10/15/26

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

Yes, there is a moment of happiness. But I also want to talk about last week.

One of the things I’m learning, that I never wanted the opportunity to learn, is that grief is this twisting, turning thing. Some call it a roller coaster, but that doesn’t quite work, because a roller coaster follows a track. There’s no track here. There’s also an obvious end with a roller coaster, where it slows down and whoever is running the ride comes and lifts up your gate that safely held you in.

But with grief, there are impossible twists and turns, no obvious end, possibly no end at all, and not only is there not someone who lifts up your gate and sets you free, there’s not even a gate, and so you are unsafe for the entire damn thing.

Last week, as I wrote, was our 27^th wedding anniversary. Each time I write or say that, the editor in me wants to correct it and say, “This would have been our 27^th wedding anniversary.” But there’s no would have, for me. It is. And it was also the third time that Michael wasn’t present for the anniversary. I thought the first time, four months after his death, which was our silver anniversary would be the hardest, and it was very, very hard. I thought the anniversaries after that would be easier. The 26^th was. But this one, the 27^th, just blew up out of nowhere.

I’ve always said that writers are this weird conundrum of strong ego and absolute crippling lack of self-confidence. Well, I’ve met this personality’s match with grief. It is a weird conundrum of deep down sadness, denial, and impossible-to-believe-in hope, that you somehow believe in anyway.

At the worst point of last week, where I was completely losing myself, I cried out to my daughter Olivia, “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”  In that moment, I really didn’t know. But of course I do. He’s dead. He’s not here because it’s no longer possible for him to be.

But in an undertone, Hope keeps whispering, “If you just do everything right, if you just fix this, if you use all the powers everyone tells you you have, he’ll be here.”

Hope always rises. Even when it’s impossible.

So. The moment(s) of happiness.

The first actually happened last week, and I wrote about it in the brief post that appeared instead of the blog. Last Wednesday, the week of our anniversary, I had an appointment to meet with and talk to a somatic therapist. Somatic therapy comes from the belief that the body remembers, and holds every moment of trauma within. Michael’s accident and death were certainly traumatic. I will never ever forget running to his cubicle in the ER, when I followed the sound of his screaming, and then his not recognizing me. So in the same week when I was unexpectedly knocked off my feet and out of my mind with the grief of the anniversary, I was also possibly going to start somehow touching that trauma.

I canceled the appointment. But I explained why. At that point, I was struggling to even get out of bed. As I said last week, that therapist emailed me back, and said,

“It makes so much sense that this is a difficult time, and that even getting out of bed may feel hard right now. I hope you can allow yourself to be exactly where you are today, without needing to do or accomplish anything. Let the bed hold you, and give yourself permission to be gentle with all that you’re carrying.”

I gave myself permission, and it was just what I needed to do. Without those words, I don’t know that I would have.

Then this week, still feeling the aftershocks of the anniversary, and walking around as if there are land mines of grief everywhere that I could unexpectedly step in, I had to cancel three meetings with coaching clients. And I flinched in a major way. I know I have to deal with an image that I project, and my students and clients and readers see me as that strong person. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been told, “You’re strong. If anyone can get through this, you can.”

But as I found out this week, those words are meant as encouragement, not expectation. My community, my family, at AllWriters’ also sees me as human.

Words I heard this week:

“Please take care of yourself. I’m always here if you need me.”

“Kathie, do not stress about canceling.  Take care of you.  I’m so sorry to hear it wiped you out like that.  Grief hits at different times in life.  Sometimes it’s an anniversary and sometimes it’s a commercial on tv.  Or a button on the carpet.  It doesn’t matter how it comes at you, but it does matter that you take the time to heal when it does. Praying for you.”

I am surrounded by people who are standing by me. I’ve said, about Michael, that I’ve lost the one person who was always by my side, and always on my side.

But it turns out there are many, many more.

I am so grateful.

To better days.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.