This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

For the last couple weeks, I’ve been fretting over the feeling that I forgot something. Each time I remembered something, I thought, That’s it! But then the feeling returned and I was back to fretting again. It followed me around like a little storm cloud.

And then, one day last week, when I was muttering an almost daily mantra given to me by a good friend from grad school, that mantra being, “I’m going to rock the system,” it hit me.

I missed the anniversary of my friend Sam’s death. The day he chose to take his life.

On March 3, I remembered to put a happy birthday on Sam’s Facebook page, which is still up as a memorial to him. But on April 23, the fifth anniversary of his leaving this earth, I was silent. Not out of choice. Because I plain and simple forgot.

Since this realization, the feeling of forgetting something has left me. Instead, I descended into misery.

I met Sam within minutes of stepping foot onto Vermont College’s grounds for my first semester. This was a low-residential MFA program, it was December, I was a long way from home, it was dark and I couldn’t see anything around me. At home, my youngest daughter, Olivia, was thirteen months old, not yet diagnosed as autistic, but already making waves, and I was sick with guilt over leaving her. I didn’t know what I was thinking, deciding to go back to school for a graduate degree when I was forty years old, the mother of four, a hard worker already putting in 65 hours a week teaching other writers, and now I was taking on more. I was scared to death. I wanted to go home.

As I stepped off the shuttle bus that brought me and other students from the airport, I couldn’t see much of anything to ground me. But then there was this man standing beneath a light post and he smiled. He fell into step beside me. To this day, I don’t know why.

He helped me check in, get my keys, drop my stuff off. And then he led me to the dining room and we talked all through the late dinner.  He asked me all about myself and I told him, because I was so desperate to have someone know me, here in this world where I was suddenly surrounded by absolute strangers. By the end of our meal, he did know me. He recognized who I was by the stories I’d had published.

“Kathie,” he said, “you’re going to rock the system. You already are.”

And then I was okay.

Throughout our years after grad school, we maintained contact. We each shared the same publisher for a while. And everything, everything I decided to do, everything I did, Sam said, “Kathie, you’re going to rock the system.”

To this day, I say it to myself. Whenever I’m scared. Whenever I’m unsure. Which happens way more often than people believe.

On April 23, 2014, Sam chose to end his life. I knew he was having a hard time. I intended to speak with him later in the day. I was busy. But by later in the day, he was gone.

And now, I missed that morbid anniversary for the first time. I didn’t leave a note, letting him know what he meant to me and what he means to me still.

A couple days after this realization, I was heading into a meeting I didn’t want to go into, and I muttered to myself, “Kathie, you’re going to rock the system.”

Which resulted in realization number two. I haven’t forgotten Sam. I haven’t forgotten him at all. He is with me constantly, a smiling shadow that falls into step beside me, and never more than when I repeat those words. I just no longer focus on his death.

I focus on his life. His passion, his compassion, his incredible knowledge of what a person needs right when they need it and his willingness to give it. I don’t need to remember his death.

I only need to remember him.

And I do. Which brings me great joy. My life was enriched when he came into it, and my life continues to be rich because of his impact and care. I didn’t forget, Sam. I just didn’t need to remember.

I never know from day to day what “rocking the system” means, exactly, but thanks to Sam, I do it. Because he saw it in me.

Thanks, Sam. I miss you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I have bronchitis, and two little patches of pneumonia growing in my lungs.

Well, there’s a weird way to start a Moment! But bear with me. There’s a reason.

There are so many things they don’t tell you in Cancer School. I don’t even know where Cancer School is, actually…I think it must be right next door to Parent School in some nondescript building in the middle of nowhere. Because we can’t find these bastions of knowledge. We struggle along and wish that someone could have filled us in BC (before cancer) and BK (before kids).

Well, I’m telling. Cancer Surprises 101.

There’s so much about the cancer recovery process that isn’t spoken about to the general public. Watch a movie, and you’ll see cancer patients being told, “We got it all!” and “You’re clear!” and the patient and their families burst into tears and then romp out into the sunshine to return to life as it was before the diagnosis.

Trust me, it’s not that way. But then little things start coming along to let you know you are indeed still the person you were before cancer. Here’s some that have struck me happy:

*I tried on a shirt in the dressing room and my eyes didn’t go immediately to my right side, to see if the difference was noticeable.

*I forgot to put on my “sleeping bra” and yet still managed to sleep comfortably through the night.

*A song that caused me to burst into tears all through the Summer of Cancer no longer brings sadness. In fact, I can belt it out without my voice cracking.

And then there was today. I’ve been coughing coughing coughing for two weeks now. The pollen count went way up and I’m asthmatic, so I assumed it was asthma and allergies. My emergency inhaler, which I hadn’t used in over a year, suddenly came out of hiding and found its way to my lungs, first once a day, then twice. Yesterday, the cough suddenly grew deeper and I woke this morning with chills and a fever. As an asthmatic, I’ve dealt often with bronchitis and pneumonia, so the first thing I did was call in for an appointment. I’d also been lectured by my oncologist that the cancer treatments I received would leave me somewhat short in the resistance department for quite some time.

“A few months?” I asked back then.

“Maybe years,” he said.

Cripes.

But here’s the first weird thing that actually made me smile. I typically get bronchitis or pneumonia two to four times a year. Since my breast cancer diagnosis two years ago – not once. It was like my body shoved everything else out of the way to focus only on getting rid of the cancer. And now…well, we’re back to business as normal.

This “normal” feel continued as I went to my clinic. The Cancer Center is on one side. Everything Else Center is on the other. I haven’t been to Everything Else in almost two years – not since June 20, 2017. Today, I breezed past Cancer, parked in the Everything Else lot, and walked in.

Then I went through more normal. Breathing like a constipated train while the doctor listened to my lungs. Chugging off to x-ray to see if there might be pneumonia. And then back to my doctor. My regular doctor. My normal doctor.

“You haven’t been on antibiotics in two years!” he exclaimed.

“Two years!” I echoed.

“You haven’t had bronchitis or pneumonia in two years!” he crowed.

“Two years!” I sang and raised one fist in triumph.

“You’re normal-sick!” he cheered.

“Normal-sick!” I cheered with him, raising both fists and then we gave each other high fives.

Oh, what a weird, weird moment. But it was wonderful. I was at the doctor’s office, just like an everyday normal person. I had an everyday normal illness. I would get better after an everyday normal run of antibiotics and rest.

And my body returned to business as normal. The red flags were down. I had a sickness I wasn’t scared of. I had a sickness I was familiar with. I’ve pretty much graduated with a PhD from Asthma/Bronchitis/Pneumonia School. Normal.

I’ll probably be bitching about pneumonia tomorrow. But for today, I’m happy. If I ever find that Cancer School, I have a few lectures to give. I have a few for Parent School too.

Oh, yes. That helps. Despite. Anyway.

The Bronchitis/Pneumonia arsenal, complete with Starbucks!

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

I’m in La Crosse, Wisconsin, visiting with a book club that has read all of my books and invited me in for a visit with each new publication. I love them. And I love La Crosse, even though today, it is treating me to rain, keeping me in my hotel room instead of allowing me out to visit my favorite sites. Tomorrow, I leave La Crosse and drive to Green Bay, where I am participating in the UntitledTown book festival.

I’ve been looking forward to this trip for a long time. I looked forward to being away, but being in a familiar place, visiting a favorite labyrinth (if it’s still there – it was supposed to be torn down), going to a favorite park, dipping my toes in the Mississippi. And I was looking forward to my hotel stay, in a place I’ve been before, many times, that has a lovely pool and hot tub.

I haven’t been in a hot tub since September 2018, when the surgical area left behind by breast cancer became infected. Whenever I asked my surgeon since if I could go in a hot tub, she reacted in horror. Now, I could sink in up to my neck again and lose myself in heat.

Traditionally, this hotel has been quiet during weekdays and I’ve had the hot tub and pool to myself, especially if I go after ten o’clock. I walked down the hall last night at ten-thirty and then felt dismayed when I heard hooting and splashing and loud music. I peeked in the doorway and saw a mixed crowd of young people. They were dancing to the music, leaping into the pool, singing, shrieking, and there were lots and lots of cups and bottles and cans.

Oh, no.

But I waited so long to sink into a hot tub. I have a jetted tub at home, but it’s not the same, it’s not deep enough to be completely immersed. So I steeled myself, rolled my inner introvert into a towel, and walked in. I told myself I could huddle in a corner of the hot tub and they would never notice me.

I stepped past the two girls sitting on the steps of the hot tub, found my way to the corner, and sank down. And sure enough, they just kept going. Dancing, singing. Shouting over the music. I was tempted to not stop at my neck, but slip below the surface entirely, but I got the feeling the noise would continue there too. So I just tried to focus on the heat cushioning my body, easing aches and pains, and trying to melt the awful winter away (it’s supposed to snow on Saturday).

Then the group got into an argument over whether to listen to Backstreet Boys or NSync. Really? They all started to belt out their favorite songs, and it was worse, because now they were all singing different songs terribly instead of singing one song together terribly. And then one turned to me and asked, as if I could be the tie-breaker, “What do you want to hear?”

“Neither of those groups,” I replied. Which brought laughter.

“Who do you like?” they asked.

“Right now, Imagine Dragons,” I said. “Linkin Park. Coldplay.”

“Whoa!” they said.

Yeah. But my favorite group remains the Moody Blues. Who they likely never heard of.

But then they all circled me and began to sing along with whatever came up on their songlist. One of them told me they were all 23 – 25 year old physical therapy students from the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, in La Crosse for a conference. She asked why I was there and when I told her, she said, “You’re a writer? Whoa! That’s amazing!”

Damn straight, young’un.

And then a Smash Mouth song came on and I began to sing with them.

Well, the years start comin’ and they don’t stop comin’

Fed to the rules and I hit the ground runnin’

Didn’t make sense not to live for fun

Your brain gets smart, but your head gets dumb…

I sang and rocked with a bunch of twenty-somethings. I promised to send my meatloaf recipe to one of them. And when I returned to my room, after calling out goodnights and wishing them a good time at their conference, where they have to turn into young professionals in professional attire and speak in soft, confident voices and know what they’re talking about, I was smiling. Not as relaxed as I would have been, in the hot tub all by myself, maybe, but happy.

Sometimes, things that start out as irritants turn into gifts. (Maybe this rain will too.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last night, I was talking with a student in Australia and she brought up the Beverly Hillbillies. She couldn’t come up with the theme song. We meet in a chatroom and I spent the next several minutes, burning up my fingertips by typing out the entire song, all the way down to the “Hills, that is. Swimming pools. Movie stars.” Cue banjo solo.

After I mentioned this on Facebook, along with the fact that I couldn’t remember to go pick up a prescription at Walgreens that has been sitting there for a week, my brother asked if I remembered the theme song from Green Acres.

Yep. I typed it all out. No, I didn’t google it. It’s in my own personal google. My head.

The theme from the Brady Bunch. Gilligan’s Island. H.R. Pufnstuf. The Tra-la-la song from the Banana Splits. I can hum the song from all the Charlie Brown specials, though the song itself is actually called Linus & Lucy.

Good lord. You would think I spent my entire childhood in front of the television. I didn’t.

On Tuesday, and pretty much any other day of the week in my life, I ended up talking about The Waltons. To a class that had one student who had no idea who the Waltons were. She was too young. I mentioned that I owned the Waltons Barbie dolls.

Big eyes around the table. “The Waltons were made into Barbie dolls?”

Yes. Grandma and Grandpa, Mama and Daddy, John Boy and Mary Ellen. The rest of the family wasn’t represented, which likely means they didn’t sell well. But I have these, along with my Waltons lunchbox, board game (two copies), Viewmaster and reels, paper dolls, books (including a book of really awful poetry by Richard Thomas, who played John Boy), LP’s, and the entire series on DVD. I own the TV Guides that featured the show on the cover. And I have the Playboy that Mary Ellen Walton posed in, trying to shed her good mountain girl reputation.

And yet I didn’t start watching the Waltons until I was an adult, pregnant with my first child, and the reruns were on the old Family Channel on cable. But John Boy affected me long before then.

When I was in high school, I was always up in my room, writing. One Thursday night, I realized I was in my room, writing in my journal, listening to my family downstairs where they were watching The Waltons on television, where John Boy was up in his room, writing in his journal, listening to his family listen to Fibber McGee & Molly (I believe) on the radio. And I was zapped through with connection. With community. I was not isolated in my room, alone with my words and the story unfolding in my head. I was surrounded by writers, trailing all the way back through history.

John Boy was the first person to make me feel like what I was doing had any worth and any place of permanence. From that point on, writing became more than an activity to me. It became a life. And I belonged to a rich and wonderful community.

Now, I can sit down and watch any episode of the series, starting it at any place, and recite the script with the characters by memory. I’ve visited the real Walton’s Mountain, which is Schuyler, Virginia. I met Earl Hamner’s aunt – Earl was the writer of The Waltons, and he was the real John Boy. I corrected the tour guide during the Walton’s Mountain Museum tour, when she wrongly identified the quilt at the foot of John Boy’s bed. I’ve used scenes from the show in my lectures.

One of the big highlights of my life was the day Earl Hamner friended me on Facebook. I grieved when he died. I’ve grieved with the passing of the actors – Grandpa, Grandma, Daddy, and several of the minor, but no less fabulous characters.

But John Boy. My heart forever and ever belongs to John Boy. Because he let me know that whenever I sat down to write, the entire world’s history of writers stood behind me, looked over my shoulders, and thought what I was doing was worth doing.

Whenever I question if I am on the right path, which I’ve done a lot lately, I look to The Waltons. And I remember and feel again the saturation of emotion I had that night, in my bedroom, writing in my journal, while my family watched TV.

I won’t ever say goodnight to John Boy. I might sing him the theme from the Beverly Hillbillies, but I won’t ever say goodnight.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I thought seriously about putting off this Moment until tomorrow. I post the Moments on Thursday, but my whole self is focused on Friday this week. Friday is Spend-The-Afternoon-At-The-Cancer-Center Day.

It’s time for the mammogram again. And the bloodwork. And the visit with my medical oncologist. And you know, since June 20^th, 2017, the word “just” has been taken out of this type of routine appointment. It’s no longer “just” a mammogram, “just” bloodwork. And there didn’t used to be “medical oncologist”, as well as “radiation oncologist” and “breast cancer surgeon” in my vocabulary at all.

So all of my attention (and nerves) is on tomorrow. And it’s a double-whammy mammogram now – I’m worried about if it will come up clear, of course, but the last mammogram, this past August, caused trauma to the affected breast and I ended up with a whopper of an infection in the surgical site. Cellulitis that landed me just outside the doors of the ICU. A drain stuck into my breast, which was a year and two months cancer-free. Six weeks of hardcore antibiotics. And a breast that no longer looks anything like it did, pre- or post-surgery.

So I worry. About the outcome. About infection. About if they are even able to do a mammogram at all, and what they will do if they can’t. And what that new procedure will cost.

So I nearly put off This Week’s Moment by a day. But then I told myself that that’s just not the mission of the Moments. The Moments are about finding a positive even when things are feeling not-so-positive. Even when things are feeling scary.

So. This week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Tuesday this week was gloomy and rainy and just bleh. Kinda like today, come to think of it, though we’ve had the addition of snow and ice and high winds and thunder and lightning. But that day, it was just rainy and gloomy. Michael needed to do the grocery shopping, so I dropped him off at the store.

Before I drove away, a bright spot of pink caught my attention. There was a man walking toward the doors. He looked like an old farmer, wearing a tattered barn jacket and baggy jeans and beat-up work boots. His shoulders were slumped from years of hard work. And over his head sprouted the most improbably bright pink flowered umbrella.

It was shaped like an old-fashioned parasol, with a tight ruffled circlet at the top, fanning out into a skirt of hot pink, dotted with fluorescent flowers.

In my car, I laughed out loud.

As a child, and even now, I hated (hate) umbrellas. They’re hard to maneuver, and they’re supposed to be bad luck if you have them open in a house. I’ve never learned the magic that allows you to slip inside, leaving the umbrella pointing outside, and manage to close it before you get wet. I always end up snarling and soaked, throwing the umbrella open in a corner, and then stomping through the house.

Somewhere around the third grade, the bubbletop umbrella came out. It was see-through, with a bright color ringing the bottom, and it was longer than most umbrellas, coming down in a protective bubble over your shoulders. You could duck under it and still see where you were going because of its transparency. It was all the rage and my umbrella-hate turned to umbrella-envy. I even had it on my birthday list. And I got one!

Once school started, I prayed for rain. Hoped, wished, rain-danced for rain. And then it poured. I proudly stuck the umbrella through the door, popped it open, and somehow stepped smoothly under it. Not a drop hit my little head.

But as I walked to school, a massive wind went under the umbrella, blew it straight up and over my head, turning it into a parachute. It flew over the ground, bounced once, landed in a creek, and washed away, never to be seen again.

I hate umbrellas.

But now, this old farmer with his pink umbrella. And it got better. He looked over his shoulder and, following about five feet behind him, was a little girl. She was stomping through the rain, her arms crossed over her chest, and the look on her face said it all perfectly. “Umbrellas are stupid.”

But her grandfather held her pretty pink one. And he was nice and dry. He held his hand out to her and she stomped up to him and plastered herself to his side, still with her arms crossed, still with her umbrellas-are-stupid face and without actually touching the umbrella herself. They went into the store, she ahead of him, and he, so help me God, managed to turn and close that thing before it crossed the automatic door’s threshold.

I smiled all the way home.

Tomorrow, I will cross the Cancer Center’s threshold. I will stomp. My arms will be crossed over my chest. Cancer is stupid.

But I’m going to hang on to the image of that grandfather. Hopefully, I will walk back out, smiling, not a drop on my little head.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

A student posted a meme on Facebook this morning that read, “Are there actually people out there who make their beds every morning, or is this just a myth?”

I’m no myth.

Yes, I make the bed every morning, though sometimes, it’s the afternoon. I make the bed when I stay in a hotel. As a kid, when I went on sleepovers, I carefully rolled up my sleeping bag in the morning and tucked it to the side. In college, I made my bed neatly every morning and lined up the stuffed animals that were tossed to the floor every night. On crazy-wild days now, on the rare occasion that it gets to be nightfall before I can get to making the bed, I make it anyway…and then I unmake it and go to sleep.

I thought about all this this morning, as I made my bed. I actually refer to it as dressing the bed. I got a new bedspread yesterday and I was looking forward to putting my bed in its new outfit. In my chaotic world, this was one moment where I could focus, start a job, and finish it, standing back to look at the fruits of my labor, in under ten minutes.

Maybe that’s what this is about. Control. Making the bed is something that doesn’t get away from me.

My mom was an obsessed bed-maker. Our beds had to be made every day, in all seasons and in all situations. Weekdays or weekends, school days or summer vacations, the beds were made by 9:00. Even on days we were ill, we had to get up and move down to the couch by 9:00. To her credit, she made the beds for us on those sick days.

I’m amazed I can sleep past 9:00 in the morning, after so many years of this being ingrained in me.

So I have this cat. His name is Edgar Allen Paw and he is a polydactyl – an extra-toed cat. He also has a kink in his tail, his head is too small for his body and he has depth perception and balance issues. His vet nicely calls him a genetic anomaly.  He also, despite being a shorthair, has the thickest coat of any cat I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. We brush several cats off him every day, yet he still dumps hair wherever he goes. The reading chair in my office is covered with towels as he likes to sleep there, and the towels are now Edgar-orange. He also likes to snooze on my bedspread. Which was red. And then red with a big orange blot on it. And I mean big. Edgar is approximately 18 pounds.

Did I mention that Edgar’s hair is sticky? Not to the touch – but wherever he goes, his hair clings like it’s coated with superglue. Every day, as I made my bed, I tried to remove the hair, and every day, I failed. Any sense of calm and control I received from bed-making was going haywire. In desperation last weekend, I threw the bedspread into the washing machine and then the dryer. When I smoothed it back out on my bed…orange. Everywhere. The hair wasn’t removed, but gunked like a paste across the entire bedspread. Into the grooves of the pattern. Across the flat parts. Impossible to remove, even with my fingernails. It was no longer a bedspread, but a sticky Edgarspread.

Off it went to the dumpster. The spread, not the cat.

This morning, I spent a little extra time reverently dressing my bed with the new spread…at 9:45, not 9:00, as I had an interview at nine. I smoothed and I tucked. There wasn’t an orange hair anywhere (though I’ve yet to figure out how I’m going to keep him off of the bed – I had Michael buy a heavy-duty lint brush yesterday and I plan on adding daily brushing to my bed-making routine). I adjusted the pillows. I straightened the afghan at the foot. I pulled my world back under control.

Tonight, I will just as carefully unmake the bed. When I crawl under the covers, the sheets will be smooth and cool to the touch, the blankets at just the right height to tug over my shoulders and under my chin. There is a definite difference in the feel of a rumpled bed and a made bed. The made bed provides safety, organization, everything in its place, all’s right with the world. At least in bed.

Yes, I make my bed every morning, no matter where I am, whether or not the bed is my own. I make a sanctuary.

Gotta get it where you can.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been asked, “But when do you sleep?” I used to answer, “I don’t.” Now I answer, “Whenever I can.”

I love to sleep. I love the feeling of falling asleep, I love being asleep, I love dreaming. Waking up isn’t always a joy, no matter how many hours of sleep I’ve had. The combination of fibromyalgia with the medication I take for breast cancer means my body aches everywhere, and it aches the most with my first movement. So when I wake, I often want to cling to sleep, to put off that first bolt of pain that brings me alert better than any cup of coffee.

I’m a lifelong insomnia sufferer. Except I don’t usually consider it suffering. It is, or was, just a part of who I am. Even in high school, I would collapse into bed around ten o’clock, but then rise at around one. While the rest of the house slept, I wrote at my desk or I prowled from window to window, looking out at the night and wondering what was out there. What was out my window, and also what was past the darker line of the horizon. Sometimes, I would crawl back into bed before my alarm went off, but most times, the alarm just meant it was time to get dressed for school.

Cancer changed all that. Or at least, radiation did. Partway through radiation and even today, over a year since radiation ended, I will get hit with a fatigue so profound, there’s nothing for it but to lay down and pass out. When that hits, it’s dreamless. A lot of times, I don’t even remember going to sleep or sleeping at all. I’m just suddenly awake again and startled that time has passed.

But beyond that, since cancer, I have been able to sleep. I’m still a night owl, going to bed usually between two or three in the morning. I try to keep my first morning clients at ten o’clock, but there’s a few now who are slipping in at nine. I meditate before bed and once I’m tucked in, I’m out. Usually.

This past weekend, I revisited insomnia. On Saturday night, I went to bed at three in the morning. So I guess I should say on Sunday, I went to bed at three in the morning. My eyes were still open at six, so I gave up and got up. This is different from before – when I used to be awake at night, I’d just get up right away. Now, I fought to sleep. I squinched my eyes tight, and I thought over and over, Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Which just left me agitated. So I got up and went to my desk.

Where the magic, pre-cancer, returned.

Six o’clock in the morning on a Sunday in March isn’t the middle of the night, but it feels like it. It was still dark. Everyone, from husband to child to cats to dog, was sleeping. There was no sound. The buses from the bus garage across the street weren’t running yet. There were no deliveries at the Walgreens in our back yard. There was no traffic. There was only silence and dark and me, sitting in the light from my computer at my desk. My keyboard lights up and I pretended there were stars beneath my fingers.

And I worked, in absolute isolation, but surrounded by all that I love.

As I worked, the sun came up, slowly easing light into my room and introducing the day. By the time I crawled back into bed, it was full daylight and I was exhausted. But happy. It was a Sunday, so I could sleep more than a few hours.

When do I sleep? Whenever I can. And whenever my body tells me I absolutely have to.

But when do I stay awake? When do I rejoice in awareness, in alertness, in the ability to work without interruption, but also without loneliness, when am I most fully myself, with only my expectations to be met and not the expectations of others?

Whenever I can. And whenever my body tells me I absolutely have to.

And now it’s nap time.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

So before Today’s Moment started as Facebook posts, I had a reputation as a “dark” writer, a “disturbing” writer. “Edgy.” Edgy didn’t bother me so much, but dark and disturbing did. Of course, along with it came praise like “brave”, “honest”, and I have to admit, I like “in-your-face”. But that dark and disturbing – it made me wonder if I was dark and disturbed. I didn’t think so, but you know, there’s the world at large looking at you…

Just this morning, I spoke with a client about Oprah’s original book club. At the end of the first year, Oprah did a special show, with interviews of the authors, and she took questions from the audience. One woman asked, “Why do you choose books that are so depressing?” Oprah rocked back on her heels, and then said something along the lines of, “Why wouldn’t you want to read about redemption? Why wouldn’t you want to read about someone who survived something, came out the other side?”

I’m with Oprah.

In my own experience, my writer’s heart was broken with my novel Rise From The River. In that book, I tackled rape, abortion, and the Catholic Church. Not easy. And yet I witnessed women putting the book down as being too “dark”. And this was during the heyday of 50 Shades. I truly came the closest I ever have to giving up on writing. This is where the trip to Oregon and the sand dollar story came in (for those who don’t know the sand dollar story, it’s in the book Today’s Moment, under May 18, 2017). I fought my anger and I kept on going.

When In Grace’s Time was published, it was called “delightful”. I was delighted at delightful. What a change from dark and disturbing! And then Today’s Moment Despite The News hit, from Facebook posts to blog to book.

I can tell you the day I was asked to give a presentation about Today’s Moment and the Power Of Positive Thinking, my jaw hit the floor. Suddenly, I was the Queen of Positivity. Though I will say this – I always was. I don’t think you can write about the topics I’ve written about, still bringing it all to a redemptive conclusion, without being positive. I just wasn’t seen as positive…and suddenly, I was. Which was wonderful.

But now there’s book #9, a poetry chapbook called When You Finally Said No. Everything about this book caused me to hesitate where I’ve never hesitated before. When the #metoo movement began, I was profoundly affected. I watched as brave women stood up and raised their voices, often facing ridicule and disbelief. I applauded them. I looked back over poetry that I’ve written over a number of years and found many poems that covered issues brought up by #metoo. As I re-examined my own poetry, I saw a story. A redemptive one. From 13-year old rape victim to promiscuity to abusive relationships to finally gathering the courage and self-knowledge to say no, to the aftermath of that no. It was all there. Not written as a book, but spanned out over years of experience.

A story. But different. Because this is poetry. And because it’s my story.

But…dark. Disturbing. Me?

I hesitated as I put the book together. And I hesitated as I sent it off for its first submission. And then it was accepted on its first submission. Within weeks. With a handwritten note from the publisher. I shook as I signed the contract. But I signed it.

During the blurb search (where you look for people to read the book and write “blurbs” to appear on the back cover), I had three women who eagerly said yes and wrote amazing things. But I had a fourth that told me she couldn’t do it because of the topic. And later, she said, “I now know more about you than I ever wanted to know.”

And I very nearly pulled the book. But then I didn’t.

When my publicist suggested a launch, I wasn’t sure. It’s such a teeny book. 26 pages. But she checked around and a bookstore was interested in hosting it. And another bookstore is interested in doing a presentation in June. I relaxed a bit…and then the launching bookstore wanted to put up a “warning” on the door the night of the event.

And I nearly canceled the launch. But then some things happened.

First, a friend read the book. When I saw him, he held the book up and said, “I want my daughter to read this. This is important. This book is important.”

Then I went to another friend’s launch. She was doing a fundraiser for our local women’s shelter, as I will be doing too. A representative from the shelter spoke before the launch and she said the shelter’s new mission statement is to, among other things, “empower all those impacted by domestic abuse and sexual violence.”

My poetry book is all about empowerment.

And then I picked up a little rubber bracelet being given out by the shelter. Imprinted on it was “Your Voice Has Power.”

I slipped it over my wrist. And I am going to raise my voice high. Which is what I’ve always done. Always.

The When You Finally Said No launch will be on April 6, at 6:30 p.m. at Books & Company bookstore in Oconomowoc WI. You are asked to bring along a donation from the shelter’s wish list, which is diapers (especially sizes 5 & 6), laundry detergent (no dye, no perfume), and umbrellas. I hope you come. It will be a positive experience.

I am raising my voice. My voice has power. It was powerful in Today’s Moment. It will be powerful now. I am the Queen Of Positivity. I believe in survival.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

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

It’s been a long winter. A long, long, LOOOOOOOOOOONG winter. Even my granddaughter Maya Mae, who is six years old, is sick of it. Sick of it at an age when she should be delighting in making snow angels, snow forts, having snowball fights, sliding down slippery hills on sleds and toboggans and even her own snowpantsed bottom. But last weekend, she looked at me, shook her head, and said in the saddest of voices, “Oooooooh, Gamma Kaffee. I need the cold to become the warm again.”

Out of the mouth of babes.

This past Saturday, my day was supposed to be relatively simple, by my standards. Run errands. Get work done. Pick up Olivia at work at 3:30, drive her to Oconomowoc (about 20 minutes away) to see her boyfriend. Come back in time to grandbabysit Maya Mae. Pick up Michael. Go back to Oconomowoc, pick up Olivia, go out to dinner. Bring Maya home. Simple. But as I sat in the Starbucks drive-thru at 3:15, the clouds opened up. It rained so hard, I couldn’t see the car in front of me – in a drive-thru lane. It was 34 degrees. I knew what that meant. I knew it way too well.

What followed was the cancellation of Olivia seeing her boyfriend and dinner out. It meant white knuckles on the steering wheel. It meant swearing. And as the sheet of rain turned to sheets of sleet turned to ice turned to snow, it meant tears. Weather doesn’t usually unravel me, but it did.

It’s been a LOOOOOOOOOOONG winter.

And now it’s today. Five days later.

It’s fifty-five degrees.

And I have a car whose plates are up for renewal and who needs an emissions test. Semi. My Chrysler 200 convertible. Who has been sitting in my garage since November because no road salt will mar this car’s underbelly and no snow will ever warp his ragtop retractable roof.

But it was raining.

Still. The emissions test needed to be done. The license plate would expire in two weeks.

Grumpy, I took the car out, top up. We drove in the rain to the oil change place where I get my emissions tested. Semi passed – good boy. And then I drove out of the garage.

And I swear I heard the angels sing!

The clouds split. The sun came out. The sky was blue. I imagine my whoop was heard all the way up to Minnesota. I pulled over to the side and I hit the down-roof button as if I was pulling a parachute’s ripcord.

For the record, I think my car whooped too.

Oh, the air! The sunlight! Oh, the warmth that wasn’t really that warm, but sure as hell was a lot better than subzero (but hey, I have heated seats and that’s what the heater is for!)! I dug out a CD, threw it in, cranked it up, and hit the gas.

SPRING!!!!!

When I pulled into the drive-thru at Starbucks, where just five days ago, I couldn’t see the car in front of me for the downpour of about-to-freeze rain, I heard whoops that echoed my own from across the speaker. “Kathie’s got the top down!” one of the baristas yelled. “It’s SPRING!”

Then I ordered my cinnamon dolce latte iced, instead of extra hot.

To hell with the robin. There is no surer sign of spring than Kathie riding topless, an iced latte by her side.

The forecast for tomorrow? A high of 36 degrees, with a mix of snow and freezing rain.

But we’re not going to pay attention to that for now.

WHOOP!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

On Tuesday, I returned for a visit to the female inmates in the Waukesha County Jail. I think it’s been a year since I was there – the last time it was scheduled, there was a “substitute captain” and he decided that I wasn’t vetted enough, even though I’d been there a lot by then. Talk about feeling ineffective; there was no one I could complain to, no one I could yell at. I just had to accept that I wasn’t going in that day, and the women who were expecting me would just have to talk about the book to each other and their instructor.

That not being allowed to do something I so wanted to do – pretty much the epitome of jail and prison life.

I started doing this a couple of years ago, beginning with a visit to the Eastern Oregon Correctional Institute in Pendleton, Oregon, a maximum security men’s prison. I was invited in, because this prison is also the home of the last clock-making and repair school in the United States, and, of course, I wrote The Home For Wayward Clocks. The experience was life-changing in a way that I still can’t articulate. When I wrote about it, a reader here saw it and invited me in to the Waukesha County Jail. I know many writers lead writing classes for inmates, but I didn’t want to. Not everyone is a writer, believe it or not. But everyone can benefit from reading, and I wanted to connect through my words, not my teaching. It’s been amazing. I’ve learned something every time I’ve gone in.

This time was no different.

While the women were told to focus on In Grace’s Time (Today’s Moment was not allowed in because the captain decided the cover was “too graphic”), they were also encouraged to grab anything I wrote. All of my books (except one) are in the jail library. This resulted in the most comprehensive discussion of my own work that I’ve ever been party to.

For a writer, this is just a mind-blowing experience. You always wonder if your work has any impact, if you’ve made any difference. All around the table that afternoon, surrounded by the plain white walls of the jail, I saw the difference. I saw the impact my words and sentences and stories were having. Each of my books (but one) was held tightly in eager hands.

I made a difference. Holy cow.

Though I suppose you could say I had a captive audience too (someone had to say it…it might as well be me).

But then there was this. My liaison said, “Oh, did I tell you what happened after you left last time?” No, she didn’t.

The Correctional Education Association of Wisconsin sponsors a yearly creative writing contest, open to people currently incarcerated in the prison system. They publish the winners every year in a book that is also filled with artwork created by the inmates.

When I left last time, four of the inmates could not wait to get to the computers they only have access to when they’re in class. They wanted to write.

They wanted to write.

And they made it into the collection.

I was given the little magazine. The pages were marked so I could find the works by the inmates I’d met. My liaison told me of one woman who sat at the computer and wept the entire time she wrote.

Oh, the words!

Where do I go when I can’t see them anymore? Did they notice I left at all?

Trial…I AM SO SCARED.

The most beautiful smile is marked in/the heart/like a tattoo made in the soul

In the prison system, healing is as hard to find as natural light. But there are ways.

One of them is reading. And another…is writing.

I made a difference.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.