This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

Wednesdays are a particularly busy day of the week for me. I have clients in the morning at 9:00, 10:00, and 11:00, I teach a class from 1:00 – 3:00, and then I have evening clients at 4:30, 5:30, 7:00 and 8:00. In that 3:00 to 4:30 break time yesterday, I quickly grabbed some books I needed to mail and headed off for the post office.

An online book club is discussing my novel, If You Tame Me, on October 4^th, and I’ve agreed to Zoom in to the meeting. Several of the members requested signed books, which, of course, I was more than happy to provide. I wanted to give them as much time as possible to read, so while a trip to the post office would have been easier on another day, I kept my eye on the clock and zoomed off to the post office.

I rarely ever go all the way inside the post office anymore. They have a do-it-yourself machine in the lobby and I’ve become quite proficient. So I was tapping away at the screen when I heard someone behind me call my name, her voice lilting up into a question.

“Kathie?”

I turned and found Brenda, someone I’d gone to middle school and high school with!

Now school always requires a trip through my mental Rolodex. I went to three different high schools. Because my father worked for the Small Business Administration, he was transferred frequently as he traveled up the government ladder. I went to kindergarten in Berkeley, Missouri. Grades 1 – 5 were in Esko, Minnesota, way up north between Duluth and Cloquet. Grades 6 – sophomore year were in Stoughton, Wisconsin, a town outside of Madison. First semester junior year was in Cedarburg, Wisconsin. Second semester junior year through my senior year were here, in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Amazingly, thanks to the miracle that is the internet, I am actually still in contact with people from each school, with the exception of my kindergarten class. And that’s mainly because I only remember my teacher, an awful woman named Miss Wise who was anything but. She yelled at me once for coloring a tree blue instead of green. I responded by poking the corner of my crayon box into her eye.

I doubt that she was very fond of me either.

Brenda was from my time in Stoughton, and somehow, we’re both now in Waukesha. We also both have adult kids and a younger kid who is still in college, though Brenda, brave woman, went on to have younger kids yet. We’re also both grandparents.

But standing there, in the post office, we both became 12 years old again.

We talked about what we remembered. For me, there is one clear memory of Brenda, which includes a memory of a bruise that spanned my entire left thigh and was every color of the rainbow.

It was a winter day, and we were all outside for recess. Fifth and sixth grades were housed in a building called Central School, which is no longer there today. Across a large parking lot was the junior high, where we would go next year. Central was a sort of no-man’s land, a limbo, between elementary school and what was still called junior high then. We had a fabulous field to play in, surrounded by a low stone fence. There was an opening in that fence, and we could look down a steep hill to a river, if I remember right. We had a fresh snow that day, and ice as well. I don’t remember why a bunch of us were standing at that break in the fence, but Brenda took a step, and down, down, down she went. She couldn’t climb back up, it was too slippery, and the bell was about to ring.

Ignorant hero that I was, I shouted, “I’ll help you!” and then I slid down too, hitting every tree along the way. Hence the major bruise. Of course, this meant we were both stuck. But hey, she wasn’t alone anymore.

The bell rang.

Behind the school building was a set of stairs that led down to this lower area, and we decided to walk there to see if we could climb the stairs back up. But no, they were covered with snow and ice too.

Eventually, at the top of the hill, a few of the boys from our class stared down at us. Our teacher, informed of our predicament, sent out the boys to help. “Climb up!” they shouted.

Yes, that was oh so helpful.

We began the long climb up, grabbing onto tree limbs and trunks, slip-sliding the whole way. We did make it, obviously, since we were standing in the post office some 50 years later. The boys didn’t have anything to do with it, though. Neither did our teacher.

We did it.

In the post office, we laughed.

And then, as we were saying goodbye, Brenda said, “Your books really are amazing, Kathie.”

Spontaneous, unexpected comments about my work are rare. I’m pretty sure I glowed.

And then we parted, with promises to get together.

Like those comments, it’s also rare to have a moment where you get to catch a glimpse of who you once were, and a glimpse of who you are now. I was the girl who once leapt, without thinking, down an icy hill to help a friend. We were both girls who solved a tricky problem ourselves, without the help of boys or teachers. And now, we’re fully immersed in family, kids, grandkids, and on and on.

And I write really good books.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

On Monday afternoon, as I was driving home from the bank, my husband sent me a simple text message.

Olivia Newton John died.

So simple. Four words. The death of a celebrity.

Yet it took my breath away.

Olivia Newton John had been fighting breast cancer since 1992. Her death coming right after my celebration of five years out felt like a punch to my temples. Five years was huge. Yet five years could be nothing.

I danced and sang to Olivia Newton John as a teenager, like most everybody did. In high school, I worked as a kennelworker at the local humane society, and one of my clearest memories is dancing down the aisle between the dog kennels, pushing a cart filled with their dinners, and singing “You’re The One That I Want” at the top of my lungs. It was 1978, I was going to graduate high school, college at the University of Wisconsin – Madison was in my very near future, and I was balancing two boyfriends at once. Me! I was on top of the world and I rocked with Olivia and I swear the dogs danced with me. Though they might have just wanted me to feed them already.

As years passed, I didn’t think about Olivia Newton John much anymore. Not until June 26, 2017, when I sat in an examination room at the Breast Care center at my clinic. The week before, my mammogram tanked, and so did the immediate ultrasound, and now I was going to have a biopsy. The doctor was running late, and I was nervous, so I tried to distract myself by grabbing a magazine off the table next to my chair. It was People, the issue was from June 19, and on the cover was Olivia Newton John. It said that her breast cancer had returned after 25 years. It was located in her tailbone.

I threw the magazine across the room as if it scalded my fingers. Then, I carefully picked it up and put it in the trash can. I shoved it all the way down, past all the paper towels and whatever else might be there. I didn’t want anyone else to find it. Anyone else like me, who was waiting on a biopsy.

The next day, June 27, 2017, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

From that point on, Olivia Newton John and I were linked again. Me, just starting out. She, on this journey at that point for 25 years already. She was 68 years old at that time; I was soon to be 57.

I posted about this on Facebook, in her honor. To my surprise, I was contacted by a reporter from our local newspaper. She asked if she could talk to me about Olivia Newton John and my own experience, and I said sure.

We talked about the expected things. My diagnosis and prognosis. That day in the exam room. Where I am now. How I felt that Olivia Newton John was just a beacon of light for those experiencing breast cancer. She was diagnosed in 1992. It returned in 2017. She passed away in 2022. That’s a total of 30 years. And 25 of them were free, as far as anyone knew, of cancer. In that time, she did her best to help with breast cancer research, and to give hope and encouragement to those who were bound by the pink ribbon. She formed the Olivia Newton John Cancer Wellness & Research Center in Australia. On their website, she is quoted as saying:

“With more and more people affected by cancer every day, I believe we are in a world desperate for healing, and I’m committed to doing whatever I can to help. I also believe that when you go through something difficult, even something as dramatic as cancer, that something positive will come of it.”

For me, something positive has come from it. I’ve learned how to look for a moment of happiness every day. And I’ve learned that happiness is something you do have to look for in everything that is around you. You can’t wait for it to come to you. It’s already there.

And then the reporter asked me an unexpected question. “How else did Olivia Newton John affect you?”

I had to think on it, because it was a quality that was hard to put into words. Olivia Newton John remained herself. She didn’t become or embody the breast cancer experience.

I’ve known women who have basically taken on breast cancer as their personality. There was one in particular, who tried to create a one-woman show on stage, talking about her experience. Off stage, she wore pink sneakers with pink ribbons. She wore pink shirts emblazoned with breast cancer slogans, like “I saved the tatas!” She wore pants with more pink ribbons. Earrings and necklaces of pink ribbons. Everything, absolutely everything was breast cancer.

She became breast cancer. Whoever she was before, that person was gone.

Don’t get me wrong; I do wear breast cancer t-shirts from time to time, mostly when I’m working out. They remind me that if I was strong enough to get through breast cancer, then I’m strong enough to get through 60 freaking minutes on a treadmill.

But in general – I was me before I had breast cancer. And I’m still me now, although cancer is a part of my life experience. But it’s just that. A part. There’s just so much more.

Just like Olivia Newton John. All the way til the end.

You’re the one that I want, Olivia. Ooo-oo-oo, honey.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Well, if you follow me on Facebook, there’s no doubt what my moment of happiness was. And there’s another one now too, tacked on.

Five years ago, on June 27, 2017, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

And this past Friday, on my 62^nd birthday, I took my final cancer med. A little yellow pill that caused major side effects for five years. And that was also a daily reminder of what I’d gone through.

YAY!

The little yellow pill, among other things, leeched my body of calcium, and so for the 5 years, I also had to take calcium, with Vitamin D3, twice a day. The little yellow pill was so small, I rarely felt it as I swallowed it down. But the calcium pill was large and sticky and I often gagged when I took it. So I contacted my oncologist to ask if I needed to continue to take the calcium, now that the little yellow pill was in my little yellow past.

“No,” he said. “If you take calcium when you don’t need it, it can cause kidney stones. Stop taking it right away.”

And so last night, for the first time in five years, I swallowed no pills before I went to bed. No gagging before bed. I brushed my teeth, climbed between the covers, meditated, and dropped off.

YAY!

This morning, I pulled the calcium pill out of my pill-a-day container and plunked it back into the bottle. No gagging this morning.

YAY!

And now, it remains to be seen if I will have to continue taking magnesium and potassium, which were also depleted by the little yellow pill. Blood tests will determine that.

There’s a commercial on television right now, for a skin condition. In it, people have shards of glass sticking out of their limbs, and burning pieces of charcoal, and heavy pieces of armor. They stand up, shake their bodies, and these pieces just fly off.

I feel like pieces are flying off of me right now. In such a good way. Not like the piece I lost when I went in for the partial mastectomy.

There’s been a lot of discussion about being in the “new normal” with Covid. I am now returning to the “new normal” after breast cancer. As piece by piece drops away, such as no more breast MRI’s, mammograms returning to once a year, the little yellow pill disappearing from my pill container, members of my medical team stepping away, the radiation oncologist first, the surgeon second, leaving only my oncologist who I now only see once a year, I am wiggling myself into that new normal.

I think, due mostly to the media, people think that once you’re declared cancer-free, you step out into the sunlight and resume your life as if cancer never happened. That is just so not true. No matter the diagnosis, the prognosis, and the end results, everyone I’ve met who has dealt with any kind of cancer still has that little bit of fear tucked into them. It goes like this: “Cancer snuck into me once. It could do so again.”

I know women who are over 20 years out of breast cancer. The day of their annual mammogram, they shake. And so I’m prepared for that too, and I don’t worry about the lingering fear. Like all of the flying-off pieces, the fear flies off too. I tend to think of it when I look in a mirror. Because there, the evidence of what happened remains. But then I step away and move into my day and I’m grateful to be here.

I had someone say to me once, the day after my surgery, “Now don’t ever say you have cancer or you had cancer ever again. That’s putting it out into the Universe, and then it can come back into you.”

Good lord. I bit my tongue, but I so wanted to say to this person, “Do not expect me to be superhuman. I was a cancer victim; I am a cancer survivor. That’s not a definition that can be taken away from me. That’s not a definition I can forget.”

I also had a small handful of students who fell away because they felt the cancer was distracting me from teaching. One even said to me, “I used to learn so much from you. Now I’m not.” And this was someone who worked with cancer patients! Again, I bit my tongue, though I wanted to say, “Do not expect me to be superhuman.” For heaven’s sake, during the whole treatment, I only missed three days of work. If she wasn’t learning from me, it was because she was not listening. Not hearing someone who managed, through a terrifying time, to still reach out, to still help, to still guide. I teach writing, but I’ve always taught more than that. Especially during that time.

Maybe it was good that some of these pieces fell away.

One of the best moments I had during this whole ordeal was a friend saying, “You don’t have to be so brave. You can be scared. You can be sad. It’s all right.”

And I was. I am.

But seeing the pieces fall away, one by one…priceless. Feeling lighter, feeling more like myself, feeling like I’m still here. I’ve brushed away so much. And now…no more little yellow pill. No more sticky white calcium.

The fear? I can fold it away and tuck it into my back pocket.

And I’m okay with that. I’m okay.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Some weeks are just full of richness. I’m in La Crosse, Wisconsin, doing several events including visiting a book club, doing a reading/signing/discussion at a bookstore, and teaching a class called The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit at a beautiful sculpture garden. My week has also been full of reading in bed, sleeping in, taking a book along to read by the Mississippi River, and there’s more yet to come, since I don’t go home until Sunday.

But there was one moment in particular, an odd one, that had me laughing out loud all alone in my hotel room, and so I’ve chosen that one.

I’m staying in what is my favorite hotel, a Super8. It’s a very simple, basic hotel. The room is comfortable, the bed lovely, there’s a window I can open to let in fresh air. It has one of the best swimming pools I’ve ever been in, and it has a great hot tub too. Since I’ve learned to swim since the last time I was here, I’m actually using the swimming pool as a swimming pool. And I’ve discovered, without the blue line on the bottom of the gym’s pool, it is not feasible for me to swim in a straight line. Even with my mask on. Luckily, the others in the pool have been good about getting out of my way.

But it’s the people here that make it great. The folks behind the desk go out of their way to make your stay comfortable and everything you need it to be. They are even keeping me supplied with extra coffee!

So the other night, as I looked up from reading my book, I pondered the full size ironing board and massive iron that hung from one of the walls. I wondered how long it had been since anyone used it, or if anyone ever used it at all.

I’ve seen ironing boards and irons in hotels before, but usually, they’re tucked away. This one is right out in the open. My own experience with ironing is minimal and disastrous. When I was first married to husband number 1, and I was all of 21 years old, I bought what I thought was a beautiful shower curtain for our apartment bathroom. The shower curtain part was white, and then there were these sheers that hung over it in a drapery way, as if the shower was a big window. The sheers where covered with yellow flowers, and there was a valance too. I fought to figure out how to hang it all up, wanting it in place in time for my new husband to come home and be impressed with my domestic skills. But when I got it all up, I found that the effect was marred by the sheers being very wrinkled from being in the package. That just wouldn’t do.

We’d been given a tabletop ironing board and iron for a wedding present, so I fought the sheers back down, placed the board on my used kitchen table, turned on the iron and placed it on the sheer, fragile fabric.

And I burned the hell out of it.

This was probably the first secret I kept from that husband. Sobbing, I threw the burnt sheers into the dumpster behind the apartment building. When my husband saw the plain shower curtain, he was puzzled. “Why’d you just choose white?” he asked. “I couldn’t decide,” I said, “and it was cheap,” which pleased him.

So I studied this ironing board and iron in my hotel room. And then I laughed because my thoughts immediately turned to…The Waltons.

While I was still with this same husband, and our big kids were small, we made a trip to see the real Walton’s Mountain, which is Schuyler, Virginia. The Walton house, which is really the Hamner house, is still there, and there is a Walton’s Mountain Museum as well. There is a recreation of the kitchen and John Boy’s bedroom. We took the tour and I listened closely as the tour guide pointed out the quilt on John Boy’s bed.

“Do you recognize that?” she said. “That’s the very quilt that John wrapped Olivia in when he took her to the hospital when she fell ill with polio.”

I couldn’t help myself. “No, it’s not,” I said. “That’s the signature quilt that Olivia’s friends brought her while she was sick. Dr. Vance said she was too ill to go to the hospital, so they treated her at home. John wrapped her in the quilt to bring her down to the living room so she could watch Jason sing the song that he wrote, that just won him first prize at a talent show. The song was inspired by Grandma, who was ironing in such a rhythmic way that he got the song out of it. It was called The Ironing Board Blues.” And then I sang a few lines.

The tour guide and the group fell silent. My husband looked anywhere but at me.

“Let’s move on,” the tour guide finally said.

Hey, if you’re going to give a tour, you’d better get it right!

And in my hotel room, I laughed. My life, it seems, has mellowed into memories of burned shower curtains and The Waltons. And I’m just fine with that.

Thank you, John, Olivia (ever wonder where my Olivia’s name comes from? Now you know!), John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen, Erin, Jim Bob, Elizabeth, Grandma, Grandpa, and especially Earl Hamner who made my day when he friended me on Facebook a few years before his death.

I never touched another iron and I never will, though I gave the hotel iron a good pat for bringing me a laugh.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you’d like to see, here is a video clip of Jason singing his song. If you look closely, you’ll see Olivia is wrapped in the signature quilt. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy3xhhV7CvQ

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

This past Monday, Michael and I drove to our lawyer’s office to sign our wills.

That’s a hell of a way to start a Moment Of Happiness, isn’t it?

As we got to the top of the Barstow Street hill in Waukesha, one of the steepest hills to drive in this city, we were stopped…by a very long funeral procession. We sat there, watching the lead car, the hearse, and then car after car after car, each sporting a little flag and with their lights on in the daytime.  And I began to laugh. I mean, really. Think about all the possible metaphors and symbols here. We’re signing our wills. We get stopped by a long funeral procession, like a long life itself, being laid to rest. We had to climb a long steep hill to get there, just like we’ve been climbing the long steep hill of life…ohmygod, I could go on forever.

Except, of course, that’s sort of the point, isn’t it. I’m not going to go on forever.

But you know, I think it’s also important that I laughed.

And then, when the last car finally went by, we moved ahead, got to the lawyer, asked for a few more clarifications, and then, signed our lives away. Literally.

But I have to tell you, it didn’t feel grim. It felt…tidy.

Ever since Olivia was born in 2000, Michael and I have looked at each other from time to time and said, “We really need to get our wills done.” We’d nod sagely and with a great sense of responsibility, and then we’d put it off. Again. And there wasn’t just Olivia. There were my three older kids from my first marriage, Christopher, Andy, and Katie. As time went on, there was a daughter-in-law and a son-in-law. There was a granddaughter, Grandbaby Maya Mae. There was property and pets. There was intellectual property, with the copyrights for my books and Michael’s. For heaven’s sake, there was a business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop. And we kept saying, “We really need to get our wills done,” nodding, and putting it off.

Until Monday, when we signed on the dotted lines.

And it felt tidy. Responsible. Like I was taking care of loved ones, from my family to my students to my readers. I was making sure everyone would be okay.

Walking out of that office, I really didn’t feel sad or morbid or anything like that. I felt like, if I was coming to the final chapter of my own book, I would be ready to close the covers and sigh with the joy and satisfaction that comes after reading something really, really wonderful.

Next Friday, I’m going to turn sixty-two years old. I will be in a hotel room in La Crosse, Wisconsin, a little city that I love, by the mighty river that I love, and I’ll be in the midst of doing what I love. I’m visiting a book club on Tuesday, where they’re discussing my novel, All Told. On Thursday, I’m reading from and discussing All Told at one of my favorite bookstores, Pearl Street Books. On Saturday, the day after my birthday, I’m teaching a class, The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit, at the beautiful Kinstone in Fountain City, Wisconsin, and I’ll be surrounded by eager writers and visual artists. No, I won’t be home, but really, what better way to turn sixty-two?

And on that day, my birthday, I will be taking my final oral chemotherapy pill, which I’ve swallowed for the last five years for the treatment of breast cancer. While I am very grateful for the job that medication has done in squashing any possible attempts for the breast cancer to return, I will also be so glad to see that little pill go. Besides the side effects, which have been considerable, it’s been a daily yellow reminder that I’ve been sick with something that could have easily taken me out.

Taken me out before I had the chance to write my will, to take care of all my loved ones. To make sure they’re okay. And when I swallow that last pill, it will be with the knowledge that I’m okay. I’m still here. Doing what I love. Writing. Teaching.

Raising my children. Watching my grandchild grow.

Raising my students. Watching them grow. I had two more students receive book contracts this week. How amazing is that?

And, when I swallow that last pill, it’s also with the knowledge that when I close my own personal life book, it’s with the sense that everything is okay.

That little quiet moment at the top of the Barstow Street hill, on my way to sign my will, watching a funeral procession go by, and feeling myself fall into laughter, wasn’t such a little quiet moment at all, was it.

In my Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop this week, a student brought up this Julian of Norwich quote:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

I realize now, writing this Moment, that this is exactly what I’m feeling.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This past weekend, I led the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. It was our first one since Covid hit, but I believe our 14^th overall, and it was a cause for great celebration. I hosted 26 writers from 8 states for 4 days under 1 roof, at Mount Mary University in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. I lectured, I led workshops, I met with everyone in one-on-one consultations, I made sure everyone was fed, and I ran, ran, ran. And it was marvelous. I am never so happy as when I’m fully in my element, and my element is writing. In this little microcosm of the writing world, I surrounded myself with writers and I talked about writing and we all lived in a world of words.

Incredible.

I noticed, though, that there was a common theme cropping up in the one-on-one consultations. Many of the writers quietly said to me, “I’m not feeling very confident,” or “I’m not sure I can do this,” or “I’m not sure WHY I’m doing this,” or simply, “I just don’t think I’m very good.” Bear in mind that among these 26 writers, 12 already had books published, and many already had short pieces published. But, “I’m not feeling very confident.”

Recently, the company that published my novel, All Told, decided to become an all-hybrid company. This means that the writer pays for some of the costs of publication. This used to be called subsidy publishing, and while it’s a step up from self-publishing, I still don’t support it. I’m a firm believer that writers should be paid for their work. So when I offered this company my next novel, they offered me a hybrid contract. And I offered them a solid no.

Which meant I found myself back at square one. Finding a publisher. I was suddenly without a home for my work.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

I immediately went into a tailspin. 13 books already published, and I wondered if I was a fluke. I wondered if I was done. If my whole career was over. If there ever was a career to begin with. This new book, which I consider the best I’ve ever written, suddenly became filled with flaws.

But after I finished crying, I sent it out anyway. And it was accepted at another publisher within 48 hours.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

I’ve written before about my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Fatticci, who, after hearing me read what turned out to be a short story in front of my class, breathed, “Oh my god, Kathie, you’re a writer!” There was also Mr. Salt in the 8^th grade. I had to read a story in front of that class too, and after I sat down, I began scribbling furiously on my paper, rewriting everything, because I was convinced it was terrible. When I glanced up, Mr. Salt was looking directly at me, and he mouthed, “You are SO good!”

And there was Mr. Stein in high school. On the back of one of my stories, which I still have 45 years later, he wrote in red ink that I was gifted. But, he wrote, with giftedness comes a responsibility. And he went on about how I had to use that gift. How I had to give back to the world. How being gifted didn’t mean it would be easy. But I had a responsibility to keep at it and never ever give up.

Never give up.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

And well, I’m a teacher now too, aren’t I. My element isn’t just writing (as if writing could ever have a “just” in front of it), but teaching.

And so, one by one, I told them about my recent crisis of confidence. And I also said:

“Oh my god, you’re a writer!”

“You are SO good!”

“You have a responsibility.”

There are times in your life where you just suddenly find yourself clicking into a niche where you just feel that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You are doing what you’re supposed to be doing. You BELONG.

I felt that when I signed my 14^th book contract, for my novel, Hope Always Rises, which will be released on March 7^th, 2023. I felt that all four-day weekend long, as I gave a lecture, led the workshops, and met one on one with all these writers, facing down their “I’m not feeling so confident.”

The 26 writers I sent on their way were all smiling. Will they feel confident for the rest of their lives? Of course not. But will they know where to turn when they need to? Will they hear my words again, just like I hear the words of Mrs. Fatticci, Mr. Salt, and Mr. Stein, over and over and over with each crisis of confidence? Yep.

In my element. Full of joy.

And, oh, by the way. I have another book coming out.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

I have a secret.

And it’s a good secret.

Remember having a secret when you were a kid? At least with good secrets, it was a feeling better than ice cream. I think secrets are like those white and yellow moths I talked about in last week’s blog. I used to catch them, then slowly uncurl my fingers, and the moth would sit there for a bit, the wings slowly opening and closing, and that was like a secret in my hand.

I remember the first time I was told I was pregnant. Really, really pregnant. My first husband and I tried for quite a while, and we had so many at-home pregnancy tests come out positive, but then I’d go to the doctor and take a blood test and he’d say he was sorry. Back then, the at-home tests really weren’t all that accurate, and he urged me not to use them, but instead to come in for a blood test when I was 21 days late. But I could never wait. The awful at-home tests could be used at 15 days and so I took them and hoped it was right, and then it wasn’t.

But then…it was. The doctor called me and said, “You did it!”

I didn’t call my husband, who was at work. I didn’t call my mother or any friends. I sat in my rocker, with my hands over my newly transformed belly and I rocked and I sunk deep into that secret. I was no longer one person. I was two.

I kept that secret for an entire day. Then I told my husband and everyone else.

It was wonderful.

Of course, there have been some secrets that weren’t so great. But over the years, I’ve learned to talk about some, and shove the rest aside.

And now…there’s this secret.

I’ve kept it tucked away for a week now.

And no, I’m not pregnant! Not in the baby way, anyway.

I’m going to announce this secret tonight, as I present my lecture at the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. And then I will share it on social media and here on Friday.

You can find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kathiegiorgioauthor

On Twitter, at @kathiegiorgio.

On Instagram at @kathiegio1

And here, I think it will be on my home page, where I list the news.

This is my Moment, and while it’s making me very happy, I’m going to keep it to myself for just a teeny bit longer.

Just wait. And watch. I’ll uncurl my fingers and you’ll see those wings opening and closing!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

To say that the news in our country has been dark lately is an understatement. It’s been midnight here. Covid, gun control, the January 6 hearings, the ridiculous killing of Roe vs. Wade. The continual battle of “I’m right, you’re wrong.” My computer opens immediately to the news headlines, and I think I’m going to have to change that setting, allowing me to at least get a cup of coffee in and a decent breakfast before I have to face it.

With this darkness hanging around me, I found a light in an unexpected place. And in an unexpected being – a bug.

The AllWriters’ classroom was rapidly running out of treats and chocolate for the students – yes, there are always munchies and chocolate on my classroom table. I taught on Tuesday night until 9:00, and I had a class the next day at 1:00. There were next to no treats left. In the morning, I had clients from 9 until noon, and then, with squeezing in setting up the classroom, taking the dog out, and getting my own lunch, there was no time to run to the store. Our faithful backyard Walgreens is open until 10:00 at night, so once my students were out the door and I’d cleaned everything up and put it away, I headed out across the city parking lot to get to the Walgreens parking lot, and then to Walgreens.

Living in a city, you wouldn’t expect to see much in the way of nature or wildlife, but it struggles through. I’ve seen raccoons and possum, rabbits, and of course, flocks of birds, including the jackassy red-winged blackbird. Lately, there have been coyote sightings, as well as fox sightings. There are spiders galore, and stinkbugs and so on.

In between the city lot and the Walgreens lot, there is a little connecting strip of sidewalk that I call the bridge. It passes through a neighbor’s back yard and a little grove of bushes and trees. I was tired and still had a full night of reading manuscripts in front of me, so I was walking fairly slowly, with my hands stuck in my back pockets and my eyes studying the ground in front of me.

And that’s when I saw it. That flash of green mixed with just a little bit of yellow. A fluorescent flash. A bug flash.

A firefly! Or, from when I lived in Minnesota, a lightning bug.

I stopped on that little bridge sidewalk and just watched and waited. In a moment, there were more flashes, and soon I was surrounded by a flashlight firefly brigade. Their flight pattern is random and graceful, swirls that don’t seem to have any intent at all. There is no buzz, there are no stingers. It doesn’t bite. It just flashes, on and off, a beacon. You could see it as small, slow-motion fireworks, or you could see it just as I did right there – a moment filled with natural light. A gift. Beautiful.

When I was a little girl living in the northern part of Minnesota, we had a huge backyard. It was split from the backyard neighbors by a creek that bubbled through. My time there, from when I was six years old to twelve, were filled with activities like Tarzan swings that hung from the trees and carried me flying over the creek, which was shallow, so I was never in danger of drowning. I “fished” with a stick with a string tied to it, a bent nail at the other end of the string as a hook. I never caught anything, except in my imagination. I ran with my friends through sprinklers, I danced in my swimming suit in the rain. When the sun was up, I chased after what I now know were moths, but what I called butterflies; little white-winged and yellow-winged loopy flyers that when caught, would sit for a moment on my palms, wings slowly opening and closing. I also caught grasshoppers to watch them spit, and I scooped frog eggs out of the creek into a bucket to watch them hatch into polliwogs and then tadpoles before I would release them back into the water.

And as the sun went down and the moon rose…lightning bugs.

I don’t remember chasing lightning bugs before I moved to Minnesota. Until I just turned six, I lived outside of St. Louis in Berkeley, Missouri. I can’t say for sure that there weren’t lightning bugs there. It may be that I was just too young to stay up after dark and chase after them.

But I do remember them in Minnesota. They were magic. When I caught one, like the moths, it would sit on my palm for a bit, glowing on and off in a code only it knew. And then it would fly away and I’d be off, chasing after another one. I don’t remember ever putting any in jars with holes in the lid made by nails. I always let them go free. I did capture caterpillars and put them in a jar, watching further magic as they wove themselves into a cocoon and came out victoriously as a butterfly…sometimes one with striking colors, but mostly more of my yellow and white friends.

But fireflies. Lightning bugs. They strolled in the air around me last Tuesday night, and I stood mesmerized, caught in the moment with them, and caught in the past with myself. A little girl who knew nothing about a virus that took people’s breath away, or children dying in mass shootings at the hands of someone who was a child himself, or enraged, crazed people breaking through the doors of history and tearing evidence of that history apart, all while threatening to kill everyone inside, hoisting a noose as if it was commonplace and okay, or a world where a woman’s body is controlled by the government.

I just stood there, watching the little flashlights.  One landed on my forearm for just a couple seconds, and then off it went. I breathed, “Thank you!” after it.

I went on my way into Walgreens, smiling the whole way. I bought my students an extra large bag of chocolate.

It’s amazing where you can find light, even when you’ve convinced yourself that light is now impossible to find.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s amazing, really, what dates stick in our minds.

Wedding anniversaries. My first marriage began on June 27, 1981. My second marriage began on October 9, 1999.

Birthdays. Mine, July 29. Michael’s, December 27. My four kids, 1/18, 3/12, 4/8, 10/17. And the day I miscarried, my lost child’s birthday: 12/21/1999.

Graduations, at least mine: High school, 6/1978, college, 8/1982, graduate school, 1/2004.

My business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop’s birthday: If I go by when I formed the LLC, 11/2004. The grand opening, 1/2005.

Many days. Momentous days. Days when, for better or worse, my life changed.

When I opened my eyes this past Monday morning, I lay still for a moment and thought, Five years.

On June 20^th, 2017, I had an appointment for a mammogram. I ran in, as I was late and in a hurry, as I was often late and in a hurry. I was busy, so busy, that I hadn’t had my yearly mammogram in 3 years. Other things, other people, always took precedence. With my eye on the clock, I ran into the clinic, stripped, and cooperatively followed every instruction to stick those two portions of myself into the machine, so that I could be on my way.

And then, instead of letting me go with a cheery, “Radiologist says all is fine! See you next year!”, the radiologist himself came in to see me. About twenty minutes later,  I left in a daze, holding an appointment reminder in my hand for a needle biopsy. The radiologist’s words rang in my head: “I’ll be honest. I usually tell women that they have a 20% chance that this is cancer, and an 80% chance that this is nothing. With you, I’m flipping that. I’d say it’s an 80% chance that it’s cancer.”

He was right.

What followed was a blur of doctor’s appointments, the sudden inclusion in my life of a “medical team” formed of a surgeon, a radiation oncologist, and a medication oncologist, two biopsies, when I was told I was at Stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma, a breast MRI, when I was told it was actually Stage 2, and a partial mastectomy, when I was told that the tumor was larger than expected and I was actually at Stage 3. 20 rounds of radiation. 5 years of estrogen-squashing medication which came with its own set of side effects and issues. And a blur of emotions too.

I was also told that if I hadn’t been so busy, so much in a hurry, and I’d come in for my regular mammograms, it likely would have been caught at Stage 0 non-invasive ductal carcinoma,

If I just wasn’t so busy. If other things, other people, didn’t always take precedence.

What a hard, hard year.

But this past Monday, I woke up, looked at the ceiling, and thought, Five years.

Five years since the word cancer entered my description. I would never again answer, “No,” to questionnaires that asked if I had cancer. On June 27^th, this coming Monday, it will be five years since my official diagnosis. July 25^th, it will be five years since the partial mastectomy.

And this year, on July 29^th, 2022, the birthday when I will turn 62, one of those dates I remember, I will be taking my last estrogen-squashing little yellow pill.

It will be all done. As all done as it can be, anyway.

My medical team has melted away, leaving me only with my medication oncologist. I am back to having a mammogram only once a year, and it will always be met. There are no more breast MRIs. I have a prosthesis, but I don’t know when the last time was that I wore it. I have grown used to one breast being smaller than the other. If anyone notices, well, it’s just a part of who I am now.

Someone who is trying very hard to not always be in a hurry. Someone who is trying to put self-care in the forefront. Other people and other things do not always have to come first. And the amazing thing? Those other people still understand that I love them completely.

My moment of happiness? The first of three five-year anniversaries is here, and it will be capped off with the final little yellow pill.

I’m alive. I’m cancer-free. And I have learned so much from this experience.

I looked back on the original blog, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, and this is what I wrote for my moment on that day:

6/20/2017: And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, this is going to be a hard one.

How do I come up with a moment of happiness on a day where mammogram results go the wrong way?

I went in today for a routine mammogram. I expected to be in and out. Instead, the radiologist saw something in my right breast on the pictures and he asked for an ultrasound. Then he saw something there too. On Monday, there will be a needle biopsy. On Tuesday, I will know what I’m facing or if I’m facing nothing at all.

And to think I was scared of the dentist.

New fear now. New what-ifs.

But a friend said today, “Don’t get your head too far out over your skis now.” So I got off the skis entirely. And I will wait the long wait until Tuesday.

So what’s the moment of happiness?

Just this. I know if I’m facing something, I won’t be facing it alone. And I know if I’m not facing anything at all, there will be many celebrating with me.

Not skiing, but standing.

And not alone.

I’m grateful.

And yes, this helps. Despite. Anyway. 

Five years later, I am still grateful. Not being alone got me through. And learning to sometimes put myself first still gets me through.

Thank you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.   

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

Recently, a client talked reverently about his mother, saying that she always found a sense of balance and happiness by digging in the dirt. My unfortunate reaction was, “Ick!”

I hate getting my hands dirty. As a kid, my fingerpainting art was made with the very tips of my fingers and barely covered any of the page before I declared it done. I hated clay. Play-doh was okay within reason – I could use utensils to make things out of it and not actually have to touch it. Or smell it. Ick. I was never a fan of sandboxes. My backyard neighbor had a huge, father-made sandbox, and I would sit on one of the little corner seats and help direct the play, but I would never dig myself. Ick.

When I moved into my first house with my first husband, there was a huge bed of lilies of the valley all along the back side of the house. I loved these glorious little flowers, so pretty with their tiny bells. And they required next to no weeding! When a weed poked its head above the plants, I grasped it and yanked it out, without getting my hands near the dirt at all.

I did thin them in the fall, and one afternoon while I was doing this, with bare hands, I felt what I thought was a rock beneath the leaves. I pulled it out and found that I was holding a dead bird.

We all know how I feel about birds. It might have been dead, but it still went flying. And I scrubbed my hands pink that day.

And now, here was my client and his mother, offering balance and happiness. Despite my immediate “Ick!”, it sounded nice. And so I took stock of my surroundings.

Our 3-story condo fits snugly between the city sidewalk and our parking lot. There is no yard. The closest we have is a tiny strip of dirt that runs right next to the AllWriters’ windows. Soon after moving here, I pulled out the “prairie grass” the developer planted. It looked really scraggly and its blades were as sharp as anything with the name blades should be. You could get your legs lacerated if you walked too close. So I put in hostas and a sort of lily that I have since forgotten the name. They provide a brilliant burst of red flowers in July. Again, very little weeding. I don’t have to put my hands in the dirt.

But other than that, the only “outdoor space” we have is our 3^rd floor deck. Over the years, I’ve bought two baskets of flowers and put them into ceramic pots in the corners that hang over the street. That’s it. In Covid Summer of 2020, I brought home Ms. Hib, a hibiscus tree that chose me at the grocery store. She didn’t require weeding either, and she and I spent a lonely summer, talking to each other on the deck. She bloomed brilliantly, but died during the winter after I brought her indoors. Then came Carla the hibiscus, another tree that claimed me, after the passing of my young student Carla. Carla sat on the deck last summer, and she survived the winter in my office. This spring, at the same grocery store where Ms. Hib came from, I unexpectedly fell in love with Sydney, another hibiscus. I have no idea how I’m going to fit two hibiscus trees in my office this winter, but Sydney didn’t care. Home she came.

I moved the hibiscus outside and then stood on my deck and considered my student’s words. His mother’s words.

A little online research later, I ordered a very nice 3-tier raised garden. The 3 tiers could be stacked in a multitude of ways, or they could be laid side by side. If I was going to dig in the dirt, I was going to save my back.

But I still worried about getting my hands dirty.

A few weeks ago, on my first outing after having Covid, I wandered into the plant section of Menards. I knew I didn’t want fruit or vegetables. I wanted flowers that I could glance at as I worked from my desk inside, and that I could relish when I relaxed on the deck. My son brought me an Easter lily the day after Easter, because he manages a grocery store and they were marked ridiculously down when Easter was over. He also brought me another plant for Mother’s Day. These were both going into my “garden”. I had a field day (note the pun) at Menards and came home with a riot of color. And dirt. I came home with dirt. And my hands got dirty just from handling the bags.

Ick. No balance and happiness yet!

All afternoon into evening, I toiled in the soil. I did not wear gloves. I dug holes. I pulled plants from their little temporary containers and I tucked them in and pulled up a blanket of dirt. I watered.

I had dirt up to my elbows.

But when I was done, well…I had a whole new crop of babies to deal with. Yes, I went inside and scrubbed until every last bit was gone from under my fingernails. But now, Carla and Sydney had plenty of green company. And I was surrounded by color. And living, breathing things. And a sense of accomplishment.

And balance. And happiness.

A couple days ago, we had the mother of all storms roll through Waukesha. A suspiciously green sky, a deluge of rain and hail, wind that howled. Through it all, I stood in front of my deck door and watched. I thought about running out and bringing in Carla and Sydney. I was so afraid the wind would snap them in two. But lightning was everywhere – a later report said we were getting 87 strikes a minute. So I stood there, with my clean hands folded, and waited.

Everything survived. The flowers took an hour or two to stand up again, but they stood.

Me too. With clean hands that are willing to get dirty from time to time. Balance and happiness.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.