Author: Kathie

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

Well, actually, this week is pretty miserable. I have a back rib that has had a habit of falling out of place at very inopportune times, ever since I was 32 years old. It fell out a couple weeks ago, and I’ve done three visits to my lovely chiro, who pounces on me to put it back. It obeys, and then after I’m clear of the chiro office, it sneaks back out again.

I woke up today barely able to move. I can’t put my right arm out in front of me without it causing my back to go into such an intense spasm, it squeezes my lungs. My left arm can’t go behind me without the same result.  Consequently, typing is very difficult.

So I’m going to skip this week, as every other word I type is accompanied by a shriek of pain. Instead, I’m going to post a favorite from the original year of this blog, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. In 2017, I challenged myself to write this blog every single freaking day. I didn’t know at the time that my year would be hit with my husband losing his job twice, my daughter would be so bullied, we’d have to move her to a new school, and I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. Hey, when I take on a challenge, the challenge takes on me!

The result, after the year, was my book, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, A Collection of Spontaneous Essays. I’m going to post my favorite one here today.

Here’s to a Moment of Happiness tomorrow!

8/17/17

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

Today, I realized that, in the middle of all this hot mess breast cancer, I forgot my daughter.

And in that realization, I just wanted to wave the white flag and fall to my knees.

My daughter and I walked her schedule at her new high school again today. School starts tomorrow. It was partway through our walk-through that I realized.

“Olivia,” I said, “what time does school get out?”

“3:05,” she said.

When I had to work with the Cancer Center to set up my 20 days of radiation, I gave them a window of 1 to 5. My writing time. My meditation time. But radiation needs to be done. I worked it around classes. I worked it around clients. The majority of my appointments were set at 3:30.

I forgot about Olivia. I forgot about school.

For a 3:30 appointment, I have to check in at 3:15. There is no way her final bell can ring at 3:05, she can pack up and run out, and I can get her home and then be at the Cancer Center by 3:15.

And it was about then my overwhelm valve blew.

Oh, this week. What a dose of reality. All along, I was told radiation was easy. Just lay down for ten minutes a day. Meditate. Take a nap. Simple!

It’s not easy.

Every day, I face that machine. Every day, I lay there while everyone else runs from the room to avoid what the machine is doing to me. Destroying unhealthy tissue and healthy tissue to make sure that unhealthy tissue can’t come back. And every day, I have to face, for ten minutes, this new reality. Cancer invaded my life.

Every day, I walk under a sign that says Cancer Center. And I see people wearing baseball caps and head scarves. People who look like they would wisp in a fan-breeze down the hallway if the nurse didn’t anchor them by the arm.  I heard one woman coming before I even saw her – her breathing sounded like she was underwater. I heard her breathe past me and I heard her breathe down the hall.

I tell myself every day how lucky I am.

But then today, I realized I forgot my own daughter in the middle of this hot mess breast cancer.

The technician came to get me. Her name is Denise. She started to say, “Hey, Kathie, how are –“ and then I looked at her. In an instant, she was holding me, rocking me, and I just completely blew apart. That’s not something I do. The other technician came in and hugged and rocked me from behind and I became the stuffing in a huge comfort sandwich. My own Orange Oreo, though I was wearing gray.

When Denise asked me what was wrong, I still couldn’t find my voice. I just motioned around the room. And she said, “It’s just all this, isn’t it.”

Yes. Just all this. And then I said, “I forgot my daughter! How could I forget my daughter!”

And I was sandwiched again. There was no hurry. There was no glancing at the clock, even though I’m sure I messed up their schedule. There was just soothing and comfort and compassion and care. And lots and lots of kleenex.

And then they left the room so I could be zapped. I watched Xappa move around me and hum and I felt remainder tears roll from the corners of my eyes, over my temples and into my ears. I thought of the woman with the drowning lungs and I wondered if that’s where her tears went.

As I was helped off the table, Denise said, “You didn’t forget your daughter. You never ever would. You’re just full to the brim right now. It will get better. This will be over. You’re okay.”

And she hugged me again. Which was just what I needed. That hug pulled me back together. At least for now.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m late again. I’m sorry!

It’s been an incredibly busy week. I’m following my usual teaching schedule, but I am also focusing on the launch of The Birth Of A Widow in a couple days. There’s excitement, of course, but there’s also a lot of anxiety. Will people come? Will I choke up or cry during the reading?

Years and years ago, I believe with my first book, The Home For Wayward Clocks, I was asked to appear at a bookstore in Green Bay. Of course I said yes. I decided to get a hotel room and stay overnight, spending the next day poking around Green Bay before heading home.

When I showed up at the bookstore, I was full of anticipation. The store was beautiful, and the section where I’d be speaking was carpeted, had stuffed chairs and couches, and just felt so cozy. I was delighted. The owner had two cats that stayed with her in the bookstore. So passing the time before the event began, we talked and I patted first one cat, then the other, and then back and forth. I kept glancing at the door, waiting for it to open and people to start coming in.

It didn’t. They didn’t.

The entire time I was there, no one came. Not even to shop. The only living beings in the bookstore were me, the owner, and her cats. It was like someone took out a billboard with my face on it and said, “Kathie Giorgio is in the bookstore. Stay away.”

The Packers weren’t even playing.

I laughed it off with the owner and her cats, but I returned to my hotel room, totally demoralized. In the morning, I got up and drove straight home.

It’s something I’ve never forgotten, and although I tend to pack in the crowds now, that’s not what I see when I start worrying about an appearance. I see Green Bay all over again.

Even now.

And I worry about being so incredibly personal, vulnerable, and transparent in front of an audience. The Birth Of A Widow isn’t about a fictional character. It’s about what happened to Michael and…what happened to me.

So. I’m nervous.

Then a few things happened, which, while not removing my anxiety, brought it down to a hum. First, I appeared on a morning television talk show here, The Morning Blend. I’ve been on it many times before, and I’m perfectly comfortable on camera. But this time, well, the morning show is very upbeat and positive. There’s a lot of laughter. It’s a great way to get through the morning.

And I was showing up to talk about a book about my dead husband. How was that going to go over?

It went just fine. The questions were thoughtful, the discussion even more so. I felt nothing but support from those who were there, and more importantly, I felt like my own support was going out over the airwaves to those who were watching.

When I walked through the halls to leave the station, I ran into Kim, the person who arranges the appearances. She gave me a huge hug, and then said, “I always read your Happy, every single week.”

Read my Happy? It took me a minute to understand she meant this blog.

She hugged me again and I walked out smiling.

I guess I’m personal, vulnerable and transparent here too.

When I got home, I found an email from a literary magazine, saying they wanted to publish a brand new poem, titled “Changing The Sheets”. I wrote this poem at the beginning of April, and this was the only place I submitted it to. The acceptance talked about how moved they were, how the poem affected them.

Oh, lovely. Even 17 books in, with #18 already under contract for next year, I still need some validation.

Right after that, I had a phone call from another literary magazine. They want me to consider being an editor there.

Whoa.

And then, right after that, I scrolled through my Facebook Memories, and discovered that 16 years ago, on that exact date, I received the acceptance for that first book, The Home For Wayward Clocks.

16 years ago. Book #17 launching on Saturday. Book #18, a novel, coming out next year.

If I needed validation, I could now type it with all capital letters and an exclamation point: VALIDATION!

It was my day off yesterday, even with the tv appearance, and I spent the rest of it mostly being quiet, sitting, thinking. Picking out what I’m going to read on Saturday. Wondering if anyone will show up. Wondering if I’ll choke up.

Wondering if I will do Michael proud. This book is really a gift for him. I wasn’t able to get the powers that be in Milwaukee to see that this driver did incredible, unfixable damage, that he killed a man. He did not just “fail to yield to a pedestrian.” Despite pounding on doors and walls, despite yelling into phones, to active voices, to nonresponsive voicemail, I couldn’t do a thing.

When I was in the midst of writing this book, which was a complete surprise to me, I was writing to myself. I was working through all the situations, all the hard parts, all the difficult emotions. All the loss. But then I decided to see if the book could be published, despite the vulnerability, the reveal of personal experience, the transparency.

Because I want to help others. Because something good has to come out of this. The whole experience will never be “worth it”. But something good has to come.

So the anxiety has been turned down to a hum I feel running through my veins. But I was reminded of what I can do this week.

Michael believed I could do anything. So I’m going to.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

 

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

I forgot it was Thursday! Ohmygosh. So I will keep this short. I was laid flat by an ocular migraine this morning, which kept me from being able to stand any light at all, whether from my phone, my computer, a lightbulb, or the sun. The pain has receded, but I’m typing this with sunglasses on and the screen dimmed.

Consequently, I will keep this short.

The Moment actually happened today. Thank goodness, because otherwise, I don’t know what I would have written about. But once it happened, I realized there were a few steps that led up to it.

Earlier in the week, I went in for a pedicure. The nail technician and I were talking about my having taken a hiatus from work, caused mostly by stress and an upsurge in grief. The technician and the client next to us overheard, and the client, a lovely woman, leaned over and told me she was sorry about my losing my husband. We talked a little bit about grief. She’d lost both of her parents at the same time a few years ago, and in an awful way. We commiserated, and she mentioned that even now, she feels sad on some days, and sometimes, she thinks she sees signs from them.

I don’t doubt this in the least. Sitting there, I thought of the dreams I’ve had, and of the homeless man who helped me up from a fall in the slush and said, “I won’t let you go,” as he steadied me. “I’ll never let you go,” he added. Those were Michael’s last words to me.

Whether those signs are real or imagined doesn’t really matter. They’re a comfort. They make me feel watched over.

That was Step One.

Last weekend, I was in the car with my son Andy and my daughter Olivia. I don’t know how we got on the topic, but we were talking about how Olivia got her name. Olivia is named after Olivia Walton, from my favorite television show, The Waltons. Her middle name is Grace, which was the name of the main character of the novel I was working on the original version of at that time. That first version was called Saving Grace. When I rewrote it years later, and it was published, the title was In Grace’s Time.

In the back seat, Olivia smiled and said, “Dad always said I was named after some rock star that he liked.”

I laughed. “He was joking. He didn’t say that until after we’d named you. But he was referring to Olivia Newton John, who he loved.”  Michael’s favorite musical was Grease. He and his father watched it over and over.

That was Step Two.

Today, I was driving on the freeway, enroute to pick up something I bought on Facebook Marketplace. I use Spotify, and I was listening to the music from the movie version of Mamma Mia. I watched a live performance of it last weekend – that’s where I was going when we were all in the car together. The final song played, and because I was driving on a packed freeway, I let Spotify go to random.

Now one thing I need to tell you – I’ve used Spotify for several years now. And never, never, never have I chosen to play an Olivia Newton John song, and never have I heard one when it switched to random. That is Step Three.

So the random choices started. And suddenly, Olivia Newton John’s voice filled my car. The song was from Grease, Michael’s favorite musical. And the song itself?

“Hopelessly Devoted To You”. Michael’s favorite song, and the one he always sang to me.

Signs. Dreams. “I’ll never let you go.” Olivia Newton John. “Hopelessly Devoted To You.

Might be real. Might not. But…

Oh yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, this was a weird week.

I live in Wisconsin. The state of snow and cold, the state of lovely summers with bright blue skies and puffy white clouds, green grass, green trees…

And yes, sometimes tornadoes. Not often. But sometimes. I’ve lived here for 53 years, in a variety of towns, and I’ve never actually been in a tornado. I’ve been through lots of tornado warnings, but never the real deal.

And then this week…real deal tornadoes all around me, on Monday night, Tuesday night, and Wednesday night. Trees down, roofs torn off, amazing damage. And flooding, since we have a lot of rivers.

No, I wasn’t hurt, and I sustained no damage – though we had hail last night and my car was outside. I haven’t gone to look at it yet.

But it was three nights in a row of tornado sirens going off (which my cats had never heard before, and it totally freaked them out). Incredible wind. Rain falling so hard, I couldn’t even see individual drops, it was just a solid wall falling from the sky. At one point last night, the wind, hail, and rain were hitting my bedroom window so hard, I thought it was going to shatter.

So of course, you know I had to look at the cats several times and say, “Totos? Have we been beamed to Kansas?”

While my window never shattered, my nerves sure did. My condo does not have a basement. And all three floors have floor to ceiling windows, and the ceilings are high. I was teaching a class on Zoom Tuesday night, a class that normally meets live in my classroom, when the sirens went off. Cats and I went down to the classroom, our lowest floor, and I sat and taught, watching the students on my computer screen when they were normally in the classroom with me, but I was in the classroom by myself, albeit with two orange cats. Several of my students were in their basements as well. I’ve lived in this condo for 20 years and I haven’t really missed a basement, but for the last three nights, I surely have.

There was also weirdness in the news. I never ever ever thought I’d see the day that ANY president would use AI to post a picture of himself as Jesus, helping a sick man, and then following it up with a picture of the president being hugged by Jesus. That’s an argument for the danger of AI right there.

This was combined with my return to teaching after a six-week hiatus. So I went from sleeping an untold number of hours, to my usual schedule, which was extremely shortened because of the storms late into the night. Two of these three nights, I only slept for a couple hours. On one night, I didn’t sleep at all.

But…returning to teaching got me through my week (of which I still have today and tomorrow to get through, and Saturday, because I have a once-a-month class then). Returning gave me Moment after Moment after Moment, as I reconnected with students and clients. (For those who don’t know, I use “student” for those in classes, and “client” for those in one-on-one coaching). I was applauded. I was cheered for. I was welcomed home. The AllWriters’ motto is, “If you’re a writer, welcome home.” I was delightfully welcomed back to the home I created.

Now that the six weeks are over, I can tell you I entered into my hiatus, a very necessary hiatus, with a huge amount of fear. What if every student, every client, left? What if they discovered they didn’t need me at all, or worse yet, what if they discovered that they could find someone else who gives what I do, what the studio does?

Small businesses are created every day. And small businesses die every day too, whether they’ve been around for a year or for decades.

So while I worked hard to rest, to relax, to heal (which that added to the weirdness too…work hard to rest?), I was also sweating out worry.

In a class on my first day back, one of my students asked me, “What did you learn from this hiatus?” Well, one of the things that I learned was that I didn’t have to worry. Only one student didn’t return. I’m not going to say out of how many, because your eyes would boggle. They always do, when someone asks me how many clients and students I have. And that doesn’t even count the students and clients who work with my faculty.

So I learned I didn’t have to worry. But you know what? I probably still will.

But what I did learn, and learned really well, was that I have to take care of myself, particularly right now, as I navigate my way through losing Michael, and losing him in the way that he was taken from me. That was a shock to my system like no other.

Which means I am treading carefully. (Although tornadoes sure didn’t help this week!) A minimum of 85 working hours per week for 21 years needs to change, moving into the future. Not overnight, but gradually. I don’t know how…but I’m thinking, which is always a good sign.

But being welcomed back like this…oh, holy cow. That created a tornado of absolute joy and pleasure. And, well, knowledge. A couple weeks ago, I was poking around the clothes at a St. Vinnie’s and I came across a bright pink t-shirt. In bold black letters, it shouted, “A Woman Who Knows Her Worth.” I hesitated, but then put it into my cart.

Today, I’m wearing it.

So much gratitude to all of my students and clients at AllWriters’.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This week is the last week of my 6-week hiatus from teaching. The six weeks have been incredibly healing and necessary. My health is back to where it should be. I think I’ve slept more in the last six weeks than I have in my entire life! I am well-rested for the first time in…forever. Emotionally, I can’t say I’m dancing through the daisies, but I’m better.

This week, though, I felt things shift. For the first five weeks, I spent most of my time sleeping, writing, relaxing. I’ve played video games and watched television (currently watching Frasier again and watched the movies MidWinter Break and The Friend), and I’ve read book after book after book. My time at home has been very much like my retreats in Oregon…I’ve read at breakfast, lunch, snack time, dinner, and before bed. There are books everywhere!

But today is Thursday…I begin teaching again on Monday, but really, I return to work on Saturday, as that’s when I have to start reading student manuscripts. My return is also dovetailing with the release of my new poetry collection, The Birth Of A Widow, and preparations and promotion are underway for the book’s launch. There will actually be two launches. The first one, on May 2, will be a two-parter, with my leading a workshop called “Finding The Words – Writing About Grief” at AllWriters’ in the morning, and then the launch will be in the evening at Books & Company in Oconomowoc, WI. I will be in conversation with traumatic grief therapist Marcia Williams. Then later in June, the book will also be launched at the Vision Zero summit in Milwaukee.

My appearance schedule has suddenly exploded, with bookings going all the way into August.

So…the end of my break means hitting the gas pedal and going from zero to hundred just like that. The last two nights, I’ve had trouble falling asleep.

I know I’m worried about the overwhelm returning. For the first time in 31 years of teaching, 21 years of running AllWriters’, my schedule caused me to trip, and then to stagger, and then to come to a screeching halt.

Will that happen again?

I’ve never felt anxious about teaching or book releases before. I’ve always walked into a room with confidence. Years ago, after an appearance at the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, I ran across a review of the festival that read, “I want to be Kathie Giorgio when I grow up. When she walks onto the stage, she owns the room. She owns the world.”

Well, the world spun away from me for a while.

But here’s the thing.

I know who I am. 😊 I know my goals. I know what I can do, and I know I can do it.

This week, I began to see emails again from my students, and each time, it was like getting an injection of adrenalin. Then, as I double-checked and approved the email blast from my publicist, announcing the book’s launch, there was the adrenalin again. Readers are already emailing me, telling me what The Birth Of A Widow is doing for them. Oh, adrenalin. Oh, lovely.

And when I did finally fall asleep early this morning, there was a dream about Michael.

In the dream, I was sitting at my writing table, working on what I now recognize is a new-new book (as opposed to my most recently published book, or to the novel that is going to be released in 2027). When I glanced up from my screen, Michael was sitting in my rocking chair. He was reading, and when I looked closer, I saw the book was The Birth Of A Widow.

I froze.

He looked over at me and smiled. “You know this happened to you too,” he said. “Not just to me.” He closed the book. “You did great,” he said.

While he didn’t specify, I knew he was referring to everything. How I handled things after the accident. How I took care of him. How I dealt with the aftermath of his death. And how I wrote the book, letting the unexpected poems come, instead of trying to stuff them down.

And how I’ve dealt with tripping, staggering, stopping. And getting back up.

I don’t know if anyone’s noticed, but the following is true.

Michael came into my life in 1995, when teaching was still new for me. We were married in 1999. In that time, I went from teaching a couple classes to teaching everywhere, online or live, every night of the week. Michael said I was capable and had a lot to give.

In 2002, I went to grad school, earning my MFA in Fiction. I’d wanted to do this for years…in fact, I’d applied for and was accepted into the graduate program at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee in 1983 – the year after I graduated with my bachelors in creative writing from the University of Wisconsin – Madison. I chickened out then, for a variety of reasons, but mostly the environment I was in. But in 2001, with my life entwined with Michael, I went. Michael said I could do it, even with a year-old baby and three teenagers and an already busy schedule teaching. I graduated in 2004.

In 2005, I opened AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC. I knew nothing about running a small business. I applied for a small business loan, and was told I had no business being in business, that my business plan was not viable. But Michael said I could do it. AllWriters’ is now international and 21 years old.

I went through 4 agents, trying to get a novel published. Two of the agents were top notch, one representing Ray Bradbury, the other representing Joyce Carol Oates. They couldn’t sell me. I figured a novel was just not in the realm of possibility for me. Michael said it was. So I sold my first novel, and all of the others, on my own, without an agent, and to traditional publishers. The Home For Wayward Clocks came out in 2011. Books #16 and #17 came out this year. In 2027, Book #18 will be released. If you’re counting, that’s 18 books in 16 years. Michael was at all of the launches, but not for #15 and #16, and he won’t be there when The Birth Of A Widow launches, or when my new novel is released next year.

But I feel his presence still.

What I am trying to say is that having someone who believes in you, completely, unconditionally, never a doubt, someone who is a life-cheerleader, who believes you can do anything you set your mind to, is just the most precious, priceless, incredible gift. Particularly when you’re someone who hasn’t had that gift before.

And especially when you realize that this belief has crossed over into you. You embody that belief now, even when that person is no longer alive.

In my dream, Michael said that I’ve done great. Well…I have.

As I said…I know who I am.

Back to teaching on Monday. Book launch on May 2.

Let’s go.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This one may take a bit to work through. It’s going to be rambling. I know what I feel, but I’m not sure how to say it.

Two weeks ago, I went on my first date since Michael’s death. I did not write it as my Moment of Happiness. This week, I was supposed to go on the second date with the same person. I didn’t go.

BUT – I have to say here that the man I was with was wonderful. Perfectly nice, charming, attentive, and we had a lot in common. The problem wasn’t with him. It was with me.

And yes, here, the old “It’s not you, it’s me,” is absolutely true.

As the days passed by, moving me closer to the second date, I realized I was dreading it more than I was looking forward to it. For that matter, I wasn’t looking forward to it at all. I was so uncomfortable. So at 3:00 in the morning, ten hours before the date was to start, I texted him.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to cancel. I can’t sleep for thinking about it. I guess I’m just not ready yet. My husband’s death was really traumatic and I’ve been having a really hard time. I thought going out with someone would help me move on, but it’s just making me feel worse. I’m sorry. I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

He texted back, “I understand!” and that was that.

Though I still felt badly. As I sat and worked my way through this, I realized that I felt like moving on and starting to date was something that I was expected to do. Just who was expecting that, I can’t tell you, other than the usual ephemeral “them” that seems to tell all of us what is acceptable behavior. However, I was simply not ready to do this. It felt wrong.

I can pinpoint exactly when all the wrongness surged up and made me recoil.

He kissed me goodnight. Three times.

I was kissing someone who wasn’t Michael. Who I was married to for 25 years, and who I’d been committed to for 27.

Oh, hell, no.

A month after Michael’s death, I was sitting somewhere, filling out one of those questionnaires you’re given when you’re someplace new. I don’t remember where I was, but I remember the list of words I had to choose from to define myself in the first question.

Was I:

            Single?

            Married?

            Divorced?

            or Widowed?

I stared at that final word. Was that me? Was that who I was now?

Finally, I took the pen and X’d out the entire list. Beneath it, I wrote, “Legally, I’m a widow. But I am Michael’s wife. I’m married to Michael. I always will be.”

I no longer feel badly about canceling the date, and really, canceling the possibility that it could go somewhere. I feel sorry, yes. But I was just doing what was right for me. That may change in the future, or it may not. For now, to use a phrase I absolutely hate, it is what it is.

Earlier this week, I was speaking with the very best of friends. In our conversation, she said, “I’m really impressed by how you’re taking care of yourself right now.”

So am I.

Another friend recently posted on Facebook:

“Oh, look. Rock bottom has a basement.”

And I laughed out loud.

Reaching that basement caused my body to start breaking down, when I insisted I was going to prove my strength and keep on keepin’ on, even during the worst time of my life, which sent me to rock bottom and then on to the basement. Which led me to the first step of climbing out – taking a 6-week hiatus from teaching in order to make myself face everything that happened. And to face the reality of never going back to what was my life.

I’ve always hated basements, by the way. Dark, spooky, bug-infested places.

But this basement pretty much forced me to start taking care of myself, or remain in that damp awful place.

I’m not in the basement anymore, and I’m not rock bottom either. It’s been really intriguing how many people have used my own language back at me – “It’s a new chapter, Kathie.” It certainly is, to a book I never dreamt I would have to write. And while I still don’t want to, I am writing it.

But…the Moment of Happiness. I didn’t do what I felt was expected of me. (And I can hear some of you out there saying, “When did you ever?”) In this new chapter, in this new life, I was, for a while, trying to follow a path that seemed to be what I “should” do. Go back to work just two weeks after my husband died. Keep being “strong” when I felt anything but, and with that, refusing to ask for help because strong people don’t ask for help. Thinking I could make myself recover by forcing myself to do so, in a timeline provided by some “them” I couldn’t even identify. Dating. Moving on, whatever the hell that means.

But ultimately, what taking care of yourself means is a unique decision for everyone. And for me, for now, maybe forever, it means still being Michael’s wife. I might even keep checking “Married” on those stupid forms.

Michael and I did not have traditional vows at our wedding, by the way. We never said, “til death do us part.”

And I’m still not saying it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Yesterday, the sun fell into my condo. It was glorious. Every window just glowed.

Because I had my windows washed yesterday.

Is it a sign of getting old when you’re excited by your windows being washed?

But one of the reasons I fell in love with this place was the floor-to-ceiling windows on all three floors. I love the sun and I love the moon and I love light of any kind. In all 20 years of living here, I have never unrolled the blinds the condo came with (chosen by the board, they were, until recently, the only thing we were allowed to put on our windows). When the window washers left, I just wandered from floor to floor, room to room, and marveled.

I honestly don’t remember when the last time was that I had the windows washed. I know they haven’t been done since Michael’s accident, so that would put it at two years. During that time, my mind was on anything but the windows. Though even then, I would often stop in a patch of sunshine just to bask for a bit.

I was born in St. Louis, moved to northern Minnesota when I was six, and then to Wisconsin when I was twelve. I’ve always treated the sun as a friend. I played outside as often as I could, but never in dark places. I always hated the game hide and seek, both being a hider and a seeker. No matter which one I was, it involved darkness. In the house, I would set up my toys, especially Breyers model horses and a variety of Barbie-type dolls, in a patch of sunshine, and then move with the sun. I’ve never liked curtains or shades. Out of modesty, I put plantation shades in the bedrooms, but only on the lower half. At night, lying in bed, I have a full view of the moon passing by, and I’ve often fallen asleep in its silver glow.

During the time from Michael’s accident to now, I had to let some things go with the condo. At first, because I was over my head with things that had to be done for Michael, while still keeping up with AllWriters’. Mornings, meet with clients, afternoons, at the hospital or rehab, evenings, clients and classes and reading manuscripts. When he came home for a month, it was keeping up with teaching, but taking him to doctor appointments and meeting with the home health aides. Then he died.

Even sunshine couldn’t take me out of a dark place then, although I still sought it. Followed it, sat in it, soaked in it.

I even drive a convertible whenever I can, top down. It has heated seats, so until the weather drops below 50 degrees, that car is a sanctuary.

After Michael’s death, I went into a flurry of organizing the condo. Every cabinet and drawer was sorted through, cleaned out, donated, tossed out, or put away neatly. I was ridiculously proud of buying a new silverware organizer, but using it to organize batteries by their sizes. I know some people hang on to their spouse’s things for a long time, but I didn’t. I went through his closets, one that I called his hoarder’s closet, I found good homes for his collection of old-time radios. The off-site storeroom was an epic battle, as it contained mostly Michael’s things that he wouldn’t let go of. I hired someone to rip off the carpet runner from our stairs leading from the second floor to the third, and had the wood refinished. I got rid of the stairlift I’d gotten for him, to get him from the first to second floor.

Of course, what I found after this flurry was finished was that the condo felt empty. Michael wasn’t there.

But lately, the windows really began to bother me. Even if it was a clear day, I felt like it was foggy. It’s been nice on and off recently, and so I’ve been able to open the windows and deck doors, and that was a relief.

So I decided it was time to come out of the fog.

It’s not an easy thing to wash these windows. Michael and I attempted to do it together once and decided never again. Hang out a third story window, leaning backwards to try to reach that upper right corner, when down below, there’s only the sidewalk in the front or the blacktopped parking lot in the back? No thank you. So I organized a few of the other condo dwellers (the window washers charge us less if we do several units at a time) and arranged it.

And then it was done. The sun fell in and I felt like I was renewing a relationship with an old friend.

Olivia was here, helping me keep an eye on the cats, making sure they didn’t decide to leap out a window or run out of a door. When the windows were finished, she claimed she didn’t see any difference.

I sure did. The fog was lifted. And I fell in love with this place all over again. I’ve lived here longer than any other place in my life.

It’s Home. A place of memories and events and time spent sitting in the sun or falling asleep in the moonlight.

(There is, by the way, a poem in The Birth Of A Widow about cleaning out the hoarder’s closet.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

I’m sorry this is posted so late. But part of what I’m going to be writing about is why it’s so late.

I was sleeping.

So one thing I haven’t talked about much on here is that I am in the middle of a six-week hiatus I’ve taken from teaching. In 21 years of running AllWriters’, and in 31 years total of teaching, I have never taken this much time off. I’ve always said that work is my therapy. For the 21 years of AllWriters’, my work week has been a steady minimum of 85 hours. It’s what I do, it’s what I love. Writing and teaching writers are my two primary passions in my life. When you love what you do, the hours don’t feel as if they’re taking a toll. But eventually, the body tells you what’s going on. And hey, I am 65 now.

Michael’s accident, the five months he tried to recover, and his death and the time since have been the hardest time of my life. I’ve tried to come up with a better, more concrete way to explain this – I’m a writer, donchaknow – but in the end, all I can say is from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep to troubled dreams, it’s been hard. And hard isn’t even the word for it.

I am a strong woman, and I know it, and I’ve been told so by innumerable people. When I got dressed today, I pulled out a favorite sweatshirt. It says “Strong women come in all shapes.”

But sometimes, that strength can just bite you in the ass. I felt like it was an expectation, and if I wasn’t strong, if I didn’t push forward, I would disappoint everyone in my life, my kids, my students and clients, my readers, my friends. And so I kept pushing.

I only took two weeks off when Michael died.

Since Michael died, I’ve had three books released: the novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, which I finished the final draft of while sitting in Michael’s ICU room, reading out loud to him; a poetry collection, Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing!, which I put together during his attempt at recovery; and now, The Birth Of A Widow, released at the end of February, comprised of poetry that I didn’t plan to write about this whole experience.

Three books. Teaching a minimum of 85 hours a week. All while trying to figure out what the hell just happened and just what I was supposed to be feeling and doing.

I’ve been sick throughout this winter. And when I wasn’t sick, I was falling. One fall led to me cracking my head open and injuring my trapezius muscle, earning me my first stitches and introducing me to a muscle I didn’t even know I had. The second fall, in the experience with the homeless man, left me with a possible broken kneecap and a body that felt like it was tossed in a concrete mixer.

Sick and falling. That’s not me.

But it was my body, telling me, Hey! Take a break!

The ironic thing is that I have been a lifelong insomniac. I rarely got more than a few hours of sleep at night, and I didn’t care. But since the night of the accident, I’ve fallen asleep almost before I hit the pillow, and I just crave it.

And then, on February 23, I tested positive for Covid, the newest form of Covid. I hadn’t had my Covid booster or my flu shot, because every time I was set to go get them, I fell ill. When the Covid hit, it hit hard.

I originally took a week off. Tried to return, and couldn’t. Took two weeks off, and realized there was no way. Had a conference with my doctor, who has known me for 42 years (and he’s my age!), and the therapist I’ve been seeing who specializes in traumatic grief, something I never knew existed, and something I’m living now. They both said that I needed more time off, that I hadn’t been giving myself time to recover, physically and emotionally, from January 17, 2024, to now. They both said six weeks.

And I, of course, said no way.

But I felt the drag. I felt how hard everything was. And one night, I heard myself thinking, Well, at least it won’t be too long before I’m with Michael again.

I swear, I absolutely swear, he reached out and shook me by the shoulders.

So the thing is, of course, I’m self-employed. There are no paid sick days, no paid vacation days, no nothing. And because I’m on my own now, I couldn’t fall back on Michael’s income either.

I sat down with my ledger and my calendar and I figured out what bills would need to be paid over the entire six weeks, including the two I’d already taken. And lo and behold, I discovered I could do it.

And then, true to form, I nearly didn’t. But then I did.

When the break started, while I was neck-deep in Covid, I was sleeping at least twelve hours a night. It’s decreased now to eight to ten hours. At first, I would wake up, be awake for a couple hours, and then go back for a nap. The naps are rare now.

I am spending my time reading absolutely lovely books. I built a typewriter out of Legos. And I’m writing consistently again, starting a new book. Not a novel this time. I’ve returned to my first love – the short story. I’ve always said that if I could only write in one genre, it would be the short story. Most of my novels include short stories. And now, I’m immersing myself in them.

And I’m working hard (while not working) to figure out just who the hell I am now. I was the Kathie part of Kathie And Michael for 27 years, 25 of them married. And now I’m Kathie Without Michael. That’s different than who I was before I knew him. Now it’s Kathie Without Michael While Knowing What It Was Like To Be With Michael.

Just me.

So why was I late with this blog? Because my night-owlishness has come out in force, and I was up until almost five in the morning, and then I slept until three in the afternoon. I had a leisurely breakfast in my recliner with the next lovely book and a fresh hot cup of coffee. And now I’m here at my laptop. I haven’t even read my emails yet.

And what is the Moment Of Happiness? First, that I’m feeling better. And second, that I took this break. That I realized (with help) what I needed, and I put myself first, and I’m doing it.

I return to teaching on April 13. I am so looking forward to it. But in the meantime, I am resting.

Just me.

I’m going to end this piece with one of the poems from The Birth Of A Widow. It was written on June 20, 2025, the day after the first anniversary of Michael’s death.

THE FIRST DAY AFTER THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF YOUR DEATH

When midnight struck on your death anniversary,

I breathed a sigh of relief.

It was over, this first year.

It was done.

 

But when I woke on this morning,

the first day after the first year,

You were still gone

and I still wore grief like a cloak.

 

It wraps around my throat sometimes.

And sometimes, it drapes my shoulders.

If it falls off, I catch it tight,

throttle it with both fists.

 

I drag it behind me

or I wear it upon me

and I wonder when my fingers will open,

all on their own, and let it go.

 

Leaving only you and me

who you were

and who I am

now that you’re gone.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I never played with Legos. For one thing, they weren’t out yet when I was a kid. But there was a Lego-esque toy that I loved. It had 2 sky blue plastic pegboards, and then a bunch of multi-colored multi-sized tiles, and you put them on the pegboards to make pictures. The tiles didn’t stick to each other, just the pegboard. You could make pictures from the diagrams that were included, or you could make your own. I spent hours with that, and I know I kept it into adulthood…but I don’t have it now. I’m not sure when I got rid of it.

When my first three kids were born, there were many Legos, from the Duplos for little kids to the Legos we all recognize. I used to sit and watch my kids play with these, and marvel at what they made. These Legos came in big bins, and you made your own thing. There weren’t patterns yet. All I could do was click them together; I couldn’t make anything.

As my kids aged, suddenly the Lego models appeared, and by the time Olivia was playing with Legos, there were Lego stores and Lego Lands and Lego, Lego, Lego. It makes sense…the kids who loved these bricks wanted to keep creating as adults.

A little time passed after Michael died when my son Andy and my daughter Olivia introduced me to Animal Crossing Lego sets. Animal Crossing is a Nintendo game, and I’ve played it on many Nintendo systems – the GameCube, the Wii, the Switch, and now the Switch 2. It’s pretty much the only video game since the Nintendo era that I’ve played. With the kids’ help, I picked up a few small sets of Animal Crossing Legos, and then the three of us began to spend Lego nights, ordering pizza and chocolate frosted brownies and putting together the sets. I was amazed I could actually make something.

I had…fun.

Then, I discovered that Lego made a typewriter.

In my AllWriters’ classroom, there are several antique typewriters. In my lifetime, I’ve gone from a Royal manual typewriter, to a Royal Selectric electric typewriter, to a word processor to a tower computer to a laptop. Imagine that. There are three especially dear typewriters in my classroom. One is a small typewriter that folds over onto itself, and I bought it when I was sixteen years old from a rummage sale. It was five dollars. I was there first with my mother, and when I was pulling out a five-dollar bill to buy it, she said, “What in the world would you want that for?” So I put the bill back in my pocket. But later that afternoon, I slipped out of the house, returned to the sale and bought it. It was an antique then, and now, fifty years later, it’s antique-ier.

We’re both antiques now.

There is also a cat-ear antique typewriter that looks exactly like the one John Boy borrowed from the Baldwin sisters on the Waltons, when his hand-written short story was rejected by Collier’s Magazine. They said the story had to be typewritten. I was walking by an antique store in downtown Waukesha when I saw this typewriter in the window. Despite its amazing weight, I cradled it in my arms on the rest of my walk home.

My original Royal manual typewriter was blue, and given to me by my parents on the Christmas before I left for college. Like the tile set, it disappeared somewhere along the way, along with my Royal Selectric and the word processor. But for Mother’s Day a few years ago, my son Andy and my daughter-by-proxy Rayne showed up with a dusty pink Royal manual, just like my blue one. A piece of history came back to me.

And now…there was this Lego typewriter. It was an adult set, so much harder than the kids’ sets I’d been doing. But for my 65^th birthday last July, the same typewriter-toting kids brought  me the Lego set.

I was excited, but intimidated…and also overwhelmed by everything that happened since January 17, 2024, and already having trouble keeping up with my everyday life. Grief doesn’t make appointments, and it would reveal itself at the worst times, leaving me basically helpless, and ultimately, sick. So the Lego typewriter pieces sat in their box from July until a few weeks ago.

I’ve been sick all winter, basically, going from antibiotic and inhaler to antibiotic and inhaler, and finally tested positive for the newest form of Covid a few weeks ago. The exhaustion, the difficulty breathing, and just not feeling well was my final straw. Still testing positive for Covid after two weeks, I decided to take off the next two weeks too, and then there’s two weeks when I am on the Oregon coast. A six-week break, unheard of in my life. A very scary thing. But necessary.

The day before I tested positive for Covid, I sat with my son Andy and my daughter Olivia in the AllWriters’ classroom and started building the typewriter. They helped with the first steps, and at one point, it had to be torn apart and restarted. But now I’ve been working on it on my own at night.

It makes my mind work in new ways. I’ve never been good spatially, and I have to look at the diagrams and try to recreate them on my classroom table. There’s been a lot of swearing. But there’s also a lot of satisfaction in the click of one Lego fitting into another, and having it start to actually look like a typewriter.

I feel like I’m accomplishing something I couldn’t do before. I’m not sure what word to give it…it’s not a mindless activity. But it’s so focused that when you’re doing it, all other thoughts – and feelings, like fear and sadness and anger – go away.

Amazing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

On Week 2 of our shared Covid, my daughter Olivia came out to the kitchen and asked me, “Are you having weird dreams? Is Covid giving us weird dreams?”

I looked at her and laughed. Covid or not, I always get weird dreams. But yes, they’d increased since coming down with this damned thing. I’ve been dreaming about babies, lots of babies, who are all Olivia, even when there’s more than one in a dream, and even when the adult Olivia is standing beside me. I’ve been dreaming of Michael, I know it’s Michael, but when I see him in the dream, he looks like my first husband. Eeeek!

And I dreamt I was asked to guest-teach a math class at the University of Wisconsin – Madison.

I did a little research to answer Olivia’s question, and yes, it does seem that Covid gives people strange dreams. I told her we should just enjoy them while they last. They’re not nightmares. They’re just…weird.

But if she hadn’t asked me, I don’t know that I would have known any different from my every night life.

I dream in color. I dream long, often waking up in the middle, going to get a drink of water, coming back to bed, and then resuming where I left off. I sometimes wake up still speaking the words I was saying in the dream. I used to sleep walk, and after Michael’s death, I found myself doing it again. One memorable night, I woke up just as I was opening our front door to go out into the darkness. I must have walked down two flights of stairs. And…um…I don’t wear pajamas when I sleep. Luckily, the air was cold and it woke me up.

For a while after Michael’s death, the dreams got really strange, and so did the few moments after waking. I would look toward my alarm clock to see what time it was, and instead of seeing numbers, I saw little painted pictures. After looking away and then back, they became numbers again. I kind of miss those pictures.

I also lost orientation in my room. Waking up, I swore that someone had moved my bed. It was turned sideways and I couldn’t figure out how to get out. Eventually, the orientation corrected itself.

Now, obviously, and with retrospect, I can see with my writer’s eye for metaphor and symbolism that my dreams were showing me that I felt totally disoriented in my life. Everything had changed, even as the physical things in my life were still the same – my home, my furniture, and so on. I told someone that it was kind of like the cliché you hear, about the rug being pulled out from under you. Only for me, it was the entire floor. I was standing in midair, I knew my floor was somewhere, but I just couldn’t find it.

The dream, if it was a dream, I remember most from that time was waking up and looking over at Michael’s empty side of the bed. The wall just beyond the bed had a big hole in it, and inside, there was a balding man sitting in a chair, reading a newspaper. He looked up at me, smiled, and waved. I waved back and returned to sleep. When I woke, the hole was gone.

I know without a doubt that this was Michael’s father. I never met him, as he died before I met Michael, but I’ve seen pictures. And it felt like he was telling me Michael was all right. In the hospital after the accident, and in hospice, Michael told me he was seeing and speaking to his father. Seeing him in my wall (which is weird, I know) reassured me. I wrote a poem about this that is included in my new book, The Birth Of A Widow.

And now…possibly Covid dreams. Teaching a math class? At UW-Madison?

Math has long defeated me. I use a calculator for everything, and often, I tap in the wrong numbers. When I was a student at Madison, I took Theory of Arithmetic to satisfy my math requirement, and I only barely got a passing grade.

Yet my oldest daughter, Katie, is a math whiz and teaches math at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette. She didn’t get those genes from me.

In the dream, I was led into a huge lecture hall, just stuffed with students. I asked the person who led me in about a textbook, so I would at least have something to refer to. “Oh, no,” she said. “There’s no textbook. We just want you to teach.”

Okiedokie then.

As I approached the front of the hall, which had a raised stage, one of my writing mentors, Ellen Hunnincutt, who has also passed on, leaped up ahead of me, along with Kelly Cherry, also gone, who was one of my writing teachers at UW – Madison. They were dressed in old-fashioned clothing, Ellen in a tiered navy blue dress with a long string of pearls hanging down to her knees, and Kelly in a black flapper dress, with a huge hat that shadowed her face. But I could see her smile.

“What are you two doing here?” I asked.

“We’re here to cheer you on,” Ellen said.

Okiedokie then.

On this platform was a huge half-circle desk, with the opening facing the back of the stage. The desk was covered completely with those fuzzy black squares that jewelry is displayed in. There must have been over 500 fuzzy black squares. And in each one were neat little objects. Dice. Curtain rings. Seeds. Actual rings – jewelry. And, amazingly, the little pictures I used to see in my alarm clock. There was too much to take in.

“What am I supposed to do with all this?” I asked. “What does this have to do with math?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Kelly said.

I turned to face the class. There were so many students, and they were all watching me. I introduced myself, “Hi. I’m Kathie Giorgio, and I don’t know anything about math.”

They just kept watching.

“Okay,” I said. “Open your notebooks.”

They did. Off to the side, Ellen and Kelly shimmied.

“I want you to write down a list of the first numbers that come to your heads,” I said. “But write them as words, not numbers.”

And then I woke up, laughing. It’s a wonderful thing, to wake up laughing. And everything in my room was where it was supposed to be.

Later that day, in our family chat online, my daughter Katie put a math problem.

(5 – 2)² + 8 ÷ 4 =

Everyone else in the chat got 11. I got 14.

I thought squaring 3 meant you multiplied 3 by 2. So 6. 6 + 8 = 14. And then I couldn’t figure out how to divide 14 by 4.

“No,” Katie said. “To square, you multiply it by itself. So 3 x 3 = 9.”

Okiedokie then. But I still don’t see where the 11 comes from. And this is why you should never ask me to teach a math class.

Though I’d sure like to know what I had them do after I had them write numbers as words. And it was a delight to wake up laughing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.