This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

I have to be honest. It is very hard to think of a Moment right now, with what I am facing this afternoon.

I have to go to the dentist.

Anyone who really knows me, and for that matter, anyone who has read this blog for a while, knows that I am terrified of the dentist. And for those who roll their eyes at the word “terrified”, please remember that I am a person of words, which I choose and use very carefully. I am not nervous or anxious. I am not afraid. I am terrified. I will likely become physically ill before I leave for my appointment, I will be in tears when I walk in the door, and the tears will continue until I walk back out of the door.

There is nothing simple here. It’s a lifelong phobia that developed in my childhood when I had a sadistic dentist. Again, I choose and use my words carefully. My baby teeth had roots that didn’t dissolve, and so I was taken in to the dentist when my adult teeth started growing in behind my baby teeth. I was usually knocked out with ether, which is a nightmare all by itself, though sometimes the dentist was impatient and just yanked the teeth out without any benefit of any sort of anesthetic. My mother would sit in the waiting room and listen to me scream.

I was telling a client this morning about how, after many, many times of screaming myself sick in the dentist’s chair, one day, I just didn’t. I was probably nine or ten years old. When I walked back out to the waiting room, my mother looked up in surprise and said, “I didn’t hear you screaming.”

I shrugged and said, “What’s the use?”

I was in my early teens and living in a different town when I realized that novocaine has no effect on me. This dentist gave me shot after shot, and I kept saying it still hurt. Finally, the dentist said I was just keeping him from doing his work and so he drilled anyway. More screaming.

As an adult, I’ve met many kind dentists who have listened to me and found ways to treat me. It doesn’t matter. They could be Ghandi and I would still not want to see them again and I would still be terrified.

Last February, I wrote about finding another really nice dentist. I’d broken a tooth and I found her and she was wonderful. I was supposed to return to have two other teeth worked on, and I really planned to.

But then Michael died.

Michael understood and believed my fear. He came to the dentist with me when I had to go, and he would either sit by my side and hold my hand, or he would sit at the foot of the dentist chair and squeeze my toes. When he couldn’t take off work on a dentist day, he would talk to me on the phone until I was sitting in the chair, and as soon as I was out of the chair, even before I left the office, I was back on the phone with him.

This last February, when I broke a tooth, Michael was still in the hospital. He was, at times, cognizant and present. Other times, he wasn’t. When I saw him, the day before my dentist appointment, I told him what was happening, and I saw him come back into his eyes. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t be there.” Before I left the hospital that day, he told me I’d be fine and I could do this.

I held onto that through the appointment, and the two appointments after. Even though, when I went to see Michael right after those appointments, he was missing again. He thought I was his sister, and he wondered why a nurse would be scared of the dentist.

But I knew he was there somewhere, and it got me through.

Now, he’s not here.

Several weeks ago, I spoke with a psychic medium. The first thing she said to me was that Michael was saying, “I hear you, Kathie. I hear you.”

I cannot tell you the number of times that I have stood by his urn and talked to him. I always say, “Are you listening? Can you hear me?”

I hear you, Kathie. I hear you.

So I am going to talk to Michael, all the way to the dentist. And while I’m at the dentist. And whatever else comes next.

That’s going to have to be what gets me through.

That’s all I have today. It will have to be enough. I am having a bad day, on so many different levels.

But I will talk to Michael. And I will try to believe, with all my heart, that he hears me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

ADDENDUM: At the dentist office, I met with my nice dentist. I told her about the extra level of stress, now that Michael was not here to help me with this, and when I choked up, she held my hand and said, “I’ve got you.” However, I passed every test on this damn tooth. The cold test, the tapping test, the bite-on-a-stick test, all good. Clear x-ray – no infection, no need for a root canal. So she wasn’t able to come up with an answer for what’s going on. They’re sending me to a root canal specialist, to see if he can see something they can’t, but in the meantime, I’m supposed to take sinus medication, to see if that helps. I have a history of sinus infections, so it’s quite possible it’s stemming from there.

But I did it.

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

There are many hard things about losing a spouse, and one, for me, rises to the top of the list every night. I’m having to learn how to go to bed when I’m all alone in the house.

Some nights, Olivia is here, as she typically comes home on weekends to go to work; her job is closer to my home than to her apartment, so she saves herself a few minutes of sleep.

But mostly…I’m alone. And when it’s night, and the classes and clients are done, and I’m not reading student manuscripts which fill my mind with the world the student is creating and the student themselves, that “alone” becomes “utterly.”

When I was still attending the grief support group, there was a man on one of their videos that talked about how he’d always liked being alone, he enjoyed solitude. But since his wife died, he said, he was “utterly alone.” I completely understand that.

I’m a lifelong insomniac, so sleep has always been a challenge. Interestingly, from the day of the accident, January 17^th, until Michael’s death on June 19^th, I fell asleep within minutes of hitting the pillow and I was out like a light. What became difficult was convincing myself to go to bed. I meditate before sleep, which has always helped, but I found myself now adding things before I meditate – I began to read in bed, telling myself that this was a treat, and I watched some videos, which is a big no-no right before sleep. I kept putting sleep off, where I used to encourage it to come. Once I closed my eyes, I literally surrendered, and I was gone in seconds.

But I think I began to feel very vulnerable, while Michael was gone in the hospital, the rehab, the hospice. And the short time he was home, I was hypervigilant, in case he needed me.

And now…the vulnerability comes from having to face the unquestionable and unchangeable fact every single night that he’s gone. I can’t distract myself away from that, like I can during the day. And I can’t stop feeling alone.

Last night, I got into bed at 3:00 in the morning. Today is a day off, so I knew I could sleep to my heart’s content through the next morning, if I could just convince myself to give up and sleep. The house was dark, except for my bedside lamp, lit so I could read my book.

At 4:00, I was still there, sitting up, reading. I was probably janglier than usual – I’d had the urge, before bed, to start writing a poem. It combined phrases taken directly from the 7-page letter I’d received from a police investigator, describing second by second what the security cameras recorded of Michael’s accident. And I mean second by second: At fifteen seconds, he…At forty-two seconds, he…  I’ve steadfastly refused to watch the videos. I just can’t. But now, thanks to the police investigator’s excruciatingly detailed report, I can see it through words. So I used those words, interspersed with what was happening with me at the time, and I guess I wrote the first draft of a now excruciating poem.

So there was an awful lot I was trying to push away last night.

At a little after four, one smooth-coated orange cat jumped onto my bed. Oliver. He came to me, climbed onto my chest so he could rub his cheek against mine, then settled down at my feet. A few minutes later, a fluff-ball orange cat jumped onto the bed. Cleocatra. She also climbed onto my chest and rubbed her cheek against mine, then settled at my hip.

It should be noted that neither cat, Oliver since April, or Cleo in her three weeks here, has ever slept on the bed at night.

I patted them both and so my room filled with a raucous duet of purring.

From her loveseat near the foot of my bed, my dog Ursula shook her head, setting her ears to flapping and her collar jingling.

I had company. I wasn’t alone.

The book I’m reading is Elizabeth Strout’s My Name Is Lucy Barton. In the midst of the purring then, last night, I looked back down at my book and continued reading. And then I read:

“The thing about Kathie,” I said, “is that she was nice.”

And I laughed out loud. I mean, my name was even spelled correctly!

I closed my book, patted each cat, called goodnight to Ursula, turned off the light, and slept solidly for, according to my smart watch, 8 hours and 27 minutes.

I get it, thank you. I’m not alone. I am missing one very particular, very specific, very beloved person. Michael. But I’m not alone. I am surrounded.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Having ambition in the arts is never an easy thing. Whether a person wants to be an artist, a musician, an actor, a dancer, or, you know, a writer, you’re heading into a profession that doesn’t have an obvious ladder, or obvious steps, or even an obvious path. Worse, those that hold the positions that can push you forward hold opinions and observations that are subjective…one person might think you’re the best thing ever, while the other doesn’t give you the time of day.

Makes you want to run right out and do these things, right?

Well, if you’re actually a writer, artist, musician, actor, dancer – yes, you still run right out and do it. But you also question yourself every step of the way.

Last week was the launch of my novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You. It’s my fifteenth book, eighth novel – numbers which mean a lot to me. Why? Because each subsequent book validates me, allows me to believe, at least for a little bit, before the next bout of self-doubt comes, that yes, I am actually the person I think I am.

I’ve always said about writers that they are the weirdest conundrum – a huge ego (I can write a book and everyone will love it!) combined with a crippling lack of self-confidence (why did I ever think I could do this? I can’t even write a grocery list!). And I am very much a part of that conundrum.

On top of what was probably the conundrum showing  up naturally in me, given who I am and what I feel driven to do, there was the duality of my young life. I lived in a family that called me – outright – stupid. My mother even used the dreaded and now (thank God) forbidden R-word on me. Then I’d go to school and be told I was the exact opposite. Instead of the R-word, G-words were applied (genius, gifted). In one high school (I went to three), my teachers and counselor even made me take an IQ test three different times to show me the results, to convince me that I was not stupid. The excess praise probably didn’t help me much, but it didn’t hurt me either. It allowed me to start questioning things.

And it led me to throw aside all the expectations and rules thrown at me and follow what I most wanted to do in life. Which is why there are now 15 books and hundreds of individual publications in the short story, poetry, and essay.

And why there is still that constant questioning. “Is this the one that is going to make people realize that I’m really not any good at all?”

Yeesh. It’s a life.

One of my Moments of Happiness this week happened at the launch of Don’t Let Me Keep You. The room was packed; standing room only, despite my obsessive fears that not a single person would show up. After the presentation, I was signing books when a woman shyly approached my table. “I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, and getting a new book from you is like going on an adventure.”

An adventure! No one ever described my work that way. As I watched her leave the bookstore, hugging the book to her chest, I had no doubt that the book would be read from cover to cover that night. And maybe even read again. And again.

And, in that Moment, in that bookstore, at that very second, I had no doubt that the book would be loved.

For that second, anyway.

But even better was the night before the launch.

Historically, I have trouble choosing what to read at events like this. So, at two o’clock in the morning, seventeen hours away from the launch, I was in my office, poring over the book. What chapter? What section? What paragraphs? I knew I wanted to read a bit at the beginning of the evening, and then another bit at the end. As I paged forward and backwards, I decided I wanted the first reading to be the part in the book where my main character, Hildy, chooses what she wants to do with her life. Then, as I searched for the second reading, I thought about my final chapter, which is the only chapter in the book that includes the entire family on the page. I turned to it.

And then I gasped. I’d forgotten that the event grounding that chapter was Hildy’s silver wedding anniversary to her husband.

And the day before the launch was my silver wedding anniversary to Michael, which I wrote about last week.

Reading from that chapter would be a way to bring Michael to the launch. I am not Hildy, and Hank, her husband, is not Michael. But the blending of experiences would allow Michael into the room.

But while that was a Moment, it wasn’t THE Moment. That happened when I marked the pages, and then closed the book.

And I said out loud, to my dog, Ursula, and to my cats, Oliver and Cleocatra, “This is a damned good book. The best one yet.”

Oh, yeah.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Yesterday was the silver anniversary of my marriage to Michael. Twenty-five years. Of course, Michael was not here to celebrate with me, and so the day was a difficult one. But it was also a day of reflection and sorting through happy memories.

When I married Michael, he made me promise, as part of our vows, that I would stay married to him for at least 17 years and 1 day. I was married to my first husband for 17 years, and that ended in divorce. Michael wanted to make sure that he lasted longer.

I stayed true to my promise and then some.

Our marriage wasn’t perfect by any means, but then, I don’t think any marriage is. When I told a friend the other day that our marriage had its difficulties, her eyes got wide. “What?” she said. “Really?”

Really. It shouldn’t be a shock, I don’t think. But the point is, despite the difficulties, we were still together, with no end in sight. Until a negligent driver changed all that.

I really ruminated over our 25^th anniversary. We were supposed to be taking a cruise through Europe, a first for both of us – neither of us has been on a cruise, and neither of us has been to Europe. I canceled the trip while Michael was still in the hospital. It was pretty clear that it wouldn’t be possible, with all of the recovery we thought he had in front of him. I kept thinking back to my ex-husband’s parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary. I was still married to him then, and the whole family took his parents out to a lovely restaurant in Port Washington, WI. We gave them a silver tray with their names engraved on it, and the date of their marriage. I remember that I had prime rib, and had two grasshoppers for dessert. And I daydreamed about my own silver anniversary, when I would have children who would think to throw this kind of lovely party and gift me and my husband a beautiful, but you know, useless, silver tray.

That first marriage didn’t make it to twenty-five years.

And now, my second marriage, the one that was lasting, didn’t make it either.

Technically.

I really perseverated. And felt angry.

And then I thought…I’m going to celebrate it anyway.

As far as I’m concerned, I’m still married, even if I’m supposed to check off “widowed” on legal forms. And we did make it to twenty-five years. The fact that we aren’t together is from an outside source, not from our own choice. We aren’t the ones responsible for tearing our marriage apart.

So I sat and thought about it for a while. I am currently wearing my wedding ring and Michael’s. I thought about having the diamonds removed and having a new ring created, with those diamonds, but in a silver setting.

I thought about ordering my own useless silver tray.

I thought about taking myself out to a fine restaurant, overlooking Lake Michigan, and eating prime rib and drinking a couple grasshoppers.

But none of those felt right.

I thought hard about Michael. His favorite season was from October to January. October is our anniversary and our daughter Olivia’s birthday. November is Thanksgiving, his second favorite holiday. He loved to cook. December is Christmas, his favorite holiday, and also his birthday, two days after Christmas.

I thought about decorating our Christmas trees year after year. Before Michael and I were married, he decorated his apartment to the extreme. He had one of those tiny ceramic villages spread through every room. A large tree filled with ornaments celebrating Old Time Radio, old movies, Monopoly pieces, and one weird little ornament in the shape of a spatula, given to him by a beloved nephew.

He even decorated his bird cage. The parakeets had their own little tree.

So I tossed the idea of a useless silver tray out the window. Then I focused onto Christmas ornaments. I ordered a crystal and silver ornament, silver for the anniversary, and had it engraved with “25^th Anniversary” and “Michael & Kathie” and “10/9/1999”. For now, it’s sitting next to me on my desk. It will go on this year’s tree. And then after Christmas, I will find a place to hang it in the condo for the rest of the year.

When the ornament arrived, I felt at peace.

It will do.

We made it twenty-five years, even if he isn’t right here standing next to me. There are some things a negligent driver can’t destroy.

Our marriage, our partnership, is one of them.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, if you know me, if you read me, if you’re a student or a client, or if you follow me on social media, you likely know what this moment is all about.

Today, October 3^rd, 2024, my 15^th book was released. My 15^th book in 14 years. My 8^th novel.

Don’t Let Me Keep You.

By now, you might think that this is old hat. That I woke up this morning, yawned, stretched, had my breakfast, let the dog out, pet the cat, met a few clients, glanced at my calendar, and thought, Oh, that’s right. My book comes out today.

Oh, hell, no.

There was a time that I thought of giving up on ever having a novel, or any type of book, published. It was a hard, hard thing. I published for the first time at 15 years old. That was a really, really long short story where I rewrote the story of Christ in 1970’s slang. I was inspired by reading The Big Fisherman by Lloyd C. Douglas at the same time that I was listening to the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice. So I wrote the story and sent it off to, of all places, the Catholic Herald Citizen. They loved it and published it as a serial.

Whenever I thought of who I was and what I wanted to do, the answers were that I was a writer and I wanted to write. Everything. I especially loved fiction, but I loved poetry too. A beloved creative writing teacher in high school told me to stick with fiction after we had a poetry unit, and that demolished me enough that I hid the fact that I wrote poetry for years and years. But I fully embraced fiction, especially the short story, but the novel too. Everything I did seemed to point me down the road of success – the early publication, followed by more and more short story publications, being accepted into graduate level creative writing classes when I was only a freshman at the University of Wisconsin – Madison, going through four agents, bing, bing, bing, bing, all of whom promised bigger and better things, a personal letter from Ray Bradbury, encouraging me to keep going.

The novel remained elusive. But I didn’t quit.

One of the hardest moments for me came when a student asked me at a reading why I couldn’t get a book out. He said, “You’ve done everything right. You have the reputation, the credits, the hard-to-get agents, all of it. Why no book?” And all I could answer was, “I don’t know.”

My parents didn’t believe I was any good at what I did. They told me I couldn’t major in English or creative writing in college;  I had to major in something that would give me a job. So I tried. I majored first in Special Education, with an emphasis on autism, which is ironic now. I very nearly flunked out of that, and switched to social work. I grew so bored, I fell asleep in lectures. So I changed my major to what I wanted to do – write – and told my parents if they didn’t want to pay their portion of my education anymore, I would drop out and get a job until I could afford to come back. They continued, but from that point on, if someone asked them what I was doing in college, they said, “Oh, she’s getting married.” Which I was. But that’s not what I was doing.

A huge low point for me came when my father told me he felt my college education was the biggest waste of his money in his lifetime.

But I kept going. Editors believed in me. Agents believed in me. And I believed in me.

I went through agent after agent, who would try to sell my most recent book for a year, then tell me to shelve it and write the next one. I followed their advice until The Home For Wayward Clocks. There was something about that book. I wasn’t going to give up on it, even after my agent told me to shelve it and try with another book, and I fired her instead and went out on my own.

And I sold it. By myself. My first novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks, sold when I was fifty years old and was released when I was fifty-one.

I will never, ever, ever forget receiving that acceptance email.

By then, both my parents were gone. They never saw any of my books. But I wasn’t in this to prove anything to them. I was in this to be authentic to myself, to be who I felt I was, to do what I most love to do in this world.

And so the books started coming. Eight novels. Two short story collections. A book of essays. Four books of poetry.

And I’m working on Book #16, though I don’t think it will be appearing in 2025. From January 17^th to August 27^th this year, I didn’t write a word. Not because I was blocked; I knew what I wanted to write. There was no shortage of ideas. But my whole world shrunk during that time to Michael. I don’t resent it. I don’t regret it. He needed me, and I needed the time with him. The absolute depletion I felt after Michael died did scare me – I wondered if I would ever have enough energy to write again. That was answered when I went to Oregon, sat down in the writing nook, and suddenly produced 72 pages.

I felt that I stepped back into my own skin.

But skin with damage. With a wound. Michael always brought me flowers on the day that a book was released. There are no flowers today. He was always in the audience at the launch. The launch is next week, and I know when I look out at the audience, he will not be there.

But when I woke up this morning, alone, I turned off my alarm clock and sat up. I looked out the window and said, “Don’t Let Me Keep You is in the world today. My fifteenth book. And there will be more.”

There will be.  Never a doubt. Never.

I hope you join me at the launch for my 15^th book, Don’t Let Me Keep You, on October 10^th at 7:00 p.m., at Books & Company bookstore, 1039 Summit Avenue in Oconomowoc, WI. This is a Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books special event. While I won’t see my husband when I look out at the audience, I hope to see friendly faces, offering support and encouragement as I continue to face down this new challenge in my life, trying to find myself all over again.

Though I don’t have to find one part. The writer. She is always right here.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

To see the  podcast, What Are You Reading? What Are You Writing?,  aired today for the release, where I talk about Don’t Let Me Keep You, go to

To see the trailer for Don’t Let Me Keep You, go to:

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

I’m asked all the time now how I am, and how Olivia is, and how my big kids are, and my granddaughter. But if I’ve been asked how the pets are, how they are dealing with Michael’s disappearance, I honestly don’t remember, which means it’s been rare. But I’ve watched them – particularly Ursula. Oliver, our new orange kitty, only knew Michael for a few weeks before he went off to the hospital for the last time.

Besides losing Michael this year, we also lost our fat orange bowling ball polydactyl cat, Edgar Allen Paw, and the inimitable little gray cat, Muse. The cats died first, Edgar, then Muse. They died five weeks apart from each other, and as I was neck-deep in what was going on with Michael, it just felt like blow after blow.

Edgar was fourteen. In the last year, he’d suddenly had fits of his back legs falling limp and useless. But they always came back. The vet was baffled. And then one morning, the legs simply left for good. Our home is a danger for a cat who can only use his front legs…there are stairs and concrete floors. I didn’t wait for a horrible death to happen. I helped Edgar on his way.

Michael was still in the hospital when Edgar died. I hesitated over if I should tell him, as his memory and even his present day observations were still off. But I told him anyway…and he seized onto it. He talked about Edgar, and truly, memories of Edgar and Michael’s sadness at losing him seemed to help him get grounded in reality again.

Michael finally came home, after six weeks in the hospital and three in rehab. Muse, the little gray cat, would not leave him alone. As soon as he sat, he had a cat. Muse was well known for understanding where things hurt. She would lay with me in bed and knead and knead my back if it was sore, my hip if it was sore, my knee if it was sore…and when I had a foot cramp, she’d lay on the foot until the cramp went away. Now, on Michael, she draped herself over whatever she could reach.

Late at night on her 20^th birthday, Muse suddenly gave an ungodly yowl from down the hall. I found her on her side, with fluid all around her. It is unclear what happened, but the vet said it was cerebrospinal fluid. I ran her to the emergency vet, and I came home without Muse.

Which leaves Ursula, our dog. Ursula is a rescue, a dog who came here from Alabama, after living most of her life in an outdoor kennel, having litters of puppies. She was high anxiety, and still is, even after four years. During the time Michael was gone after his accident, she was restless and unsure. She looked out the window for him to come home from the bus garage. She was puzzled when it was me who brought her out to do her business in the early morning and the late night. I gave her the shirt that was cut off of Michael by the paramedics and she slept with it.

Then one cat after another disappeared. In between, Michael came home. Ursula took up a station by his side, either sitting by his recliner or on the end of the couch. In the morning, when she and I would come downstairs, the first stop had to be in Livvy’s room, where Michael was sleeping as he couldn’t do the stairs. Ursy sat there while I got her medication, and after taking her outside, she would stay in the room by Michael until he got himself up and out to the living room. As he rolled his walker, she walked in front of him, backwards, watching his every step.

And then…Michael disappeared. He was originally gone for 9 weeks, to the hospital and the rehab. He had a one week return trip to the hospital after he came home. And then he went back and didn’t come home. He’s been gone now for 14 weeks, longer than he was at the hospital. I was planning on bringing Ursula to the hospice, but Michael was gone before I could get her there.

The shirt that she slept with was thrown away after Michael got home. All of his laundry was washed and dried. I couldn’t think of anything to give her at first, but then remembered the pillow I had made for Michael, out of a photo of Ursula. Michael slept with it, in the rehab, at home, in the hospital, and in hospice, with it tucked under his cheek or his neck.

Ursula sleeps with it all the time now.

By the way, before Michael went into the hospital for the last time, Oliver showed up. Michael and Olivia came with me to the humane society to meet him. Michael was in a wheelchair. By the time Michael disappeared from our home, Oliver, who was shy with men, was sitting on his lap.

When Michael went into the hospital for the last time, Ursula quit sleeping in her spot on the couch. Even when Michael rested on the couch, he made sure his legs and feet left room for a 59 pound dog to have her corner. That corner of the couch, closest to the fireplace, became Ursula’s soon after she came home with us. There’s a pillow there, and three special stuffed animals. Ursula tears apart all stuffed animals, except for these…she sleeps with them. All of them were picked out by Michael, from Menards, when he worked there.

There is a rainbow-striped monkey, named (by Michael) Pride Monkey.

There is a black and white panda, named Intolerant Panda.

And there is a moose, named…Moose. Michael loved moose. They were his favorite animal.

Throughout the long hospitalization and the rehab stay, Ursula slept in her corner of the couch. She scrunched there with Michael when he was home. She slept there when he went in for the short time before coming home again. But when he went in for what we didn’t know was the last time, Ursula stayed off the couch. She slept instead on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She slept there for his entire last hospital stay and his five days in rehab. And she’s been there for fourteen weeks since his death.

Until last night.

I was watching the Love Boat, the show Michael and I were watching together, because we were supposed to be going on a cruise for our 25^th anniversary. Ursula suddenly stood up, stretched, glanced at Michael’s urn on the piano, and then jumped onto the couch. She nestled her head between the stuffed animals, her friends, given to her by Michael. And she stayed there the rest of the night.

I thought of last week, when I froze on the stairs, realizing I’d gone three days without crying. And now…my dog was back where she was supposed to be.

I still reached out and patted Michael’s empty recliner, next to me. I called out to Ursula, “What a good girl, Ursy!” and received a tail thump.

And then I breathed a sigh of relief. The humans aren’t the only ones who have been suffering.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I was halfway up the stairs from the first to the second floor of my home when I realized. I stopped on the step.

It was eight o’clock in the evening. I hadn’t cried that day.

I leaned against the railing and reeled my mind backwards. When was the last time I remembered crying?

Sunday. On Sunday, I first drove to a grief support group meeting. When I got there, there was no one in the parking lot. I wandered around the church, trying every door. All were locked. I felt utterly abandoned. I couldn’t even get to a grief support group! (I found out later, when the facilitator called me, that there are two churches with the same name in that town. My GPS brought me to the wrong one.)

I cried in the car, then pulled myself together and told myself I should go get the grocery shopping done. Grocery shopping, and cooking, used to be done by Michael. I hate grocery shopping, and I don’t know how to cook.

I reminded myself that there was a Packers game that afternoon, so at least the grocery store should be mercifully free of crowds and quiet. Instead, when I got to the store, the parking lot was almost full. Inside, it was a madhouse, people and shopping carts everywhere, the volume so high, I couldn’t even hear the muzak.

The Packers apparently played early in the afternoon. Now, everyone was here.

Every aisle was like a traffic jam. Kids were screaming, parents were yelling, customers were getting pushy as they tried to get through and get through fast. I had to go to a back corner several times just to breathe, to ward off a panic attack. When I finally got to the check-out, the line with the fewest number of people in front of me was six deep.

Six deep. Just like they say a grave is six feet deep. Six feet under.

And loss was all around me again.

I got out of line, ran for the bathrooms, parked my cart (please, nobody take it and make me start over!), and ran into a stall. And cried.

Awful. The whole thing was awful. But there, on my stairs, I realized that day was the last time I cried. And that was three days before.

Since Michael died, I haven’t had a single day without tears. I haven’t had a single day when I haven’t thought, How am I going to do this? Until now. When I suddenly went for three days without tears, and three days of just moving ahead, one step after another, after a veritable storm of tears.

That day, three days ago in the empty church parking lot and in the grocery store, the thing I remember thinking, over and over again, repeating it to myself, is “This is never going to be over. I am never going to be okay again.”

Standing on my stairs, as I counted the days without tears, I was flooded with a sense of hope.

Maybe I will be okay again.

Being a writer, I noticed the tense that my thoughts took. I will be okay again. Not I am okay now. Not yet. But that will be was such a big step from never.

Climbing the rest of the way upstairs was much easier. I had a lighter step.

And yes, being a writer, I saw the metaphor in that too.

That was Wednesday (yesterday). I didn’t make it through today without tears (I’ve been dealing with my health insurance company, my doctor, and the drugstore – something I would have typically left to Michael, because he was better at yelling at people!), but I know, from that moment on the step, that moment of hope, that moment of happiness, that this doesn’t mean that never is in force.

Since Michael’s death, when people have asked me if I’m okay, my answer has been a steady, “It depends on the moment.” I’m changing my answer. It’s now, “No, but I will be.”

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I left the little house in Waldport, Oregon, on Sunday morning, to drive into Portland, where I began my flight home on Monday. Before I left the house, I went for my final walk. I realized I hadn’t seen any whales on this trip. On the majority of my previous trips, if not all, I’ve seen whales. Last year, there was a whale party going on one day and I sat on the deck and watched whale tail after whale tail, breach after breach. There is a whale tail on the cover of my most recent book, Hope Always Rises, and seeing the real whales right there in front of me, I didn’t even need binoculars, just took my breath away.

So realizing I hadn’t seen them made me a little miffed. But then a brown head surfaced next to me in the ocean. It disappeared, it came back, it disappeared, it came back. It kept pace with me.

A sea lion joined me on my walk and I laughed out loud.

He continued with me until I turned to go back to the little house and my waiting car. Then he disappeared.

Before the visit from the sea lion, I was in tears. Again. I am getting very, very tired of tears. I swear my skin is dry because of the constant onslaught of salt. But then, thanks to the sea lion, I laughed, and when I gave my last wave to the ocean, I was smiling.

Then I set off on the journey home. Waldport to Portland, overnight, Portland airport to Salt Lake City to home.

Whenever I first arrive at the little house, I walk or run through to the sliding doors, throw them open, step out on the deck, and gasp when I see the ocean. Always, always, the gasp. The first time, I wasn’t surprised. I was seeing the ocean, it was in my back yard, and oh so glorious! But time after time, even though I know the ocean is there, even though I see it on my drive from the moment I race down the mountain and burst out through the forest to find the coast spread out before me, from Newport to Waldport, and even though I can see it through the sliding doors, my reaction is the same. I gasp, and I bring both hands to my mouth. The awe and love and admiration I feel each time, even when it became familiar, is overwhelming. My reaction is spontaneous.

I always cry upon leaving too. Though this year, that sadness was heavier than usual.

My plane didn’t land on Monday night until 9:30. By then, I was exhausted and stiff. The Milwaukee airport was emptier than I’d ever seen it before – no one waiting for flights, all the stores and kiosks closed up. I plodded my way through the airport and when I turned onto the final aisle that would lead me to the terminal, I began to look ahead.

I was being picked up by my son  Andy and my daughter Olivia. I watched for them and I couldn’t see them. When I stepped into the terminal, I looked all around and still didn’t see them. But then they stood up.

And I gasped.

Familiar to me as can be, one child 38, the other almost 24. I knew they’d be there. Just like I knew the ocean would be there, each and every time, and I gasp anyway. The awe and love and admiration I feel each time, ever since the day each was born, even when they became familiar, is overwhelming.

So here is my ocean at home. Which makes my home as lovely as the little house in Waldport, with the big ocean in the back yard.

Sons Christopher and Andy. Daughters Katie and Olivia. Grandgirl Maya Mae. Son-in-law Nick, daughter-in-law Amber. And of course, my daughter-by-proxy Rayne, who I’ve known since she was in high school with my big kids (Christopher, Andy, Katie), and who I stayed with in Portland.

I was greeted with hugs. And then that sibling dialogue that every mother of multiples knows so well:

ANDY: You’ll never guess what Olivia did.

OLIVIA: Shut up!

38 and 24.

I think that we always need to be aware of who is still in our lives. Who is always there, who greets us with hugs, who can say things that you know they’re going to say. Who makes you gasp. Even when, and maybe especially when, you know through every layer of yourself that someone is missing.

That pain can make you gasp too. I am often feeling breathless.

But this other gasp, this gasp for the ocean, and the gasp for my kids, is filled with a joy that allows me to exhale and then just keep on breathing.

I have the ocean there. I have my human ocean here.

Gasp!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

When I went to bed last night and when I woke up this morning, my last and first thoughts were about what I was going to write about this week. Nothing really stood out to me. There were some good days and there were some bad days, and then there were some really awful days, which seems to be the pattern grief takes on. I relished the good days, I plodded through the bad days, and on the really awful days, I took three showers, standing in the comforting heat of the drumming water and soaking myself in tears.

During breakfast, I thought I came up with an idea. Then I checked my emails, took yet another shower, and prepared for my walk. Right before I left, I noticed someone left a comment under one of the many photos I posted of the Oregon coast. This one showed a path in the sand made by some sort of vehicle, and I pondered if it was showing me the way to go. Someone asked, “Will it lead to a sand dollar?” I answered, “Hasn’t yet, but I didn’t ask for one this year either.” I headed out the door.

For those that don’t know, sand dollars have provided some stellar moments for me here in this exact spot. One year, when I came here feeling thoroughly defeated, thoroughly useless, and like I’d wasted my whole life, I had a yell-at-the-ocean moment in which I asked what the world wanted from me, and then I said, “If I am on the right path, if I am doing what I’m supposed to be doing, then let me find a whole sand dollar. A WHOLE sand dollar. Not a broken one.” A few nights later, on a foggy night, I was walking next to the ocean and heading back to the little house. An old man appeared out of the fog, walked right up to me, got in my face, and asked if I’d found a whole sand dollar. He reached in his pocket and pulled out three and told me to choose one. I did. I never saw him again.

Then, the year after I had breast cancer, I came here again and yelled at the ocean. “You didn’t tell me my path was going to include cancer!” I yelled. “If I’m going to be okay, then this time, let ME find the whole sand dollar.” On my last morning here, I walked out to the ocean to say goodbye. I felt a bump on my toe and found a small whole sand dollar, washed right up to me.

During the breast cancer year, a friend came out to the west coast, not in the same place as I come, but close. He said he was looking out at the ocean, thinking of me, when he felt a bump against his bare foot. He looked down and found a sand dollar, which he brought back to me.

So sand dollars mean a lot. But this year, when I got here, I didn’t say anything to the ocean at first. Finally, I just said, “What the hell?” and then I started moving through my two and a half weeks here. I did not ask for a sand dollar. It would take, I thought, a lot more than a sand dollar to make me feel better. To make me feel that what happened this year in any way was supposed to happen.

This is, without a doubt, the worst year of my life.

So this morning, I headed out on my walk, thinking I knew what I was going to write about in this blog, and having answered that, no, I hadn’t found a sand dollar and I hadn’t asked for one.

It was a noisy night last night, and when I stepped onto the beach, I found that the tide came up very far, farther than I’ve ever seen it. It left the beach filled with detritus, huge clumps of seaweed, logs of driftwood, dead jellyfish, crab shells, rocks, clumps that may have once been sea birds. The sand was very uneven, boggy in places, hard in others, and I had to be very careful where I stepped. So I moved more slowly than normal, and my eyes roved often from the waves to the ground in front of me. I torqued my right hip a couple days before coming here, and it was just starting to feel better. I didn’t want to get hurt.

Moving slowly, not wanting to get hurt, but aching with an ache that feels like it will never go away, my eyes were drawn to a small white disk. I knew what it was before I bent to pick it up.

The teeniest, tiniest, slimmest, most fragile of sand dollars. Whole. But no bigger than my thumbnail.

For a moment, I stood there, looking out at the ocean. I thought about throwing the sand dollar as hard as I could, losing it again to the sea. I thought about dropping it back to the sand and then grinding it under my heel.

I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell?

In the end, though, I cupped it in the palm of my hand and curled my fingers over it. I carried it for the rest of my walk and then back. As I passed the place where I found it, I saw that the water had come in and rolled over it. If I’d come by a few minutes later, I would never have seen the sand dollar.

Before I climbed the steps up the bluff and to the little house, I turned and faced the ocean. Her waves were reaching out.

“Thank you,” I said.

Maybe I’m going to feel better, little by little.

Hope always rises, people.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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.