2/13/25

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

I didn’t expect Valentine’s Day to be difficult. I even told a few people that I was relieved that the mad line-up of holidays and events that we had to endure from October to January – October: our 25th anniversary and Livvy’s birthday, November: Thanksgiving, December: Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Michael’s birthday two days after Christmas, January: New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, the first anniversary of Michael’s accident – was all over, and we have a kind of quiet period between now and the anniversary of his death in June. We never did much for Valentine’s Day, I said, shrugging. And we didn’t. We usually exchanged cards. He brought me a small box of conversation hearts and a small box of chocolates. I bought him some sort of sweet treat too.

But…there’s the pendant.

On our first Valentine’s Day as a couple, before we were married, Michael gave me a small heart-shaped pendant made out of diamonds and rubies. Rubies are my birthstone. I loved it, I still do, but rarely wear it, as it’s just too fancy for everyday wear. But I wore it faithfully every Valentine’s Day. Each time I wore it, I remembered him giving it to me, and I’d smile.

Until last year. Last year for Valentine’s Day, Michael was still in the hospital. He’d been in the ICU twice, and on that day, was in his second “step-down room”. He still wasn’t always there cognitively, he insisted I was his sister, he’d just had a feeding tube put into his stomach and he’d suffered a fall. My schedule every day was to finish with morning clients, grab my lunch, run to the hospital, and spend the afternoon there, until it was time for me to head back for evening clients and classes. I didn’t realize until recently how much I was on auto-pilot.

On Valentine’s Day, as I walked by the hospital’s gift shop, I stopped. I wasn’t planning on getting Michael anything – he couldn’t eat and he thought I was his sister. But the balloons were so cheerful, bobbing near the ceiling, and so I went in and bought two. When I arrived in Michael’s room, he was sleeping. I carefully tied the balloons to the foot of his bed so he could see them upon waking.

I didn’t wear the pendant. I don’t think I was even wearing something red. Until I saw those balloons, it was just another day on auto-pilot.

This year, of course, Michael is gone. As my thoughts turned to Valentine’s Day, I thought of the pendant. And that’s when I realized that I have no idea where my jewelry box is.

I’m a jewelry nut. I actually have a tall antique cabinet called a chimney cabinet that houses my jewelry, most of which is artist-made. But I had a small jewelry box, only about ten inches by ten inches by ten inches, with several drawers, that held jewelry I treasured, but didn’t wear often. The wedding ring from my first marriage. My engagement ring from Michael. Pocket watches from my maternal grandfather and grandmother. The teeny tiny diamond cross that my father gave my mother on their 25th wedding anniversary, that my mother gave to me to wear on my first wedding day.

And…the pendant.

When I realized the jewelry box was missing, I stood and stared at the spot where it used to be. In a corner of my bedroom, there is a corner desk, triangle-shaped, that fits snugly there. Before it was there, there was an old time floor-standing radio. On top of the radio was my jewelry box. When Michael was home from the hospital and rehab, I rearranged, bringing the corner desk back to that corner, and moving the radio to our off-site storeroom. It was always too big for that corner, and I was constantly banging my toe on it. But…I don’t remember what I did with my jewelry box. It didn’t fit well on top of the corner desk, and so I moved it. Somewhere. It’s a big blank.

Suddenly, Valentine’s Day was important. And suddenly, it was beyond important that I have my pendant to wear.

I’ve turned the house upside down, looking in every closet, on every shelf. I went out to the storeroom, found the old radio, but no jewelry box. No pendant, no pendant, no pendant.

In a way, I guess I feel like I’ve let Michael down again. I haven’t been able to find a way to make sure that the driver who killed Michael received consequences. And now, I’ve lost something precious that he gave to me before we were even married. He’d never given a gift like that to any other woman before. But he gave it to me. He said he was giving me his heart.

To say I’ve been sad is an understatement.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I will not be wearing the pendant.

But then this last Tuesday, I received a phone call. THE phone call, that I’d been waiting for. Remember the blog that I wrote on 12/21/24? You can still see it – it’s still up.  I decided to have our wedding rings made into one ring. Not just attached to each other, but the rings were to be melted down and the metal re-used to form a new ring. The diamonds from both rings were removed, then styled into the new ring. A whole new and unique one-of-a-kind design was created, and I decided I would wear this ring on my right hand, not my left, because this is a new chapter for me, and really, for Michael too.

I was wiping tears from my face over the missing pendant when I got the phone call. The ring was ready.

I dropped everything and ran.

The lovely woman, Becca, who designed my ring was not there when I arrived, and neither was Craig Husar, her father, who came and sat by me while we talked about the ring and Becca sketched out her ideas. But another lovely woman who knew the whole story brought my ring out to me. She took it from its box and she didn’t hand it to me. Instead, she slipped it right onto my finger.

Where it fit like it belonged there all along.

And it’s breathtaking.

The ring is made of curves, all entwined together, as Michael and I were, and are, entwined. The original rings were silver and gold, and this ring is as well. Michael liked gold, and I love silver, and so I wear the silver side toward me.

In my mind, when we wore our wedding rings, they were reminders to each of us individually that we belonged together. When Michael died, I wore his ring with mine for several months. But then I wanted to put them together, just one ring, to show that we are still entwined, even as my wedding ring finger is bare and I’m still in this world, all by myself.

I have the ring, and because I have the ring, I also have both wedding rings and all the history those rings went through on our fingers. And I have it in time for Valentine’s Day.

I will find the pendant. Maybe when I find my heart again. But for now…I have the ring. And we are entwined.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Michael. Tomorrow, I will go out and buy a small box of conversation hearts and a small box of chocolates.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

The original wedding rings.
The new ring.
The wedding rings on our fingers.
One of our wedding photos – cut in a heart beause it used to be in a heart-shaped frame.
Very old, very grainy photo of us on our wedding day.

 

2/6/25

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

This one is going to be circuitous, so bear with me. It took me a while to put all the pieces together too.

Today is a day off for me. A couple years ago, I implemented a new schedule, where I take a different day off every week. It goes in a set routine, and it allows me to keep my very full schedule while still having a day somewhere in the week where I can sleep in, take a breath, hopefully relax, but get caught up if I need to. It also gives me a place to agree to appearances and presentations without taking time away from my students and clients. They also all know that about every five weeks or so, they’re going to have a day off on their specific day. It’s worked well.

This week, it’s Thursday.

Since Michael died, I’ve added a few more rules, if you will, to my day off. I don’t get dressed right away, but stay in pajamas. I don’t have my breakfast in front of the computer, reading my emails, as I do every other day of the week. Instead, I go downstairs, turn on the fireplace if it’s winter, sit on my recliner with a cuddly blanket and usually a cat, and read a book while I have breakfast. Right now, I’m reading Elizabeth Strout’s Tell Me Everything, her newest novel, and I have been on a devouring tear of all of her books.

So I woke up today at a little after noon (bear in mind I usually go to bed at three in the morning – last night was not an exception). I checked my phone to get an overview of my emails before going downstairs to my breakfast and book, and found that my payment for my health insurance hadn’t gone through. I recently had a debit card hacked and I had to close it, and the health insurance was auto-paid on that card. So I did go to my computer first, before going downstairs. I thought it would only take a minute to change the payment info.

Frustration. Difficulty with the website. Finally hit the chat button and asked for a phone number so I could talk to a person. Got it, got the person, took care of it, hung up the phone, and burst into tears. It took 45 minutes.

This was something I would normally hand over to Michael. He was an accountant – he was better with the numbers stuff. But…Michael isn’t here, and I had to learn how to do this by myself, without any guidance.

Sometimes, it feels like the last year and two months has been nothing but a very steep learning curve. It’s always going up; it never rolls back down.

I did go downstairs then, had my breakfast with my book, had a breathing treatment because I’m still recovering from bronchitis, took a long hot shower, and went to my closet. I didn’t even think about what I was going to wear. I reached in immediately for a hoodie I bought recently. On the front, it says, “Keep going.” And on the back, it lists 100 reasons to live. Just above the cuffs on each sleeve, it says, “You are needed. You are not a burden. You are loved.”

Even before Michael died, I’d begun kind of outfitting myself with things that I could glance at in moments of stress or sadness. It started in 2017, when I had breast cancer. One of Michael’s students brought me an amazing fidget ring. She’d asked Michael what my favorite quote was, and he told her, “Keep walking past the open windows,” from John Irving’s Hotel New Hampshire. She had this quote engraved on the ring, the part that spins when I push my thumb against it. It was spun a lot that year. It was spun a lot in 2024 as well, and now, in 2025.

I also have a ring that is engraved with the words, “My story isn’t over yet.” On my other hand, there is a ring that says, “You are enough.”

Since Michael died, I added a Zox bracelet that, on one side, shows an hourglass. On the other side, it says, “Time heals.” It came with a plastic card that I have sitting on my calendar, always in view when I’m at my computer. On one side, it has “Time Heals”, just like the bracelet, and on the other, it says, “Take a breath, and take your time, as healing can be slow. It’s going to be okay, my dear, once you’re ready to let go.”

And of course, I’m having the new ring made out of our wedding rings. On both rings, the metal was melted down and blended, the diamonds removed, and then a new design was made, entwining the material all together. As Michael and I were entwined.  I saw the ring this last Saturday, and thoroughly embarrassed myself by bursting into tears again. It’s stunning. I don’t have it right now, because somehow the sizing got messed up, and it was too small. The jeweler let me wear it for the weekend (on the wrong hand – I want to wear it on my right hand, not my engagement/wedding ring finger, because this is a new chapter in life) and I brought it back on Tuesday. They’re putting a rush on it, so hopefully I will get it back soon.

So. I have these reminders. And this morning, I reached for my Keep Going hoodie without even stopping to think about it. I pulled it over my head, nestled it around me, and sighed.

Sitting down on the loveseat in my bedroom, my dog Ursula jumped up to sit next to me. I looked at her and said, “I miss your dad, Ursy.”

Ursula is the only animal (I hesitate to say fur baby, because I don’t like the term. Ursula and the cats are more than animals, and more than pets – but I don’t have a word for it, other than family.) in the house who really knew Michael. Oliver, one of my cats, was adopted about a month before Michael went into the hospital for the final time. Cleo, the other cat, was adopted afterwards. I talk to Ursula a lot. And anyone who has a dog knows how intently they listen.

“I miss your dad, Ursy,” I said. And cried again.

She leaned hard into me. Her nose pointed at the Keep Going.

“But I did it, didn’t I?” I said. “I fixed the problem. I figured it out.”

And I got a nose kiss.

Keep Going. Keep walking past the open windows. My story isn’t over yet. Time Heals. I am enough.

Even all by myself.

At the AllWriters’ 20th Birthday Celebration last Friday, former mayor of Waukesha Larry Nelson said that my name is synonymous with Hope.

Well, Hope Always Rises, doesn’t it. Even for me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

The hoodie.
The bracelet and little card.
The dog. Ursula Le Guin Giorgio.

2/1/25

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

It’s a late Moment. Two days late. But for a very good reason, if you consider me running in 20 directions at once a very good reason!

Last night was the AllWriters’ 20th Birthday Celebration event. My studio, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, is officially 20 years old. This is at once stunning and “of course”-ing to me. You live a split life when you own a small business. One life is being afraid all of the time – there is no such thing as absolute confidence that your business will survive. Small businesses can change on a dime – and sometimes, it’s a dime that changes them. But the other life is absolute pride in what you’ve done, absolute confidence that what you’re offering is worthwhile, and absolute love in what you do.

I went from walking into a bank to get a small business loan, to walking out after being told I had no business being in business and my idea was not viable, to starting the business anyway, to 20 years of existence. All of the two lives mentioned above pertain to me on a daily basis – no less so now that Michael is gone and I am my only source of income.

It’s scary. It’s wonderful. Well, it’s what I do.

Last night was an incredible night. I rented the large room in a park & rec building to hold the studio’s party. This room was the first room I ever taught in, when Waukesha Park & Rec asked me to teach almost thirty years ago. On this night, the room was packed. My nerves are always jangly before an event; I’ve filled a room with 400 people, and I’ve had nights when no one showed up at all. This night was amazing.

I was introduced by former Waukesha mayor Larry Nelson, who was also my middle son Andy’s 8th grade English teacher. I hardly recognized myself as he spoke about me. I went on to talk a little about the history of the studio, and then about this last year, which has been the hardest year of my life, and thus the hardest year for the studio. This was followed by readings by my faculty, including my reading an excerpt from the novel Michael was writing before he died, and reading from my own work. Three students read as well.

It was such an evening! An evening of words, of the love of literature, of community and support and encouragement…and I don’t think I have ever felt so appreciated.

It’s interesting what stands out to me though. There was a gift bag and a card that keeps playing through my head. I received the card first. On the outside, it said, “Sometimes we wonder if all the hard work is really worth it.”

Oh, yeah.

I’ve been asked several times if I would speak to entrepreneurs groups. I have done so – but I’ve always warned them that I might just say, “Don’t do it!” depending on the day. Running your own business is definitely a labor of love, and it’s a 24/7 deal. I’ve laughed when people have told me that it must be wonderful to be able to pick and choose when I work. Not even close. But the difference is…and it’s a BIG difference…I love what I do. I have a family member who counted down every day until his retirement…for years before the retirement came to be. I cannot imagine living – and working – such a life. I am sixty-four years old, and I don’t plan on retiring. Cutting back, maybe, someday. But I will never stop what I’m doing.

Then there was the gift bag. The gift itself was so lovely…a framed print of a photo of me and all of my books, along with a photo of my student and all six of her books. But the bag, oh, the bag. On the bag, it said, “You were created to make a difference.”

I may just cut that part out of the bag and have it framed as well. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, in writing and in teaching.

Let me tell you, getting to see, to experience, all around you, absolute proof that you are doing what you’ve set out to do, and not only are you doing it, but you’re doing it well, you’re doing it beyond your wildest dreams, your biggest expectations…that just doesn’t happen very often. But I experienced it last night. I spoke with, and was hugged by, former students, current students, and future students. I was in the room where the teaching experience all started, and it was now almost thirty years later (I’ll have been teaching thirty years in April – I taught for ten years in community and continuing education before starting AllWriters’) and what began as a reluctant step into a classroom has become a fulfilling life.

With bumps and bruises along the way. But one of the things I teach is that just because you find yourself on the path you’re supposed to be on, doesn’t mean that path is going to be straight or easy.

There are days when you wonder if all the hard work is worth it. But then you realize you were created to make a difference.

And holy moly. I’m doing it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Up in front, speaking at the party.

Reading an excerpt from Michael’s novel, while former Waukesha mayor Larry Nelson looks on.
The card.
The gift bag.
Look at the crowd!
With the amazing cake and decorations.

1/30/25

JUST A FAST NOTE:

There might not be a blog post today, for a good reason! Tomorrow is the 20th birthday of my creative writing studio, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop. I am holding a big event celebrating the 20 years, and so today is all about doing my usual schedule, plus adding in things to get ready…and it’s a little bit nuts.

My schedule? Clients from 8:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. Hair cut and color from 11:30 to 1:30. Doctor follow-up to make sure that the bronchitis and sinus infection I’ve been dealing with for weeks is running out the door at 2:00. Pick up a student who is flying in for the event at the airport at 3:30. Drive home, then clients at 5:00 and 6:00. I’m not sure when I’m going to fit in lunch (or Starbucks!), let alone write a blog.

If you’re subscribed, you’ll get a note when I post. We’ll see how it goes! If I don’t get a chance, I will blog late tomorrow after the event, or on Saturday.

It’s nuts. But a good nuts!

1/23/25

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

Last Saturday, I walked through the doors of the high school from which I graduated way back in 1978. I was ushered in by the rustling leaf sound of pom poms as a row of uniform-clad girls shouted out a “Welcome back!”

How weird was that. I’ve never been pom-pommed. I was never involved in sports.

Waukesha North High School celebrated its 50th anniversary last weekend. My class, the class of 1978, was the first class to attend all four years there. Personally, I didn’t – I didn’t arrive at Waukesha North until second semester of my junior year. It was my third high school. But, as I told the crowd assembled for the event, it wasn’t long before Waukesha North made me feel like I’d come home.

I went to a lot of schools. I attended kindergarten in Berkeley, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis. First through fifth grade, I was in way northern Minnesota, living in Esko, between Duluth and Cloquet. Sixth through tenth grades, I attended junior high and high school in Stoughton, Wisconsin. First semester junior year, I was at Cedarburg High School, in Cedarburg, Wisconsin.

And then Waukesha North until I graduated. Of all the schools I attended, I was at Waukesha North for the second-shortest amount of time (Cedarburg was just one semester). But it’s the school I call my own.

I was asked to attend the anniversary event because I was inducted into Waukesha North’s Wall of Stars in 2020. According to the school website, to be on the Wall of Stars, you “must have demonstrated citizenship during and after high school, and must have made a significant contribution to the community and society.” I can’t tell you how proud I was to be included, both in the Wall of Stars and to be asked to participate in the anniversary event. As a gift, I donated a copy of each of my books for the school library (it remains to be seen if they’ll actually go there – they have to go in front of the District for approval, which is very different from the school when I was a student there). And I had to speak, talking about what Waukesha North meant to me.

So I did.

When I arrived at Waukesha North that second semester junior year, I was a very angry, very sad student. My school experience, and my life experience, kindergarten through first semester junior year, was not good.  I just wanted to escape. I was already escaping through writing, losing myself in my own stories. When I wasn’t writing, I was reading. When I was in the first grade, in an elementary school that was separate from the junior high and high school, my teacher received permission to drive me to the high school during lunch hour once a week, so she could find books that were appropriate for me topic-wise, but written at a level that would challenge me.

Words were a lifesaver. By the time I got to Waukesha North, it seemed like there was very little else in life that was worthwhile.

But then I went in to register for classes. I walked out of that building, that same building I walked into on Saturday, clutching my list of classes and feeling excited about school for the first time in years. By the time I graduated, I took creative writing, journalism, Mystery & The Macabre, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Growing Up In Literature And Reality, and I worked on the school’s creative writing magazine (a creative writing magazine!) and newspaper. The books I read for class! The Catcher In The Rye, Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack, Wanda Hickey’s Night Of Golden Memories, Death Be Not Proud, The Pill Versus The Spring Hill Mine Disaster, On The Road, Howl. Gritty, beautifully written books, all part of the actual curriculum,  that laid the groundwork for my own development and future as a writer.

As I stood in that Waukesha North gym last Saturday, a place where I never took class because I’d already fulfilled the gym requirement in other schools, I felt amazingly lucky. I was lucky to have arrived at Waukesha North when I did. I honestly don’t know what would have happened to me if I hadn’t had that experience. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be here today.

But I was also lucky to attend school when I did, at a time when literature was accepted as a valuable learning experience for students. Not just the classics, but books that spoke of the current experience, the lives that students were living, the real world, and did so in such a realistic, but positive way, that the reader couldn’t help but feel a connection and also feel hope for a future. The books I was exposed to, and read voraciously, could have been about me. And they showed me that these characters turned out okay. Life was worth living.

And you know what? I turned out okay too.

I said on Saturday that Waukesha North High School saved my life. And it did.

I hope that legacy lives on and on and on. I am hoping this Moment of Happiness grows into a second Moment of Happiness, when my books are placed on a shelf in the school library, and I return to see them there.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

High school senior photo.
Receiving the Wall of Stars award in 2020.
Speaking at the Waukesha North 50th Anniversary celebration. The covers of my books are on the screen behind me.
Such a proud moment.
The books, given to Waukesha North.

1/16/25

And so this week’s Moment of Happiness Despite The News.

I’ve been sick for two and a half weeks now. I’ve finally been given clearance to return to teaching on Tuesday, “as long as I behave myself”, whatever that means.

Yesterday, my dog Ursula and I had a long day. Ursula has an odd autoimmune condition that causes her toenails to grow in (when they grown in) sideways or corkscrew. They are often a shell, appearing normal from the top, but underneath, wide open, exposing the quick. She takes meds to try to harden the nails, and she’s done well for several years now. But apparently, one of the nails nearly broke off, but not entirely. When she walked, it would flap and drag, and she would high-step or limp or do this weird paddle motion.

I brought her in to the vet and she went through having the toenail removed, and her other toenails trimmed that needed to be. She was put in a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding. Because I was still sick, my daughter Olivia went into the vet with Ursula, and I stayed in the car. I was put on speaker phone so I could hear everything.

She and I both came home exhausted.

Partway through the evening, I figured I needed supper, and I had a craving for waffles. I had some in the freezer, but to my dismay, there wasn’t any syrup. I sat and stewed for a bit. And then thought of Dennys.

I love Dennys.

It was later at night, after 9:00, so the restaurant shouldn’t be crowded. I considered ordering DoorDash, but cripes, that’s expensive. The thought of sitting in a booth, by myself, with a book, while a hot meal and a hot cup of coffee were placed before me, was very appealing. I patted Ursula, told the cats to please behave themselves (they didn’t), and off I went.

The meal went as I pictured it. I was in a booth. I ordered my favorite, the French Slam, and made my usual request to please burn the bacon to the point that it crumbles when I bite it. They did. Everything was warm, everything was delicious, everything was quiet.

My server made some small talk with me while I ate. I found out he was nineteen years old. At one point, near the end of my meal, he said, “I’m sorry to keep checking on you, but you and that other table are the only tables I have right now! And it’s my last night…I’m going back to school tomorrow.”

“Where do you go?” I asked.

“Madison,” he said, and beamed.

“I went there too,” I said. He asked me what I majored in and I told him English, with a creative writing emphasis (there wasn’t a creative writing major yet). He told me he was in legal studies, but he was considering a second major in creative writing.

I could hear Michael laughing wherever he is. He always said that wherever I go, I attract writers. And I do.

I told him that Madison’s creative writing department was stellar, and he said he knew, that he’d read everything by all the professors. “Well now,” I said, “you’ll have to read me.”

“What???” He sat down and we talked writing. Eventually, he asked me, “Which is your favorite baby?”

This made me laugh. Not my favorite book; my favorite baby. He was destined to be a writer.

“I know you’re supposed to say all of them,” he said.

I shrugged. “I used to say the one I’m working on,” I said. “But now…”

He got his phone out and sat poised. “Tell me.”

Hope Always Rises,” I said, and he tapped it down, along with my name. “That book…that book wrote me.”

“Really!”

After I collected the bill and went to pay, he was at the cash register. “What’s your favorite classic novel?” he asked.

I smiled. “What do you mean by classic?”

“Like…what would be taught to a high school senior.”

“J.D. Salinger,” I said, and he interrupted.

The Catcher In The Rye? I love that book,” he said.

“No. Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters.”

“He wrote other books?” he exclaimed and I withheld an eye roll. His phone came back out and he typed in the title. “I love Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale,” he said.

“I liked that too,” I said, “but I liked Cat’s Eye better.”

Tap tap tap.

I wished him well, told him to have a great semester, to drive carefully, and went out, where it had begun to snow, enough that I had to clean off my car. But I felt warm and satisfied.

Earlier in the week, I’d spoken with someone else who bemoaned the inauguration to take place next week. I admitted that I’d been so caught up in my own issues, grief, illness, grief, illness, that I hadn’t really spent much time thinking about it. I’d seen some of the ridiculous headlines, about renaming the Gulf of Mexico and buying Greenland and so on, but I hadn’t paid attention. There have been, for me, other things to think of.

But as I drove home, I thought about this 19-year old boy. Majoring in legal studies, thinking about going into politics, double-majoring in creative writing. Taking the time to talk to me, someone who is 45 years older than he is, listening to me, writing down what I had to say, the suggestions I made. A reader. Intelligent. Enthusiastic. Open-minded. Young.

I didn’t feel doomed.

Hope Always Rises.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

My well-worn copy of Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters. It always sits on the shelf behind me when I’m at my desk. “Were all of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?”
Atwood’s Cat’s Eye. My copy is down in the classroom – didn’t want to run down two flights of stairs and back up to get it, so I borrowed from the internet.
Yep.

1/9/25

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

I’m late writing this because I was out searching for a heated sinus pain mask to hopefully give me some relief. That might tell you how this week went.

One thing that has been amazing to me (among many things) are all the events and activities and nudges that grief brings that no one writes about. I’ve been inundated with books about grief, and while I read the first few, I gave up after that, and after paging a bit through some of the new additions, most have gone out into the Little Free Library. They’ve all disappeared too, leaving me to think that grief is a pretty pervasive thing, that nobody is writing about very well. My favorite of the batch was Debbie Weiss’s Available As Is, which I alternately wept and laughed through. But while I loved the book, Debbie and I are enough different that there was a lot I didn’t see happening to me. And it’s the little things you just don’t expect that seem to have the biggest impact.

I’ve been sick this week. From the time of Michael’s accident until his death, I wasn’t sick once, I think mostly out of absolute determination, because I had to take care of him. Since his death, I’ve been sick several times, enough to knock me out for a day or so. My body was reacting to stress, and once I let my guard down, everything I missed seemed to move back in.

But this week, I’ve been really, really sick. Whatever this is, it’s worse than Covid, which I’ve had twice, despite vaccinations. It started with a sore throat on Saturday, moved into massive congestion, then an unstoppable cough and sneezing and wheezing and sinus headache and laryngitis and fatigue, and you name it, I’ve got it. I was supposed to return to teaching this week after a 2-week holiday break, but after meeting with my first 3 clients on Monday morning, my voice absconded for good, and no one can hear me.

One of my first thoughts, of course, was that there was no one to help take care of me. Michael was gone. My kids live on their own. There was a dog and two cats, but while they were sympathetic, the lack of opposable thumbs kept them from being very helpful.

On Tuesday night, I decided to take a bath. When we built this place, we put in a jacuzzi tub with jets. It’s wonderful. And so, late at night, I decided to climb in.

And then the bad thoughts hit. What if I slipped and fell as I got in or out? No one would hear. I could lay there for hours, conscious or unconscious, and not be rescued.

Some times, more than others, I feel very, very alone.

But I didn’t want to give up the nice hot water bubbling all around me, the steam clearing out my lungs, the heat easing the pain in my joints.

So I sat and thought about it. And I came up with a plan.

I let my daughter know, via Facebook Messenger, that I was getting in the tub. If she didn’t hear from me in a certain amount of time, she was to try to reach me, and if she couldn’t, she was to get the hell out here. Good. Then, I made sure my cell phone was within reach of the tub. Great. And then, I had the thought that I can’t dial my phone without my glasses on. So the glasses came into the bathroom too. I would deal with the steam if necessary.

And then…I filled the tub and got in. Heaven. Nervous Heaven, but Heaven. And all went well. I didn’t slip, I didn’t fall.

The next day, I dragged myself to Walgreens to pick up a prescription for Prednisone, which was supposed to calm my asthma, exacerbated by the illness. While I was there, I saw a Vicks display, and I stopped to look. Lo and behold, there are now Vicks Mentholatum bath salts! I absolutely love Vicks, and I love Menthol and I love eucalyptus. I bought some and planned another bath, which I took last night. I followed the same plan. Heaven, a little less Nervous.

I’m going back to the doctor tomorrow, because I’m not any better; I’m worse. I went to Urgent Care early in the week, which I shouldn’t have, as I’ve learned too many times that they’re useless. Among things they did this time: when I asked if I should be concerned about RSV, I was told that RSV only affects children. Um…no. I’d been running a fever of about 101 degrees, and I took ibuprofen before I went in. One of my favorite comedians is Steven Ho, an ER nurse who does fabulous shows about what happens in the ER. One thing he repeats over and over to parents is that they should go ahead and treat their kids for fever, instead of waiting to “show” the fever to the doctors. So I took him to heart, for adults too. Instead, the NP who saw me cheerfully said, “Well, you don’t have a fever now!” and wrote down no fever on my chart, as if it never occurred at all. So this morning, I made an appointment with my doctor, even though there was nothing available until tomorrow. No more Urgent Care.

But my Moment? My Moment is that I figured it out. I figured out how to soak in a tub full of Vicks bathing salts, sigh with relief, and know that I was relatively safe, even though there was no one else in the house except for an eccentric dog and two crazy orange cats. I hadn’t read about this in a book. I learned on my own.

My high school creative writing teacher emailed me last week, and he said, “You are capable,” which is what he told me over and over again when I was seventeen years old. And guess what?

I am.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

My new heated sinus pain mask. Let’s hope this helps.
No selfie of me in the tub, sorry. But here is my daughter when she was little, and decided bubbles in a jacuzzi tub would be fun.
Vicks Bath Salts! The hell you say!

 

 

1/2/25

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

A couple days ago, I set something into motion, for the third time, that I’ve been wanting to do for most of my life. The first time – didn’t happen, by my choice. The second time – didn’t happen and wasn’t my choice. The third time – maybe it will be the charm?

Two years ago, Michael was working jobs that were not in his field (accounting), basically just to keep us in health insurance. He’d had a dream job, one that he loved and that fit him so perfectly, but he was let go when his employer decided Michael’s job could be done by someone without as much education and experience, and paid significantly less. When Michael said he would take the lower pay, just to stay where he loved, the employer said no, and Michael was crushed. And so he worked these other jobs, met people he became strong friends with, but dealt with low pay and next to no vacation. Michael couldn’t find a job in his field…but to be fair, he wasn’t trying very hard either. He dealt with a lot of depression after losing that particular job.

I’ve always wanted to go to London to see Big Ben. And I refer to it as “meeting” Big Ben. I collect antique clocks, my first published novel was set in a clock museum, and clocks just…make me tick (sorry). Big Ben to me has loomed large and distant. I want to walk up to him, touch him, hear him, see him…and now that his rehab is done, I guess you can actually go up inside him and see the workings. Yes, please.

But with Michael working these jobs without much vacation time, that dream seemed far, far away. Eventually, frustrated, I signed up for a tour on my own. I was going to London and to Paris. I would be with a tour group, so while I was going by myself, I wouldn’t be alone, and I would have guidance. Still, I was scared, but determined. I told Michael I was done waiting. I was turning 63 years old, and I needed to go while I still could.

This seemed to light a fire under Michael. His job search picked up. And then…he landed another job, a job he absolutely began to love on the first day, with people he enjoyed, an environment that was healthy and happy and pro-active…and that provided decent vacation.

I breathed a sigh of relief and celebration, canceled my trip, and instead, planned with Michael a cruise to London and Paris and many other places for our 25th anniversary. It would be the first time for both of us to be abroad (I’ve only been to Canada and Mexico), it would be a first cruise for both of us, and we’d be celebrating our 25 years of marriage. Our anniversary wasn’t until October, but we would set sail in August.

Well, we all know what happened 17 days into the new year of 2024. Followed by five months of trauma. And concluded with Michael’s passing on June 19th, 2024. He wasn’t even alive for our 25th anniversary. Somewhere in there, amidst the chaos, I canceled the cruise. I didn’t know if Michael would recover well enough to handle such a trip. I didn’t know if he would recover, period. And, for awhile there, after June 19th, I didn’t know if I would recover either.

And so now here we are at the beginning of 2025. Grief hits you with weird thoughts and realizations, things you don’t read about in all the books written about grief. As I was getting ready for bed last night, I suddenly realized that I was now living in a year where Michael didn’t even exist. At all. Not a breath, not a sound, not a blink.

It’s just me in 2025.

And that hit really hard.

On Monday, the day before New Year’s Eve, I talked with someone who worked for the tour I originally signed up for, two years ago. I explained that I was signed up for this exact tour, but decided to cancel. He said, “Yes, I see that.” I explained why, and then I told him everything that happened since.

He was silent for a minute. And then he said, “Let’s get you to see Big Ben. It’s time.”

And so I signed up.

I hung up the phone and sat there for a few minutes. I’m going, I thought. I’m going, I’m going, I’m going.

Fear set in, as I knew it would. I was once again going by myself.

But…I’m going. And I set it up, here in the first week of 2025, the first year by myself, so that I have something positive to look forward to, as I continue to walk my way through grief. As I continue to recover.

I turned to look at the shelf behind my desk. Years ago, a student who traveled to London brought me one of those heavy metal pencil sharpeners, often in the shape of a well-known travel destination. This one is Big Ben. This sharpener sits on that shelf and I look at it every day. Downstairs, on my kitchen counter, is a tall teapot that was made to look like Big Ben. Another student brought me that. On top of my kitchen cabinets, the majority of my clock collection sits on display. There is one that is not an antique – it’s a replica of Big Ben.

I picked up the pencil sharpener and held it so tightly in my curled fingers that it left indentations. It was a squeeze of fear, for sure. But it was also a squeeze of excitement.

I’m going to see Big Ben. I’m going to meet him, my face to his clock face. I’m going to touch him, hear him, see him. The man from the tour told me I would be able to see him from the window of  my hotel room. I don’t know that I’ll be able to sleep for looking at him. I am going to go up inside, see the workings. See Big Ben’s big heart. Hear it tick.

Ohmygod.

I will be going without Michael. But if he is somewhere, watching, I know he’s clapping and saying, “Go! Go! Go!”

I’m going. June 7th to the 15th. Then, from Paris, I will fly to Oregon and stay for ten days in my little house on the coast, decompressing.

Ohmygod.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

The Big Ben pencil sharpener.
The Big Ben teapot.
Hard to see, but way up there on top of my cabinets, behind the teapot, is an antique wooden replica of Big Ben. In between the tallest clock and the anniversary clock – also known as a 365-day clock.

12/31/24

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

It’s finally here. The very last day of this very awful year.

We had 16 days of a normal year. January 1 – 16. January 17th started out normal. All the way to 6:04 p.m. That is the moment that Michael was struck, then run over, by a passenger van.

One of my coaching clients wrote in his memoir, “I felt the dismantling of my world.” I wrote that quote down in my own little notebook that sits by the side of my computer, because it so accurately described what happened at 6:04 p.m. on January 17th, 2024.

This blog has been a lifesaver for me, for the entire year, not just the month of December, when I returned it to its original once-a-day postings. It forced me to notice the good around me, even when the days seemed impossible to get through.

Michael’s accident was on a Wednesday, and Thursday is when I post This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. I just looked through my blogs where I save them in my computer by date, and apparently, I didn’t write one on 1/18/24. I don’t remember not writing one. But one week and one day after the accident, on 1/25/24, I wrote this as my Moment:

“Without a doubt, it was when he said my name. As much as I felt the connection when he opened his eyes and then his arms, and when he said, “Hi, hon,” it was immediately followed by doubt. Did he recognize me? Was I the person he saw?

But when he said, “Kathie.” And his voice came out as his voice, not the strangled and pained voice I’ve been hearing, and not the silence I heard before that.

He saw me. He recognized me. He knows I’m here, and at some level, I hope he knows I’m doing everything I can to care for him, and make sure those around him are caring for him.

My name never meant so much.”

And that began a year of awful, but also a year of looking for the good. Noticing it, seeing it, hearing it, writing it down so that I would always remember it. Things like:

*the day he was moved from the ICU to a “step-down room”.

*the second time he was moved from the ICU to a “step-down room”.

*the day he left the hospital and was moved to rehab,

*watching him take his first steps since the accident, when all the PT expected him to do that day was stand. He walked to me.

*seeing him eat his first meal, even if it was mush.

*driving him home from the rehab. Seeing him sit in his recliner. Watching him hug the dog.

*seeing the feeding tube get pulled out. It had to be left in long after its usefulness until the wound healed enough that it would close after removal.

*seeing the catheter get pulled out. (Seeing things pulled out of your husband was something I never expected to be joyful.)

*the day he climbed the stairs to the third floor, not once, but twice, and sat outside on the deck. We both felt he’d not just turned a corner, but he left the corner behind.

And then, well, everything fell apart. So quickly.

But those Moments were there. They are in my head, and I can see them as clearly as if they happened today.

And mostly, I remember the second full day in hospice. Father’s Day. He was suddenly fully cognizant, and he opened his arms for a hug. I bent over the bed and he pulled me down to his chest. We set the bed alarm off. I began to laugh, and I said, “Michael, Michael, you have to let me go! We’re setting off the alarm!”

And he said, “Kathie, I will never let you go.”

He died 2 days later.

So my Moment of Happiness today hasn’t happened yet, but I know it’s coming, and so I’m writing about it now. At midnight tonight, it will be a new year. 2024 will be no more. I cannot wait for this year to be over. I cannot wait for the new year to begin.

But I will spend the hours between now and then remembering the good Moments. Not the bad.

And just a note: today is the last day of December. I said I would return this blog to its original format of Today’s Moment for the month of December. Tomorrow, January 1st, Today’s Moment will fall silent. But on Thursday, January 2nd, I will post in the returned This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News.

We’ll start fresh. Happy New Year, everyone. I cannot even begin to express my gratitude for all the help and support and encouragement I’ve been shown this year.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Michael in the hospital, in the step-down room.
Michael in rehab, with the pillow I had made for him of Ursula. His eye at that point would still not open.
Michael’s first day home.
Michael on the day he climbed the stairs to sit outside on the deck. Last photo of Michael.

12/30/24

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Very late tonight – it’s only a couple hours until tomorrow. But I was actually out, having some fun.

Last year, during the Christmas season, Michael, Olivia, Andy, Grandgirl Maya Mae, and I went on a Christmas lights boat cruise around Lake Geneva, here in Wisconsin. It was an incredibly foggy night; I don’t know how many times I got lost between home and the parking lot where we were to meet a shuttle bus to take us to the marina. But we finally made it, and it was so much fun. Santa apparently has a secret hideaway by the lake, and partway through our ride, he came out and read from his list of “nice” children. Maya’s name was on the list! Then, as we tried to make our way back to the pier, the captain announced we were having trouble getting docked because…they couldn’t find it in the fog. I would have been perfectly happy to just stay on the boat, but they did eventually find it and we disembarked. We decided that we would do it again next year.

Which is now, of course. And so much has happened between now and then. I asked Andy and Olivia if they still would like to do it again, and they both agreed.

It was different, of course. There was no fog this year, and because we went on a weeknight, we were able to park in the lot right by the marina, rather than having to take the shuttle bus. Santa still showed up, even though Christmas was a week ago. I had a drink called Santa’s Little Helper, which included heavy cream, kahlua, and caramel vodka. I now know what keeps Santa going all night long!

The lights were gorgeous. Christmas songs were sung. Children were delighted to hear that their names were already on the “nice” list for next year. It was a fun time.

The Moment for me – the realization that I can still enjoy myself, still have fun, still go out and do things that we did together and enjoyed before. This whole season of much-loved traditions has brought me to that conclusion. I recognize that I’ve been wanting to cocoon myself – staying at home, wrapped in blankets in bed, or in blankets on my recliner. It’s familiar. It’s comfortable.

Even though I am surrounded with newness here too. It’s interesting to me that it’s hard for me right now to go out and away from home, when it’s at home that I miss Michael the most, where I see so many places that he should be that he isn’t.

Grief doesn’t make any sense.

But on the boat tonight, I found myself laughing. I sang along with the others. I admired the lights and their reflections on the lake.

Last year, Andy, Olivia, and Grandgirl Maya Mae sat in one row. Michael and I sat behind them and we held hands throughout the ride.

My hand was empty this year.

Holding the drink helped. So did the drink!

Really, the only moment I choked up was during the song “Feliz Navidad” by Jose Feliciano. I first sang this song in high school, my junior year, and in my first semester of Spanish. I was so thrilled that I could sing something in another language, AND understand what I was saying. Now, I sang it with the others, but could hear Michael saying, “For God’s sake, Merry Christmas, already. We get it!” He found the song very annoying, which always made me sing it louder. But on this night, when I got to the English “I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas! I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas! I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart!”, well, I did. I wanted to wish Michael a Merry Christmas. And a Happy Birthday. I wished it from the bottom of my heart. And tomorrow night, I will miss sharing a kiss and a hug at midnight.

So I teared up and had to stop singing for a bit.

But I came home feeling warm – and it wasn’t just Santa’s Little Helper. It was a good night. And it’s so, so wonderful that I am still capable of feeling those. In some ways, I feel like I’m back in that first year Spanish class. I am learning a new language. And I am beginning to understand it.

I may have to buy some heavy cream, kahlua, and caramel vodka.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Son Andy and daughter Olivia on the boat.

 

The only photo of Michael and me on the boat ride last year. I’ve never been good at selfies.