the dissolution of that marriage.

I eventually had to let a lot of that go when I began to be known as a writer, when I started AllWriters’, and when I married Michael and we had Olivia.  I had to learn to drop everything and run when interruptions happened. And I have.

But I am still very organized. How else do you think I get as much done as I do?

So when Michael entered my life, and I didn’t throw it all away when I saw his apartment that fateful weekend, I had to sit down and figure out how we could balance this. How could we each have the freedom to be who we were?

It was hard at first. But eventually, we had it down to a science, once we built our condo and moved into it. Michael had “zones”, all of which occurred behind closed doors, either cabinet or closet, so that he could have his disorganization, and it wouldn’t wreck my organization.

When Michael was in the hospital for the last time and it was clear he wasn’t coming home, I began cleaning. And I discovered that Michael’s zones extended well beyond what I thought we’d chosen. The kitchen cabinets alone were a monument to that lack of willingness to throw anything out. A receipt for a pack of gum, bought in 2008. Expired spices, expired packets of soup mix and taco seasonings. Items he bought that he never used and were still in their original packaging.

And don’t even get me started on his clothes closet and what we called his hoarder’s closet.

But here’s the thing. Here’s where the moment of happiness comes in.

I know full well that my hyperorganization comes from a need to try to keep my life under control. From childhood through times in my adult life when I was under stress, when I felt under attack, I’ve cleaned and organized and then stood back and admired the neatness. At those times, a sense of calm comes over me, and I think, If I can get this (cabinet, closet, basement, credenza, bookshelf) under control, then I can extend that to the rest of my life. Even if that isn’t true, it still gives me a moment of peace and confidence and a sense of strength.

This has been totally true every day of my life since January 17^th. The night I came home from the ER, understanding that something horrible and life-changing happened, but not knowing yet just how horrible and life-changing it would be, I carried in the bags that they gave me of Michael’s things, which included the orange gym bag that he carried to and from work every day. I got home in the early morning hours and I was exhausted. But I sat down with his orange gym bag and cleaned it out.

And oh, the things I found.

An unopened package of balloons. A fidget toy, still in its wrapper too. A McDonalds Happy Meal toy. Empty packages from snacks. At least a dozen tiny notebooks. Receipt after receipt after receipt, the oldest from well before he had this particular job. Caps from pens. Pens without caps. They didn’t match.

And I cleaned it out and organized it, so it would be ready for him when he came home. When he came home and he recovered and he returned to work. Well, he did come home, for a time. He did recover, partially. And then he didn’t. He never returned to work.

But that night, cleaning that bag, I felt that sense of “I can do this,” come over me again.

In the seven weeks that Michael has been gone, I’ve cleaned every kitchen cabinet. I’ve cleaned the hoarder’s closet and clothes closet. I’ve cleaned out our dresser and the bathrooms. I’ve cleaned out bookshelves. I’ve cleaned and organized, and sometimes, I open every cabinet door in my kitchen, stand in the middle, and just admire it. The other day, Olivia pulled out a garbage bag for me from under the sink and I noticed the box with the garbage bags was pulled out of alignment. As she started to shut the door, I said, “Straighten the garbage bag box, please.” She rolled her eyes, but she did it. And I breathed a sigh of relief.

Seven weeks ago, when I opened that cabinet door, I couldn’t even see what was in there, it was so overstuffed. Now…a place for everything, and everything in its place.

And…I can do this.

So in a weird sort of way, Michael’s hoarding habit and lack of organization is helping me to cope with his death.

He is helping me still. From wherever he is, I bet he is laughing and saying, “See? I told you all that stuff would be useful someday!”

I can do this.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This was one of those weeks where I had to remind myself why I started writing this blog in the first place, or at least, what I’ve learned while writing it. I’ve learned that happiness doesn’t just happen. You have to look for it. And that happiness doesn’t have to be big – sometimes it’s in the smallest of things.

After writing the blog every day for a year, back when it was called Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, readers demanded and my publisher insisted that it become a book. Which it is: Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Year Of Spontaneous Essays. Once, when I was presenting the book at a library, a reader asked me an unusual question. “What is your least favorite entry?” he asked.

I’d often been asked what was my favorite, and I had that all ready. But what was my least favorite? I believe my intelligent answer was, “Ummm…”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Take a minute to think about it.”

So I did. And eventually, I answered that it was one that I wrote about waiting in the drive-thru at Starbucks. I was in the convertible, and while I waited, the breeze picked up a crumpled straw wrapper and blew it all around me. It reminded me of a white moth, which brought me back to my childhood, when I considered moths to be butterflies.

A small moment. That particular blog, my least favorite, was a reminder that I had to consider today.

It’s been a hard week. I wrote about the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat last week, and that event, from Thursday through Sunday, was wonderful. It felt so good to be in my own groove, surrounded by people I love, and doing what I love. But it was also a four-day reminder that Michael is gone. Wherever I looked, he wasn’t. The hardest moment was when we took a break on Saturday afternoon for a reading. My faculty read, a special student guest read, and I read. It was my first time doing a reading since Michael’s death. And for the first time, I looked out into an audience and didn’t see him. He was always my cue – he let me know if I was reading too fast or too softly. Mostly, he gave me a thumb’s up.

There was no thumb’s up last Saturday.

Hard, hard, hard.

I also found myself trying to explain grief to our 23-year old daughter, whose first experience with death is losing her father. She wanted to know why she wasn’t feeling happy – six weeks after her father’s death. How to explain something so difficult, so ephemeral, so life-changing?

Hard, hard, hard.

Last night, right before I signed off of my computer, I gasped when a headline went by with Michael’s photo on it. An article was appearing in one of the local papers about his death and about the lack of punishment for the driver. I wasn’t expecting to see Michael, and suddenly there he was, and then he was gone.

Hard, hard, hard.

And then, overnight, I finally had a dream where I saw Michael. I’ve been waiting for this. But the dream was a nightmare. I dreamt I was picking him up from some special kind of rehab program. He was brought home with others on a bus. He walked toward me, carrying his walker, not using it, and as he got closer, he tossed it to the side. I was elated! He looked so good. But then he got silly and started to show off. He took a big pile of our daughter’s Squishmallows (if you don’t know what these are, look them up) and tied them all around himself with string. He couldn’t see where he was walking. And he didn’t see a big hole in the ground. Despite my yelling at him to step away, he stepped in and fell. The hole was deep enough that I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was gone. Right after he got well. I woke up in mid-scream.

Hard, hard, hard.

I also woke up wondering what the heck I was going to write about. How do you write about happiness in the middle of all this sadness?

You look for the small things.

I was walking back from Walgreens and my  neighbors, who live between my condo complex and Walgreens, were on their porch. They have a small yard, and this year, they planted a garden. You can barely see the grass for the cucumber and pumpkin leaves and vines. Orange pumpkins have begun to peek out from between the leaves.

They called me over, to ask how I was doing and how Olivia was doing. I gave what is now my standard answer: “It depends on the moment.”

“Have you learned to cook yet?” they asked and we both laughed. Michael was the cook in the family – I don’t know how, other than making a mean meat loaf, and also spaghetti and lasagna.

“Not really,” I said. I’ve been living on frozen meals, sandwiches, and Spaghetti-Ohs. Oh, and ice cream.

“Do you like cucumbers?” they asked.

I do. They handed me two lovely cucumbers. I know what to do with cucumbers!

I carried them home. At suppertime, I scrounged through my almost empty freezer and found a few pieces of chicken left in a box of Banquet frozen fried chicken. I put them in the oven. In my cabinet, I found a can of waxed beans, which I love, and I set them on the stove in a pot. Then I peeled one cucumber. Immediately, my kitchen was filled with that fresh scene of cucumber. I’ve often said someone should make an air freshener out of it. Unwilling to wait, I chomped on a couple slices as I arranged the rest on my plate like a pile of poker chips. I had some ranch salad dressing in my fridge, and I added a dollop as a dip.

Everything went on my plate. Chicken. Wax beans. Cucumber. I sat down at our island and I ate dinner like it used to be. Only now, it was by myself.

And oh, that cucumber. Fresh and crunchy. My parents used to have a garden, and our dinners during the summer always held a plate of cucumbers. Sometimes cut in poker chips. Other times cut lengthwise, and I would eat one big full-length piece like an ear of corn, with the seeds being the kernels.

It felt so good, sitting there, eating a regular meal. I had a book by my side to keep me company.

You look for the small things.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Today is the start of the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC is my business, an international creative writing studio that offers online and on-site courses and workshops in all genres and abilities of creative writing, as well as coaching and editing services. AllWriters’ will be 20 years old in January. I was told, when I approached a bank almost 20 years ago to start the studio, that I had no business being in business. I left that bank, started the studio anyway without any kind of loan whatsoever, and 20 years later, here it is.

Bam.

And this will be the 19^th Annual Retreat. It is my favorite weekend of the year, even though I am basically on stage from Thursday night to Sunday afternoon. It’s. So. Much. Fun.

For every year of AllWriters’, Michael stood behind me. For every retreat, he was there. He ran through all the background stuff, keeping the fridge stocked, the kitchen loaded, the food ready, snacks on the workshop table. In our first years of the retreat, we provided three meals a day, and Michael cooked them all.

This year will be the first year that I have the retreat without Michael.

And while I lecture, hold one-on-one consultations, lead workshops, and do after-hours things, like play Cards Against Humanity, enjoy a shot or two of Fireball, and talk until I’m hoarse, I will be deep in grief.

But at the same time, at the thought of getting all the writers today under one roof, and spending a four-day weekend with them, encouraging them, teaching them, and doing everything I can to make sure that they know they can do what they set out to do, I am giddy with anticipation.

If Michael was here, he would be giddy with me.

This afternoon, while talking with a coaching client who is attending the retreat for the first time, he asked me how I can read all the manuscripts at all different levels of ability, and in all genres. How, he wondered, do I read the genres that I would not typically read out of my own choice.

“I couldn’t do that,” he said.

I can.

When I look back over what will soon be 29 years of teaching, 20 of them running my own studio, I don’t see the genres. I see the faces. And it’s those faces that keep me reading and reading and reading…and teaching. My students’ goals become mine. Though I have my own for myself too.

I respect and honor words. I respect and honor writing and writers, no matter what they write, no matter where they are in their careers. And I just love what I do.

Michael was originally my student. We only knew each other through a writers’ chatroom online. He was trying to cross over from writing radio drama into short stories. And he asked me to read his first short story.

I did. And by the time we were finished going back and forth with drafts, the story was sold to the Strand magazine. He was published alongside Ray Bradbury.

That’s what a writer can do. And that’s what a good teacher can do, when a teacher truly loves what she does.

But Michael, you know, he just happened to be a student who I ended up marrying. And staying married to for what will be 25 years in October.

It’s what I do, both writing and teaching, that is getting me through this dark time now. I feel the deepest grief over the loss of Michael. And I feel the greatest joy when I am with my students and clients.

This weekend, while I will be looking over my shoulder constantly, wondering where Michael is and why he’s not here to help me, I will also be steeped in what I consider my purpose and path and just…I’ll use the word again, because there isn’t any other. Joy.

My Moment right now is anticipation. But my full Moment is going to start at 7:00 tonight, when my students, writers from 8 different states, will be sitting in front of me in all their glory. And it will end, except for the warm memories which I will bask in for weeks, at 2:00 Sunday when I see them walk out to return to their lives.

I am so very lucky.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

On the evening of Michael’s accident, on January 17^th, 2024, I was handed four or five plastic bags filled with his things as he was moved from the ER to the ICU. I was also given his wallet, cell phone, and his keys. Totally overwhelmed with what I’d been told and what I’d seen in the ER, I grasped the bags, carried them to my car, then moved my car to another part of the hospital parking system which had easier access to the ICU. It was well after visiting hours, but I was being allowed back in, along with my daughter and son. I knew it was important to have his wallet, phone, and his keys. I didn’t pay any attention to anything else.

Much later, after dropping off my daughter and son at their respective apartments, I went home alone. Alone. I carried the bags inside, left them in the classroom, went upstairs to get the dog and take her out, and then I sat for I don’t know how long, staring into space, trying to figure out just what the hell happened. Eventually, I moved into action, emailing students and clients, trying to figure out how to get a hold of Michael’s boss to let her know he wouldn’t be coming in to work. I remember searching through MATC’s website, trying to find a number to call, calling two of them, and then going through Michael’s phone, recognizing a name as someone he worked with, and calling her, even though by that point, it was after one in the morning.

Somewhere around two in the morning, I went down to the classroom and opened the bags. There was the gym bag that he carried back and forth every day, dirtied, torn in places, the zipper broken. There were all of his clothes, all of them, from his jacket down to his socks, all in tatters from having been cut off of his body by the paramedics. Nothing was whole. Everything was in pieces.

I never ever want to see and hear again what I saw in the ER that night. I never want to be given bags of tatters again.

It was around about then that I realized I didn’t have Michael’s wedding ring.

Michael’s ring was very important to him. I wrote this blog back in December of 2021 about Michael losing his ring in Woodman’s as he checked out our groceries at the self-checkout. He got the manager to look at the video and confirm that he had it on his finger when he began checking out, but didn’t by the end, so the ring had to be there. He tore through and unloaded everything in the grocery bags he’d just packed up, and the manager took apart the register, and then Michael came home in tears because the ring was missing. We’d been married 21 years by then. I rarely thought of my ring – it was just a fixture on my finger. But Michael was horrified.

We did get a call the next day from Woodman’s – the ring was found and was waiting for us at the front desk. We went straight from picking it up to the jewelers to get it resized. Michael had lost weight and the ring was loose on his finger. He was determined to never lose it again.

To see the blog about Michael losing his wedding ring in 2021, look here: https://www.kathiegiorgio.org/12-23-21/

And now it was missing. And my husband was lying in the ICU, unconscious, with so many injuries, I couldn’t keep track of them, including the one with the really scary name: traumatic brain injury.

When I arrived back at the hospital the next morning, the first thing I did, after making sure he was still breathing, was check his finger. His ring was not there. And thus began my obsession with finding Michael’s ring.

I called the ER. Several times. They assured me, over and over, that they inventoried everything that came in with Michael, and there was no ring. I called the police. Several times. They didn’t have it, and they encouraged me to call the ambulance company. I called the ambulance company. Several times. They assured me they scoured the very ambulance he was on, several times, and there was no ring.

I wondered if it was in the gutter in the intersection where he was hit by the minivan, then run over. Despite the obsession, I knew I could not handle going there, standing where he did on his last moments of a normal life.

As soon as Michael was conscious enough to talk, even when he was still calling me his sister and not his wife, I asked him where his ring was. He immediately looked at his left hand, now encased in these awful fat white mittens that kept him from pulling out the tubes that were keeping him alive. “Take,” he said, holding his hand out to me. “Take.”

“I can’t take them off, hon,” I said. “But your ring isn’t on your finger. Where is your ring?”

He just looked away. At that point, Michael didn’t even believe he was married. He thought he was 23 years old.

The search for the ring continued for all of Michael’s time between January 17 and June 19, as he tried so hard to recover. When he was home, I said, “Michael, have you remembered where your ring is?”

His response was always to look at his finger and then tear up. “I don’t know,” he said.

I was determined to find it and restore it to him.

I was talking with his sister at one point during this, and she told me that when Michael visited Omaha at Christmastime, a trip that was my gift to him for his birthday and for the holiday, she noticed he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.

That puzzled me. Michael always wore his ring. But then I remembered that Michael had carpal tunnel and cubital tunnel surgeries in October. Again, before the accident. He would have taken his ring off for the surgery, as it was on his left hand and arm.

That day in October, I didn’t drive him to the surgery center as I had clients that morning. Olivia drove him, dropped him off, then returned to pick him up. If Michael hadn’t remembered to take his ring off before the surgery, he might have tucked it in a pocket or given it to a nurse before he went into the operating room. I’d already gone through all of his pockets, even in clothes he hadn’t worn for years. No ring.

Maybe it was at the medical center, a medical center in a different town and one I’d never been to before. But with everything that went on during Michael’s last months, I never made the phone call to see if it was there.

So Michael died without his wedding ring.

This week, I messaged our doctor, asking if he could give me the phone number of the surgical center where Michael had his surgery. I explained why I needed it. I was told they couldn’t give me the number directly because of HIPPA (ridiculous!), but I could call patient relations. Before I did, I had a conversation with a student who is a psychic. She said she saw Michael smiling, holding up a coffee mug that had Muse, our cat’s, face on it. Muse died shortly before Michael.

“Can you look for the ring in your coffee mugs?” she asked.

I told her that I’d just finished cleaning out and reorganizing every cabinet in my kitchen. “It’s not there,” I said. “And Michael didn’t drink coffee.”

Later that afternoon, I remembered my daughter Olivia saying, just a couple days before, that while I’d finished the cabinets, I never did the drawers.

In our kitchen, there is a bit of counter between the stove and the living room wall. It was “Michael’s counter”. He put his stuff for work there. There was a drawer with the counter, which housed our big spoons and other kitchen utensils. But Michael sometimes used it to drop extraneous things in. Receipts. Pens. Stuff that didn’t belong there and drove me nuts.

I’d already looked in that drawer for the ring. But I hadn’t taken everything out.

I decided it was worth a shot. As I pulled things out, I remembered how, when I checked it the first time, I’d removed a lot of things that didn’t belong there. Paperclips. Receipts. Change. Needles for his diabetic pens. What I pulled out now was what did belong there. Large spoons. Slotted spoons. A ladle. A spaghetti scooper.

I would give anything to have his sloppy drawer back.

As I removed the last thing, I felt pretty dejected, but also felt like shrugging and saying it was as I expected. But then I bent down and looked into the back of the drawer. I couldn’t see back there unless I bent down and stared.

And that’s when I saw the glint of gold.

In the back right corner, all the way back, there was the ring.

I pulled it out, and, true to form lately, I burst into tears. Then, I pulled off my own wedding ring from my finger, put Michael’s on, and then slid my ring after it, so I could wear them together, without having to worry about the larger ring falling off.

The rings touched. They rested. Side by side.

Just as it should be. Something was as it should be. I felt like I was given a little bit of Michael back. An important part. The part that connected us together, for almost 25 years now.

“I found it,” I said to the urn. “It’s right here.”

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It seems like right now, besides being a time of ends, this is also a time of firsts.

The first day waking up with the knowledge that Michael is gone.

The first day after the Celebration of Life.

The first holiday without him – the 4^th of July. We always had the best time with the kids at the fireworks.

The first visit at the zoo without him.

Coming up soon is my first birthday without him – July 29^th. Michael always gave the best presents, and without any prompts. When I cleaned out his wallet, I found 3 Barnes & Noble gift cards that still had some money left on them. So I went to B & N and bought myself some books. And then I thanked Michael for my birthday present.

The first AllWriters’ Annual Retreat, the studio’s biggest event of the year, without Michael running in the background to make sure everything goes smoothly. July 25 – 28. Participants are already saying to me, “Put me to work! Tell me what to do!” That’s hard for me, but I will do it.

And this past Monday, my first day back to work. The hardest part: not hearing Michael at the end of the day, saying, “How did class go?” or “How was (name of client)?” and I had no one to tell.

By last night, I was exhausted. I’d been fielding the question, “Are you okay?” for all three days, and it’s an impossible question to answer. If I am okay (at that moment), I feel like there’s something wrong with me, because I shouldn’t be. And if I’m not okay (at that moment), I feel like I’m not giving my all to the class or the client. My go-to answer has become, “Depends on the moment.” And I deliberately leave off what the moment is right then.

Of course I’m not okay. But also of course, I am working my way through this.

Today, Thursday, was my day off. I started, about 2 years ago, to take one day off per week, and I alternate the days, a different day off every week. This way, I can maintain my full schedule, but I also have that one day where I can catch my breath, get some sleep, and if I’ve fallen behind, I can catch up. My students and clients know, and can plan, that every five weeks, they will have a day off.

Today, I had another first on the schedule – the first day back (again) to piano lessons since Michael died.

I didn’t set my alarm last night, as is traditional for my day off. I woke up just after eleven. I rolled onto my back, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no way in hell I could get up. So I just kept laying/lying/stretching out there.

Laying/lying/stretching out. For as long as I’ve been a writer, for as long as I’ve been a teacher, I cannot figure out the whole laying/lying thing. So in all of my work, ALL of it, stories, novels, poetry, whatever, no one ever lays or lies. They stretch out. Michael was my go-to expert on this. He got it. I would yell downstairs to where he sat in his recliner, “Which one is right, Michael?” and read him whatever sentence I was reading or writing. He would pause and then say, “Stretch out.” And we would both laugh before he gave me the correct answer.

I don’t have the answer now. And so this morning, I stretched out. And felt that it was impossible to get out of bed. I emailed my piano teacher and told her I wouldn’t be in. It was a bad day, I said.

My thoughts rolled back to Monday, the first day back to work. That morning, I received news of a professional review about my upcoming novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You. The review was from the Midwest Book Review, and it was, if you’ll forgive the phrase, every writer’s wet dream. The reviewer sang the praises of the book, and then said about me:

“Kathie Giorgio is a gifted author whose writing captivates readers with its profound depth and insight. Through her compelling narratives, Giorgio ‘s characters exude a powerful voice that resonates with the desire to spark societal change.”

Holy cow. On Monday morning, as I stared at my screen and reread and reread the words of praise, I called out without thinking, “Michael! Listen to this!”

And of course, there was no answer.

My vision blurred and, as is my way, I got out of my chair and got busy. I showered. I got dressed. And I made my bed, just so. But my thoughts kept coming back to Michael, and waiting for his answer. I stopped making my bed and, in exasperation, which was not uncommon in our marriage, I yelled again, “For God’s sake, Michael, where are you?”

And then I stopped. I forced my fists to open again, lowered my shoulders, closed my eyes, and I breathed deeply.

When I stepped away from the bed, I noticed a tiny black rectangle on the floor.

The day before, I finished cleaning out Michael’s junk closet. What I not-so-fondly called his hoarder’s closet. He could keep anything in there, I said, as long as the doors closed. I hadn’t looked in it for years, and when I opened it to start going through it, I found an absolute nightmare. But one of the things I found was a pile of magnetic poetry pieces. They weren’t in a case, and I threw them all away.

On Sunday night, when I went to bed, there was nothing on the floor. On Monday morning, when I got up, there was nothing on the floor.

Now, there was.

I picked the black rectangle up and flipped it over. “In Here,” it said.

I clasped the rectangle and began to laugh.

“For God’s sake, Michael, where are you?”

“In here.”

In the urn.

Michael had a wicked, wicked sense of humor. I placed the “In Here” by the urn.

So this morning, as I stretched out in bed, I remembered Monday. And smiled.

Later on that Monday, I was walking through the bedroom when I saw a smaller black rectangle on the floor. I picked it up and flipped it over. There was only one word. “Feel.”

I have that word now, on my dresser.

After smiling in bed this morning, I thought of that word. “Feel.” And I allowed myself to cry until I was drenched.

And then I stepped through the impossible, with his help, and I got out of bed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

As time moves forward, as it inevitably does, and two weeks, almost three, have already gone by since Michael’s passing, it’s become more and more apparent to me how deeply I was running on automatic pilot. From January 17^th on, my world was about getting done what needed to get done, which included learning all sorts of new skills.

*how to speak to doctors and nurses, constantly with a notebook in my hand to write down the answers so that I would remember them for more than a couple minutes. And how important it was to write down which doctor or nurse told me which thing.

*how to deal with a catheter and a feeding tube and an NG tube, and their aftermath. How to deal with multiple IVs. Understanding a TPN.

*how to use a gait belt.

*how to be always ready to help, while at the same time, stepping into the background, so that Michael felt independent and so he could see how he was improving.

*how to organize and dole out medications, that were four times a day, three times a day, two times a day, one time a day, and took up space on my counter like a pharmacy, and how to deal with that moment of terror when I thought I’d messed something up.

*how to keep my temper, though that was something I failed at often.

*how to do all the things Michael did around the house. How to do all the things he never had to do, but I now had to, dealing with doctor’s appointments, insurance companies, organizing home health aides, and so forth.

*how to blunt everything. Because it was the only way to keep myself from falling apart. And to keep him together.

*how to be the power of attorney, and to be comfortable with my decisions and act as Michael’s advocate and my own.

And the amazing thing is, this hasn’t stopped since Michael died. There are more decisions to make, more paths to follow, more instructions, more forms and paperwork, more, more, more.

Dealing with cremation, which is what Michael wanted, is surreal. In Michael’s case, the accident that took his life required him to go to a medical examiner before he went to the funeral service provider. The medical examiner had to release Michael. Had to return him to me.

And yet, as well-led as I was by the people around me, nothing prepared me for when I walked in to the funeral home for Michael’s Celebration of Life, to find him, his urn, sitting on the table and waiting for me.

It was so small. Beautiful. But small.

I had to try, very quickly, to acclimate myself to that urn embodying my husband. That was him.

This wasn’t the first time I dealt with this. When my father died a long time ago, my mother and brother took care of the selection of the urn. I was at the house when they walked in, my brother carrying my father in a shopping bag.

“I wondered if I should put on his seatbelt in the car,” my brother said.

Surreal.

I had to call the church to see if my father was welcome at his own service. The priest told me that if it was a funeral, we should bring the urn, because a funeral is for the dead. But we were having a memorial service, and so that was for the living. My father remained at home.

Surreal.

When planning the Celebration of Life, first the funeral home, then our daughter and my mother-in-law asked me if the cremains would be buried. I hadn’t really thought about it, as by that point, I was having to focus so much on just what my next step would be, how deeply would I take my next breath. I knew, for myself, I wanted to be cremated as well, and then scattered in the Pacific Ocean, in Waldport, Oregon, my favorite place on earth. Michael and I figured out and shared what we both wanted when we did our wills a couple years ago. But he hadn’t told me what to do with his ashes.

I looked on the website for one of our cemeteries and was startled at all the options for cremains. But the more I studied them, the further I felt from Michael.

And then I heard him.

Through this entire ordeal, six weeks in the first hospital, three weeks in the rehab facility, a week back in the hospital, then a final three weeks and six days for the last time in the hospital, Michael said one thing consistently, over and over again.

“I just want to go home.”

That’s what he wanted. “He’s coming home,” I told the funeral home, our daughter, and my mother-in-law. “I’m bringing him home.”

And so, when the Celebration of Life was over, I picked Michael up and carried him, much as I carried him every day since January 17^th. I brought Michael home. Like my brother, I wondered briefly if I should put a seatbelt on the urn while we were in the car. I didn’t. But I smiled.

He’s here now. Home. I finally got him here. There is no more pain. No more confusion. There is only comfort and familiarity. He is safe.

He would be so happy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.