Author: Kathie

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

Today is the start of the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC is my business, an international creative writing studio that offers online and on-site courses and workshops in all genres and abilities of creative writing, as well as coaching and editing services. AllWriters’ will be 20 years old in January. I was told, when I approached a bank almost 20 years ago to start the studio, that I had no business being in business. I left that bank, started the studio anyway without any kind of loan whatsoever, and 20 years later, here it is.

Bam.

And this will be the 19^th Annual Retreat. It is my favorite weekend of the year, even though I am basically on stage from Thursday night to Sunday afternoon. It’s. So. Much. Fun.

For every year of AllWriters’, Michael stood behind me. For every retreat, he was there. He ran through all the background stuff, keeping the fridge stocked, the kitchen loaded, the food ready, snacks on the workshop table. In our first years of the retreat, we provided three meals a day, and Michael cooked them all.

This year will be the first year that I have the retreat without Michael.

And while I lecture, hold one-on-one consultations, lead workshops, and do after-hours things, like play Cards Against Humanity, enjoy a shot or two of Fireball, and talk until I’m hoarse, I will be deep in grief.

But at the same time, at the thought of getting all the writers today under one roof, and spending a four-day weekend with them, encouraging them, teaching them, and doing everything I can to make sure that they know they can do what they set out to do, I am giddy with anticipation.

If Michael was here, he would be giddy with me.

This afternoon, while talking with a coaching client who is attending the retreat for the first time, he asked me how I can read all the manuscripts at all different levels of ability, and in all genres. How, he wondered, do I read the genres that I would not typically read out of my own choice.

“I couldn’t do that,” he said.

I can.

When I look back over what will soon be 29 years of teaching, 20 of them running my own studio, I don’t see the genres. I see the faces. And it’s those faces that keep me reading and reading and reading…and teaching. My students’ goals become mine. Though I have my own for myself too.

I respect and honor words. I respect and honor writing and writers, no matter what they write, no matter where they are in their careers. And I just love what I do.

Michael was originally my student. We only knew each other through a writers’ chatroom online. He was trying to cross over from writing radio drama into short stories. And he asked me to read his first short story.

I did. And by the time we were finished going back and forth with drafts, the story was sold to the Strand magazine. He was published alongside Ray Bradbury.

That’s what a writer can do. And that’s what a good teacher can do, when a teacher truly loves what she does.

But Michael, you know, he just happened to be a student who I ended up marrying. And staying married to for what will be 25 years in October.

It’s what I do, both writing and teaching, that is getting me through this dark time now. I feel the deepest grief over the loss of Michael. And I feel the greatest joy when I am with my students and clients.

This weekend, while I will be looking over my shoulder constantly, wondering where Michael is and why he’s not here to help me, I will also be steeped in what I consider my purpose and path and just…I’ll use the word again, because there isn’t any other. Joy.

My Moment right now is anticipation. But my full Moment is going to start at 7:00 tonight, when my students, writers from 8 different states, will be sitting in front of me in all their glory. And it will end, except for the warm memories which I will bask in for weeks, at 2:00 Sunday when I see them walk out to return to their lives.

I am so very lucky.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

On the evening of Michael’s accident, on January 17^th, 2024, I was handed four or five plastic bags filled with his things as he was moved from the ER to the ICU. I was also given his wallet, cell phone, and his keys. Totally overwhelmed with what I’d been told and what I’d seen in the ER, I grasped the bags, carried them to my car, then moved my car to another part of the hospital parking system which had easier access to the ICU. It was well after visiting hours, but I was being allowed back in, along with my daughter and son. I knew it was important to have his wallet, phone, and his keys. I didn’t pay any attention to anything else.

Much later, after dropping off my daughter and son at their respective apartments, I went home alone. Alone. I carried the bags inside, left them in the classroom, went upstairs to get the dog and take her out, and then I sat for I don’t know how long, staring into space, trying to figure out just what the hell happened. Eventually, I moved into action, emailing students and clients, trying to figure out how to get a hold of Michael’s boss to let her know he wouldn’t be coming in to work. I remember searching through MATC’s website, trying to find a number to call, calling two of them, and then going through Michael’s phone, recognizing a name as someone he worked with, and calling her, even though by that point, it was after one in the morning.

Somewhere around two in the morning, I went down to the classroom and opened the bags. There was the gym bag that he carried back and forth every day, dirtied, torn in places, the zipper broken. There were all of his clothes, all of them, from his jacket down to his socks, all in tatters from having been cut off of his body by the paramedics. Nothing was whole. Everything was in pieces.

I never ever want to see and hear again what I saw in the ER that night. I never want to be given bags of tatters again.

It was around about then that I realized I didn’t have Michael’s wedding ring.

Michael’s ring was very important to him. I wrote this blog back in December of 2021 about Michael losing his ring in Woodman’s as he checked out our groceries at the self-checkout. He got the manager to look at the video and confirm that he had it on his finger when he began checking out, but didn’t by the end, so the ring had to be there. He tore through and unloaded everything in the grocery bags he’d just packed up, and the manager took apart the register, and then Michael came home in tears because the ring was missing. We’d been married 21 years by then. I rarely thought of my ring – it was just a fixture on my finger. But Michael was horrified.

We did get a call the next day from Woodman’s – the ring was found and was waiting for us at the front desk. We went straight from picking it up to the jewelers to get it resized. Michael had lost weight and the ring was loose on his finger. He was determined to never lose it again.

To see the blog about Michael losing his wedding ring in 2021, look here: https://www.kathiegiorgio.org/12-23-21/

And now it was missing. And my husband was lying in the ICU, unconscious, with so many injuries, I couldn’t keep track of them, including the one with the really scary name: traumatic brain injury.

When I arrived back at the hospital the next morning, the first thing I did, after making sure he was still breathing, was check his finger. His ring was not there. And thus began my obsession with finding Michael’s ring.

I called the ER. Several times. They assured me, over and over, that they inventoried everything that came in with Michael, and there was no ring. I called the police. Several times. They didn’t have it, and they encouraged me to call the ambulance company. I called the ambulance company. Several times. They assured me they scoured the very ambulance he was on, several times, and there was no ring.

I wondered if it was in the gutter in the intersection where he was hit by the minivan, then run over. Despite the obsession, I knew I could not handle going there, standing where he did on his last moments of a normal life.

As soon as Michael was conscious enough to talk, even when he was still calling me his sister and not his wife, I asked him where his ring was. He immediately looked at his left hand, now encased in these awful fat white mittens that kept him from pulling out the tubes that were keeping him alive. “Take,” he said, holding his hand out to me. “Take.”

“I can’t take them off, hon,” I said. “But your ring isn’t on your finger. Where is your ring?”

He just looked away. At that point, Michael didn’t even believe he was married. He thought he was 23 years old.

The search for the ring continued for all of Michael’s time between January 17 and June 19, as he tried so hard to recover. When he was home, I said, “Michael, have you remembered where your ring is?”

His response was always to look at his finger and then tear up. “I don’t know,” he said.

I was determined to find it and restore it to him.

I was talking with his sister at one point during this, and she told me that when Michael visited Omaha at Christmastime, a trip that was my gift to him for his birthday and for the holiday, she noticed he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.

That puzzled me. Michael always wore his ring. But then I remembered that Michael had carpal tunnel and cubital tunnel surgeries in October. Again, before the accident. He would have taken his ring off for the surgery, as it was on his left hand and arm.

That day in October, I didn’t drive him to the surgery center as I had clients that morning. Olivia drove him, dropped him off, then returned to pick him up. If Michael hadn’t remembered to take his ring off before the surgery, he might have tucked it in a pocket or given it to a nurse before he went into the operating room. I’d already gone through all of his pockets, even in clothes he hadn’t worn for years. No ring.

Maybe it was at the medical center, a medical center in a different town and one I’d never been to before. But with everything that went on during Michael’s last months, I never made the phone call to see if it was there.

So Michael died without his wedding ring.

This week, I messaged our doctor, asking if he could give me the phone number of the surgical center where Michael had his surgery. I explained why I needed it. I was told they couldn’t give me the number directly because of HIPPA (ridiculous!), but I could call patient relations. Before I did, I had a conversation with a student who is a psychic. She said she saw Michael smiling, holding up a coffee mug that had Muse, our cat’s, face on it. Muse died shortly before Michael.

“Can you look for the ring in your coffee mugs?” she asked.

I told her that I’d just finished cleaning out and reorganizing every cabinet in my kitchen. “It’s not there,” I said. “And Michael didn’t drink coffee.”

Later that afternoon, I remembered my daughter Olivia saying, just a couple days before, that while I’d finished the cabinets, I never did the drawers.

In our kitchen, there is a bit of counter between the stove and the living room wall. It was “Michael’s counter”. He put his stuff for work there. There was a drawer with the counter, which housed our big spoons and other kitchen utensils. But Michael sometimes used it to drop extraneous things in. Receipts. Pens. Stuff that didn’t belong there and drove me nuts.

I’d already looked in that drawer for the ring. But I hadn’t taken everything out.

I decided it was worth a shot. As I pulled things out, I remembered how, when I checked it the first time, I’d removed a lot of things that didn’t belong there. Paperclips. Receipts. Change. Needles for his diabetic pens. What I pulled out now was what did belong there. Large spoons. Slotted spoons. A ladle. A spaghetti scooper.

I would give anything to have his sloppy drawer back.

As I removed the last thing, I felt pretty dejected, but also felt like shrugging and saying it was as I expected. But then I bent down and looked into the back of the drawer. I couldn’t see back there unless I bent down and stared.

And that’s when I saw the glint of gold.

In the back right corner, all the way back, there was the ring.

I pulled it out, and, true to form lately, I burst into tears. Then, I pulled off my own wedding ring from my finger, put Michael’s on, and then slid my ring after it, so I could wear them together, without having to worry about the larger ring falling off.

The rings touched. They rested. Side by side.

Just as it should be. Something was as it should be. I felt like I was given a little bit of Michael back. An important part. The part that connected us together, for almost 25 years now.

“I found it,” I said to the urn. “It’s right here.”

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It seems like right now, besides being a time of ends, this is also a time of firsts.

The first day waking up with the knowledge that Michael is gone.

The first day after the Celebration of Life.

The first holiday without him – the 4^th of July. We always had the best time with the kids at the fireworks.

The first visit at the zoo without him.

Coming up soon is my first birthday without him – July 29^th. Michael always gave the best presents, and without any prompts. When I cleaned out his wallet, I found 3 Barnes & Noble gift cards that still had some money left on them. So I went to B & N and bought myself some books. And then I thanked Michael for my birthday present.

The first AllWriters’ Annual Retreat, the studio’s biggest event of the year, without Michael running in the background to make sure everything goes smoothly. July 25 – 28. Participants are already saying to me, “Put me to work! Tell me what to do!” That’s hard for me, but I will do it.

And this past Monday, my first day back to work. The hardest part: not hearing Michael at the end of the day, saying, “How did class go?” or “How was (name of client)?” and I had no one to tell.

By last night, I was exhausted. I’d been fielding the question, “Are you okay?” for all three days, and it’s an impossible question to answer. If I am okay (at that moment), I feel like there’s something wrong with me, because I shouldn’t be. And if I’m not okay (at that moment), I feel like I’m not giving my all to the class or the client. My go-to answer has become, “Depends on the moment.” And I deliberately leave off what the moment is right then.

Of course I’m not okay. But also of course, I am working my way through this.

Today, Thursday, was my day off. I started, about 2 years ago, to take one day off per week, and I alternate the days, a different day off every week. This way, I can maintain my full schedule, but I also have that one day where I can catch my breath, get some sleep, and if I’ve fallen behind, I can catch up. My students and clients know, and can plan, that every five weeks, they will have a day off.

Today, I had another first on the schedule – the first day back (again) to piano lessons since Michael died.

I didn’t set my alarm last night, as is traditional for my day off. I woke up just after eleven. I rolled onto my back, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no way in hell I could get up. So I just kept laying/lying/stretching out there.

Laying/lying/stretching out. For as long as I’ve been a writer, for as long as I’ve been a teacher, I cannot figure out the whole laying/lying thing. So in all of my work, ALL of it, stories, novels, poetry, whatever, no one ever lays or lies. They stretch out. Michael was my go-to expert on this. He got it. I would yell downstairs to where he sat in his recliner, “Which one is right, Michael?” and read him whatever sentence I was reading or writing. He would pause and then say, “Stretch out.” And we would both laugh before he gave me the correct answer.

I don’t have the answer now. And so this morning, I stretched out. And felt that it was impossible to get out of bed. I emailed my piano teacher and told her I wouldn’t be in. It was a bad day, I said.

My thoughts rolled back to Monday, the first day back to work. That morning, I received news of a professional review about my upcoming novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You. The review was from the Midwest Book Review, and it was, if you’ll forgive the phrase, every writer’s wet dream. The reviewer sang the praises of the book, and then said about me:

“Kathie Giorgio is a gifted author whose writing captivates readers with its profound depth and insight. Through her compelling narratives, Giorgio ‘s characters exude a powerful voice that resonates with the desire to spark societal change.”

Holy cow. On Monday morning, as I stared at my screen and reread and reread the words of praise, I called out without thinking, “Michael! Listen to this!”

And of course, there was no answer.

My vision blurred and, as is my way, I got out of my chair and got busy. I showered. I got dressed. And I made my bed, just so. But my thoughts kept coming back to Michael, and waiting for his answer. I stopped making my bed and, in exasperation, which was not uncommon in our marriage, I yelled again, “For God’s sake, Michael, where are you?”

And then I stopped. I forced my fists to open again, lowered my shoulders, closed my eyes, and I breathed deeply.

When I stepped away from the bed, I noticed a tiny black rectangle on the floor.

The day before, I finished cleaning out Michael’s junk closet. What I not-so-fondly called his hoarder’s closet. He could keep anything in there, I said, as long as the doors closed. I hadn’t looked in it for years, and when I opened it to start going through it, I found an absolute nightmare. But one of the things I found was a pile of magnetic poetry pieces. They weren’t in a case, and I threw them all away.

On Sunday night, when I went to bed, there was nothing on the floor. On Monday morning, when I got up, there was nothing on the floor.

Now, there was.

I picked the black rectangle up and flipped it over. “In Here,” it said.

I clasped the rectangle and began to laugh.

“For God’s sake, Michael, where are you?”

“In here.”

In the urn.

Michael had a wicked, wicked sense of humor. I placed the “In Here” by the urn.

So this morning, as I stretched out in bed, I remembered Monday. And smiled.

Later on that Monday, I was walking through the bedroom when I saw a smaller black rectangle on the floor. I picked it up and flipped it over. There was only one word. “Feel.”

I have that word now, on my dresser.

After smiling in bed this morning, I thought of that word. “Feel.” And I allowed myself to cry until I was drenched.

And then I stepped through the impossible, with his help, and I got out of bed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

As time moves forward, as it inevitably does, and two weeks, almost three, have already gone by since Michael’s passing, it’s become more and more apparent to me how deeply I was running on automatic pilot. From January 17^th on, my world was about getting done what needed to get done, which included learning all sorts of new skills.

*how to speak to doctors and nurses, constantly with a notebook in my hand to write down the answers so that I would remember them for more than a couple minutes. And how important it was to write down which doctor or nurse told me which thing.

*how to deal with a catheter and a feeding tube and an NG tube, and their aftermath. How to deal with multiple IVs. Understanding a TPN.

*how to use a gait belt.

*how to be always ready to help, while at the same time, stepping into the background, so that Michael felt independent and so he could see how he was improving.

*how to organize and dole out medications, that were four times a day, three times a day, two times a day, one time a day, and took up space on my counter like a pharmacy, and how to deal with that moment of terror when I thought I’d messed something up.

*how to keep my temper, though that was something I failed at often.

*how to do all the things Michael did around the house. How to do all the things he never had to do, but I now had to, dealing with doctor’s appointments, insurance companies, organizing home health aides, and so forth.

*how to blunt everything. Because it was the only way to keep myself from falling apart. And to keep him together.

*how to be the power of attorney, and to be comfortable with my decisions and act as Michael’s advocate and my own.

And the amazing thing is, this hasn’t stopped since Michael died. There are more decisions to make, more paths to follow, more instructions, more forms and paperwork, more, more, more.

Dealing with cremation, which is what Michael wanted, is surreal. In Michael’s case, the accident that took his life required him to go to a medical examiner before he went to the funeral service provider. The medical examiner had to release Michael. Had to return him to me.

And yet, as well-led as I was by the people around me, nothing prepared me for when I walked in to the funeral home for Michael’s Celebration of Life, to find him, his urn, sitting on the table and waiting for me.

It was so small. Beautiful. But small.

I had to try, very quickly, to acclimate myself to that urn embodying my husband. That was him.

This wasn’t the first time I dealt with this. When my father died a long time ago, my mother and brother took care of the selection of the urn. I was at the house when they walked in, my brother carrying my father in a shopping bag.

“I wondered if I should put on his seatbelt in the car,” my brother said.

Surreal.

I had to call the church to see if my father was welcome at his own service. The priest told me that if it was a funeral, we should bring the urn, because a funeral is for the dead. But we were having a memorial service, and so that was for the living. My father remained at home.

Surreal.

When planning the Celebration of Life, first the funeral home, then our daughter and my mother-in-law asked me if the cremains would be buried. I hadn’t really thought about it, as by that point, I was having to focus so much on just what my next step would be, how deeply would I take my next breath. I knew, for myself, I wanted to be cremated as well, and then scattered in the Pacific Ocean, in Waldport, Oregon, my favorite place on earth. Michael and I figured out and shared what we both wanted when we did our wills a couple years ago. But he hadn’t told me what to do with his ashes.

I looked on the website for one of our cemeteries and was startled at all the options for cremains. But the more I studied them, the further I felt from Michael.

And then I heard him.

Through this entire ordeal, six weeks in the first hospital, three weeks in the rehab facility, a week back in the hospital, then a final three weeks and six days for the last time in the hospital, Michael said one thing consistently, over and over again.

“I just want to go home.”

That’s what he wanted. “He’s coming home,” I told the funeral home, our daughter, and my mother-in-law. “I’m bringing him home.”

And so, when the Celebration of Life was over, I picked Michael up and carried him, much as I carried him every day since January 17^th. I brought Michael home. Like my brother, I wondered briefly if I should put a seatbelt on the urn while we were in the car. I didn’t. But I smiled.

He’s here now. Home. I finally got him here. There is no more pain. No more confusion. There is only comfort and familiarity. He is safe.

He would be so happy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

For those of you who watch for the Moment, it will be coming, but later. It’s a holiday, and I have a visit to the zoo on my agenda. Keep an eye out for it later tonight.

 

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

It’s interesting, really, how often the meaning of the word “news” in that opening statement has changed since I began writing this blog in 2016.

So it’s now been 1 week and 1 day since Michael died. 5 months and 10 days since the accident that ultimately took his life away. He was in Froedtert Hospital for 6 weeks, Milwaukee Rehabilitative Hospital for 3 weeks, home from March 22 to April 29, then back in the hospital for a week, then home from May 6 – May 25, then back in the hospital for a final time until June 14, then in Angels’ Grace hospice until he died the morning of June 19^th.

You would think, looking at that, that numbers mean a lot to me. They don’t. But the journey Michael took, and that I took with him, literally felt like one step, one day, at a time. The numbers started out as despairing as I didn’t know if Michael was going to make it, then they built in hope, and then they suddenly tumbled down again.

Michael was a numbers guy, and the severe traumatic brain injury he suffered made those numbers scramble for him. So I suppose, in a way, my focus on the numbers was to try to help him as he found his way back to the real world.

Which he did. Amazingly. Strongly. Miraculously.

And then he lost his way again. And I lost him.

I was power of attorney, and I was the one that decided it was time to go to hospice. But while I was the one who made that determination, I believe fully that I was in Michael’s head when I made it. We’d talked extensively a couple years before, when we drew up our wills, as to what we would each want, and, more importantly, what we wouldn’t want. When I had to step into the power of attorney role, I literally felt myself step away from my own consciousness and into his. It felt a bit like disassociation, but disassociation with purpose. I had to be Michael as fully as I could.

The hospital moved Michael to the hospice on the day I made the decision, which was sooner than I expected. I had to run back home for a client, and in that time, they scooped Michael up, put him in an ambulance, and delivered him. By the time I got to the hospice, I was only in the room for a minute before I knew he was in the right place. He was in a comfortable bed, tucked up to the chin in fresh sheets and a soft blanket, and he was sound asleep. The room was quiet and beautiful. French doors looked out and opened to flowers, trees, and a small lake. And he wasn’t plugged into anything. His arms were free.

He told me later, when he woke, that he didn’t understand where he was. I told him he was in a place where he could get some rest. He smiled and fell back asleep.

My Moment came three days before he died. He had a sudden burst of lucidity, and when I stood by his bed, he said, “C’mere. C’mere,” and motioned me into his arms. He had more strength than I’d felt from him in weeks, and he kissed me soundly. For that Moment, even though I was standing and bent in half so I could be close to him, I curled into his chest and relaxed.

And we set off the bed alarm.

“Michael,” I said, trying to pull away. “You have to let me go. We’ve set off the alarm!”

“I’ll never let you go,” he said, and held me tighter.

When the nurse came in, she laughed and said, “That’s the best possible reason for the bed alarm to go off,” and she shut it off and left us alone.

I stayed in that position until he fell back asleep.

He died three days later.

But he’ll never let me go.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Hello, everyone,

My husband Michael passed away yesterday. He died very peacefully and quietly at just after seven in the morning. I’ve always read awful things about watching someone die – the death rattle, gasping, that sort of thing. But Michael, being the gentle and considerate man he is, simply stopped breathing. Our daughter Olivia and I were at his side.

I’m not going to write a moment of happiness for this week. I could say that the Moment is that he is no longer suffering. I could say that it’s that he went peacefully. And those things are true, and I’m very grateful for that.

But I am beyond sad. There isn’t a word for what I’m feeling. Sad doesn’t cut it, grieving doesn’t cut it. I said last night on Facebook that I have never felt more lost. I’ve been left behind by the one person in my life who I knew would never leave me. He didn’t leave me by his choice or of his own accord. The last six months have all been about his struggle to stay here. But he was taken from me, and from his family.

So no Moment this week. It would feel false. I think I need to honor this lostness, because it’s all about Michael, who he was, and who we were together.

Thanks for your understanding and your support. I’m hoping to resume what this blog is supposed to be by next week. But we’ll see.

 

 

Posting early today, as my afternoon is full.

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

So this one is going to sound really, really weird. My Moment this week was when I cleaned out several cabinets and put them to rights. Organized them. Stripped them down so they only contained what we use. Down and dirty, absolutely relentless, ohmygod there is space on my shelves, cleaning.

It was lovely.

I’ve always been an organized person. As a kid, when I collected Breyer’s model horses, they were kept in a neat line on my closet shelf, organized first in what I considered families, and then by parents to children in chronological order. I can probably still name all of them, even though I no longer have them. Let’s see.

Shadow, Star, Rocky, Sunset, Peppermint, Bronco, Snowflake, Tanka, Terror, Goldy, Phantom, Thunder, and Stormy. Oh, and for some reason, at the end of the line, there was a family of deer too: King, Queenie, Prentice, and Misty.

Standing straight. Facing forward. Perfect order.

They were never thrown in the closet at the last minute. They were never left scattered on my floor after playtime. They were brought down, played with, and put away, in order. One of the horses, Bronco, suffered a broken leg when I accidentally dropped him. He was not thrown away, but he was carefully propped between Peppermint and Snowflake, so he could still stand up.

Aaaaaaaaaaaah.

And it wasn’t just with my Breyer’s horses. I collected many things. Marbles. Golf tees. Rocks. Hot Wheels cars and Matchbox cars. All of these were kept in containers, clearly marked, and put away neatly in my closet.

A place for everything and everything in its place. It continued all the way through high school and college. Textbooks set up with coordinating notebooks and pens according to the day of the week and the time of the class.

It works for me.

This all became really complicated when I got married. Both then-husband and now-husband were, well, not all that neat. Both considered things put away if the doors of the closet or the cabinet still managed to close. Or if it barely poked out from under the bed. Or if it was at least on a shelf, even if it dangled off.

If I open my closet, I can see everything. I know in a breath if something is somehow missing. But with the husbands, then and now, if I open their closets, I can expect an avalanche.

Michael, my current husband, is quite possibly worse than my first. He also does the grocery shopping and puts the groceries away as well. Since Livvy went off to college and now grad school, Michael was always the one who unloaded the dishwasher and put away everything into the cabinets too. Which means my cabinets are chaos.

Consequently, I’ve learned to open those cabinets, ready to duck and run. And things are never where they’re supposed to be. If I have to find the cinnamon, it’s inevitably not in the spices. When I ask where it is, I find out it’s tucked in with the breakfast cereal, because there was no room in the spice drawer, or with the spices that moved into the soup cabinet because there wasn’t room in the spice drawer.

But here’s the thing.

Since January 17^th, the day that the minivan hit Michael and then ran him over, my life has been pretty much like the inside of those cabinets. Or the inside of Michael’s “stuff” closet that I don’t even dare open, but I can imagine. It’s chaos. And with him in the hospital more than he’s been home, it’s me doing the grocery shopping, putting the groceries away, and lord help me, cooking. I don’t know how to cook.

But last week, when I opened the corner cabinet to reach for the peanut butter, and the peanut butter jar bounced out and clobbered me in the forehead, I had enough. I even yelled it. “Enough!”

And so I set a goal to clean at least one cabinet a weekend until I get them all done and reorganized, back to as neat as they were when we moved in almost 18 years ago and I organized the kitchen.

Being the first weekend and I was full of enthusiasm and angst, I actually ended up cleaning out two cabinets, plus the fridge. Three cabinets, if you count a double-doored cabinet (right side, left side), as two. I did it late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, and let me tell you, the sound of things-that-should-never-have-been-kept hitting the inside of a garbage bag brought me the greatest joy.

I don’t even want to tell you the expiration dates of some of the things I found.

When I was done, five overstuffed garbage bags went into the dumpster. And I could actually see what was in my fridge, front to back, left to right, and in the drawers. The cabinet that held glasses and cups was organized by size and how often used. And in the first groceries-type cabinet I cleaned, things now fit neatly onto their own shelves. Baking supplies, top shelf, because we rarely bake. Pastas and rice. Breakfast foods (primarily oatmeal, Pop Tarts, and protein bars). Drink mixes and jello. Bread. And a medicine shelf.

Oh, I beamed. I went to the glass cabinet, got a glass, went to the fridge, found right away what I wanted to drink, and poured it. Went to the other newly cleaned cabinet, easily picked out a Pop Tart, and had a snack. Put my used dishes neatly in the dishwasher. Nothing left out on the counter.

Aaaaaaaaaaaah.

And that was my Moment. Which was truly only a Moment, though I will admit every time I open the fridge or one of those two cabinets, I take another Moment to sigh in contentment. And I’ve been giving the next cabinet in line, the corner cabinet with the deadly peanut butter in it, the evil eye. Oh, you just wait for Saturday.

But it was just a Moment. Because when I was done, I turned out the lights and went upstairs to get ready for bed, hopefully to sleep. And I found myself all alone again.

Sometimes, messy cabinets and a closet that explodes when it’s opened just don’t seem like such a big deal.

And yes, I know. This was an attempt to make me feel in control again, at least over one part of my life. The part that includes cabinets and refrigerators.

But…it was a Moment. I wouldn’t be me if it wasn’t. And I am grateful for it.

And yes, that helps. (Really!) Despite. Anyway.

 

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

When I left, and then divorced, my first husband 27 years ago, I suddenly found myself, through my own decision, on my own. I didn’t realize what that meant until I was on my own – and unaware of how to do certain things that my then-husband had always done.

A moment that stands out to me still, even this many years later, is when I stood at a gas station, the hood to my beloved strawberry Dodge Neon popped. The dashboard told me I needed oil. I had absolutely no idea how to check oil, add oil, or even buy oil.

Armed with the car’s manual (and I like to think the full and loving support of my car himself), I found the dipstick. I found the name of that particular part hysterical, as that was exactly how I felt about myself at that point. I grabbed a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser, wiped the dipstick clean, managed to shimmy it into the corresponding tube, and pulled it out.

Could they make those things any harder to read? It reminded me of old time oral thermometers, when you had to squint and turn the thermometer back and forth, trying to see where that little silver line landed. I finally determined that, yes, I needed oil.

The manual told me what kind to buy. I went into the gas station, found it, bought it, and went back out. And then wondered how the hell I was supposed to pour it in without spilling any on the engine. I read further in the manual and found that I needed a funnel. I didn’t have a funnel.

Back into the gas station. Where I discovered, to my utter amazement, that while I could indeed buy a funnel, I could also just take one of the free paper ones they offered. What a nice gas station!

Back by my car, I carefully poured the oil in. I remember talking to Neon, my very creative name for my car. “You’ll be okay, Neon,” I said. “I’m taking care of you. I’m figuring this out.”

I rechecked the oil. It still wasn’t up to the little mark where it said my car would be happiest. Back in for more oil, pour more in…

And voila! My little car was happy! And I DID IT!

Ohmygod. I felt like I deserved a trophy. A gold medal. I am not ashamed to say that after I put everything to rights in the engine, I shut the hood, and then draped myself over it, giving my car a hug, and believing fully that it hugged me back. My car was one of the few things that I brought with me when I walked out. There was my car, my bedroom set, and my writing desk. I left everything else to him, including the house.

And I did it.

So now, here I am again, once more on my own, hopefully just for now, but in completely different circumstances. In 2024, Michael has been in the hospital or rehab more than he’s been at home. I am on my own.

On the day Michael went into the hospital for this current stay, we had our first really humid, hot weather. I am asthmatic, and our a/c is very important to me. But as I stood before the thermostat on this day, I realized I didn’t have a clue how to operate it.

It’s a programmable thermostat. You can choose temperatures for different times, different days, different regions of your home. It gave me a little boost to remember that Michael installed it, and when it didn’t work, I had to have an HVAC guy come out, only to find out that Michael attached the wires wrong. So he was clueless at one point too.  But since that time, Michael ran it flawlessly. I never touched it.

We hadn’t left for the hospital yet, and I asked Michael if he remembered how to do the thermostat. The look he gave me said simply, “Get me to the hospital.” So I abandoned the thermostat and left.

Michael has been in the hospital now for almost 3 weeks. In that time, the pollen counts have soared. It’s been hot and humid. And, in their great insurance company wisdom, our health insurance decided to no longer cover the maintenance inhaler that has kept my asthma in control for well over twenty years. I had to go on a new one, which is taking its time to become effective.

I’d already tried to find the thermostat manual. Nowhere. I looked at a YouTube video that went on and on about the regions, dates, times, for so long, my eyes glazed. But a couple days ago, I remembered my first time of putting oil in my beloved Neon, long departed now, and so I planted myself in front of the thermostat again. I returned to that video, armed with a notebook to take notes.

And lo and behold, near the end of the video, the narrator said, “But what if you are one of those people that hates programmable thermostats? What if you just want one temperature all the time all throughout your entire house?”

That’s me! I thought. That’s me!

He then told me, and showed me, what to do. Put the thermostat on cool. Use the up or down arrows to get it to the temperature you want. Hit hold. And now the thermostat will override any other programs that are on it, including the factory setting.

I did. And I heard the a/c go on. In 40 minutes, my hot and humid condo was where I needed it to be.

If I could have hugged my house, I would have. Like my Neon, I think it was cheering me on.

I DID IT!

Oh, man. The things you don’t think about when you suddenly find yourself on your own, even when you’ve been through your first marriage, your first divorce, and an oil change with a strawberry Dodge Neon.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s been a rough week again, and getting rougher. But here I am.

Soon after Michael’s accident on January 17^th, I pulled the plug on my piano lessons. My full schedule was suddenly fuller with running back and forth to the hospital, having consultations with the medical folks taking care of Michael, and having to make decisions I never wanted to make. While the piano had become a refuge for me in the eight short months I took lessons, I just needed to unload as much as I could off my plate in order to keep my head above water (this is called mixing metaphors, and it’s a no-no, but so be it).

I’ve wanted to play the piano for a long time. My brother is a gifted organist and my childhood house always had a living room with either a Wurlitzer or a Hammond in it. I didn’t want to play the organ – I loved the sound of the piano. But my parents, reasonably enough, wanted me to take advantage of what was already there, if I was going to take lessons.

I said no. (And, to be completely honest, my kids never had to deal with hand-me-down instruments. What they wanted to play, they played: Christopher on the trumpet, Andy on the drums, Katie on the flute, and Olivia on the violin.)

When my big kids (the children from my first marriage) were growing up, I came across a piano for free if I hauled it. I talked my then-husband into renting a U-Haul and we brought the piano home. It was huge, one of those really old uprights that was as much lovely furniture as it was a musical instrument. Each of my kids took piano lessons, and I loved hearing them practice. I tried to learn through watching them, but it just didn’t seem to work that way. When I divorced that husband, the piano stayed with him.

Fast forward many years, into a new marriage, a new baby, kids growing up and going to college, kids entering their lives. On Facebook, my youngest daughter Olivia’s first grade teacher (Olivia was in high school at this time) mentioned that she was going to give away her beloved piano. She had a new grandchild and she wanted to make her music room into a grandchild room.

I didn’t hesitate. It was a piano who needed a home, and it came from a home where a wonderful teacher lived and I needed a piano. I hired two guys to move it and up it came. This was in August of 2018.

I had a piano in my living room. A dream come true. But…there it sat until May of 2023. When I finally signed up for piano lessons. Which lasted until 1/17/2024, when my husband was struck, then run over, by a minivan.

Along with a longing to play the piano, I’ve also had a long line of amazing teachers. Teachers that encouraged my writing, that lifted me up whenever I felt like my life was impossible and I’d never be who I wanted to be. Teachers who knew who I was before I knew who I was. Teachers who weren’t mine, but my kids’, and who helped me to understand them and become the best parent I could be. Even a teacher who not only gave me her piano, but quickly sewed a runner for the top of the piano and a bench cover that would match the colors of my living room.

Enter a piano teacher. I took my first lesson on May 25^th, 2023, at the White House of Music in Waukesha. My teacher is Eileen.

We laughed together over lessons. I felt the need to do well, but not the need to perform, to be the best. I felt instead her encouragement that I should just enjoy. That I should sink into the music, marvel that it was coming from my own fingers, laugh at my mistakes, and embrace the piano as a friend.

Embrace the teacher as a friend too.

After I told my teacher that I was going to have to step away from piano for a while, she stayed in touch. She emailed me often, checking on Michael’s progress, checking on how I was, and reminding me that she wasn’t going anywhere, the piano wasn’t going anywhere, I could return as soon as I could.

After Michael came home from rehab, I waited a few weeks, then told my teacher I was coming back. A few days before my lesson, Michael fell and had to be transported to the hospital, where he stayed for over a week. I canceled my lesson. My teacher kept emailing me.

Michael came home, I prepared to return to my lesson. And he went back into the hospital.

Last week, I returned to piano anyway. I began to play again, working on the lesson I’d been given back in January. When I walked into the music store, the staff called out, “Welcome back!” I went up the stairs and walked into the little piano studio.

Where my teacher met me with open arms.

We talked. And then we played.

I’ve been given a gift with the piano. Both with the piano itself, from a teacher, and with the lessons, from another teacher. And then there’s the piano itself.

This week, Michael is still in the hospital. I’ve been practicing my two piano pieces every day since my lesson last week. I was supposed to go for my lesson this afternoon.

A short time ago, I received a phone call from the hospital. Michael fell. I’m heading up there as soon as I finish writing this. I canceled my lesson.

But I will be there next week. No matter what.

And I will practice when I get home from the hospital tonight. I will have a moment of peace with my piano. I will enjoy the music. I will marvel that it’s me making it.

Thank you to Karla Hanson for the piano. And thank you to Eileen Warren, my piano teacher.

And thank you to my piano.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.