Author: Kathie

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

As the time to write this blog approached, I did my best to talk myself out of writing what I already knew was my Moment this week.

It’s stupid, I said. It’s goopy.

It’s like if the Hallmark Channel married the Lifetime Channel and had a baby.

It’s just…something that from someone else would make me roll my eyes. I’M making me roll my eyes.

I was told, early on, that I am not a deer and flowers writer. I am not about rainbows or daisies or daffodils. I am not about butterflies. Okay, I can get a little crazy over sand dollars, but Disney-esque metaphors and symbols? Cinderella singing with bluebirds?

Ick.

So anyway. This week has been hard. After having an absolutely stellar Friday, complete with walking up to the third floor and sitting on the deck in the sun, and plans to go out to dinner and a movie on Saturday, Michael woke up Saturday morning feeling nauseous and quickly continued on to throwing up blood. By Saturday evening, we were in the ER, and by the time I drove home, I was alone in the car. Michael was (re)admitted.

Today is Thursday, and he’s still there. He’s still throwing up. And no one seems to know why.

On Tuesday, Michael said he just wanted to sit up on the edge of the bed for a while. Not walk to the recliner, not take a walk in the hall. Just sit on the edge of the bed.

I watched as he did. And then I watched as he slowly lowered his head and sighed.

“What are you trying to do?” I asked.

“I’m trying to survive,” he answered.

And that pretty much sums up my week, and how I feel right now.

But.

A couple days ago, I was hustling around, trying to get out of here to see Michael in the limited time that I had. It was nice out, so I had to move my 2018 Chrysler 300S, named Barry (he’s berry-red, and if he could talk, he would sound like Barry White), so I could revel for just a little bit in my convertible, a 2012 Chrysler 200lxi, named Semi. When I bought Semi, I also owned a Chrysler 300C Hemi, who I creatively called Hemi. Michael said, “Huh. A 200 and a 300. The convertible is a semi Hemi.” And so Semi became Semi, though there is no longer a Hemi but a Barry.

So I got ready to drive.

When I opened the garage door, there was immediately, right in my face, a large yellow and black butterfly. I’d never seen one like this before and so I froze. It fluttered all around me, then moved off to settle in the gravel next to Barry. When I got in the car to move him so I could get Semi out of the garage, the butterfly fluttered all around the car. I don’t think I’ve ever backed up so slowly, because I wanted to make sure I didn’t hit it. For a few seconds, it fluttered right above my open sun roof and I thought it was going to join me, sitting in the passenger seat.

I parked the car and watched the butterfly return to the gravel. As I pulled Semi out, it fluttered around me again, then carefully landed in the gravel where it stayed while I drove away.

It was still there a couple hours later when I returned. I thought it was dead, which filled me with sadness, but when I approached it, it fluttered all around me again. (And yes, I can already hear my students saying, “Ohmygod, Kathie, look how many times you’re using the word flutter!” But there is no other word for this.) I stood by the open garage door, watched it fly, and then said, without thinking, “Thank you.” And then I went inside.

The image of the butterfly stuck with me, and as I got ready for bed late that night, I used my phone to Google yellow and black butterflies.

I found it. It was a male tiger swallowtail. I admired the photo, but I admired the real butterfly even more.

As I prepared to click out of Google, I saw another result the search engine brought up, that said, “Yellow and black butterfly meaning.” So I clicked on that. And then I read: “In many cultures, a black and yellow butterfly can be a positive omen that symbolizes hope, transformation, change, and new beginnings. It can also represent rebirth into a higher spiritual or consciousness state.”

Hope. A positive omen.

I tried very hard to roll my eyes, but they wouldn’t go. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought of that completely involuntary, completely intuitive “Thank you.”

I still don’t want anything to do with uicorns. But this butterfly…Hope. Thank you.

And by the way, there was one hell of a rainbow this week too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This past weekend, in the middle of chaos, I had the great fortune to be asked to attend a book club that was discussing my latest novel, Hope Always Rises. Two days before the book club, Michael was released from the hospital, and the night before the book club, he was back in the ER with uncontrollable vomiting. My contact person for the club emailed me and said the group would be perfectly understanding if I had to cancel. I’d been in the ER with Michael until from 4:30 in the afternoon until 11:00 at night. I had to finish reading manuscripts for a workshop I was teaching the next day. I was exhausted and I was stressed to the max.

But cancel going to the book club? Like hell.

I love book clubs. It was an odd sort of kismet, as earlier in the week, I’d read a post on the bulletin board for a national professional authors group that had many writers professing that they thought book clubs were a waste of time. “They get the books from the library,” they said. Or “They share the books, so you don’t get any sales.” “They don’t buy any other books,” they said.

I admit, I rolled my eyes. Because that’s not what it’s about.

When I present at different events, whether it’s a book club or a lecture or a reading, I’m often asked “when” I became a writer. Every now and then, I’m asked the “why”.

So. Why did I become a writer?

So I could be rich.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

One of the biggest false beliefs out there is that writers make a lot of money. Honestly, most writers don’t – especially off of our books. Have you noticed what websites like Amazon sell books for? When a book sells for 99 cents, and a good chunk of it goes to Amazon and a good chunk of it goes to the publisher, how much do you think is left for the author?

But truly, I never expected to make a lot of money. As a kid, I was an avid reader, and I always, always read the About The Author. It didn’t take long to figure out that most writers have other jobs. From that, I developed a realistic expectation early on that writing would likely never be the way I supported myself, even if I was a full-time writer. For that, you also have to consider my definition of full-time writer. When I am asked who I am, I answer, “I’m a writer.” When asked what I do, I answer, “I’m a writer.” I’ve produced 15 books in 14 years, plus many, many short pieces, including poetry.

But I am also a full-time instructor and a full-time business owner. Being a woman, being a wife, being a mother, being a grandmother, features in my roles too. It is very possible in a lifetime to be full-time lots of things. And full-time has nothing to do with money. It has to do with how you define yourself.

I’m a writer.

So why else did I become a writer?

So I could be famous.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Of course I wanted to be published. Of course I wanted to see my books on bookshelves, my name in magazines and anthologies and on book covers. But to be “famous” the way we think of famous, with flashing lights and not being able to go anywhere without being besieged for autographs and such?

No. I like things quiet.

However, I was recently told by a student that if you Google “most famous writers in Wisconsin”, I’m listed in the top ten. And I was very pleased by that. I can handle this kind of quiet fame.

So why did I become a writer?

Here’s the truth – plain and simple. To make a difference.

I was asked recently to be interviewed about being a writer for change. I prefer to think of being a writer to make a difference. Writing for change sounds like it always has to be something big – changing the world sort of stuff. Ending racism. Solving climate change. Making the world a wonderful, supportive place for every living being on it. But I think we change the world for the better with small steps.

I was told in high school that I would never write about “deer and flowers”. That’s pretty much been the case. I’ve also been told I’m a “dark” writer or I write on “disturbing” subjects. Maybe sometimes. Not always.

And here’s the thing. Even when I write about the “dark”, I always bring light in.

So back to this book club.

The book they were discussing was Hope Always Rises. This is the back-jacket description:

“In Heaven, there is a gated community for those who end their lives by choice. This is a complete surprise to Hope, who ends her life one morning on the banks of the Fox River in Waukesha, Wisconsin.

Hope has always dealt with deep sadness. From childhood on, she visited therapists, doctors, alternative medicine practitioners, Reiki artists, etc., to no avail. In Heaven, God reassures her that he knows what caused the sadness, but he won’t reveal it yet.

All community residents are required to attend weekly group therapy. Hope’s first group is led by Virginia Woolf. Several of the book’s chapters tell the stories of other members of this group.

Filled with many moments of striking humor, uplifting realizations, and difficult challenges, Hope finds her way in Heaven. She meets many people like herself, who help her restore her forgotten artistic talent and passion, and God himself, who is amazingly human in the most inhuman of ways. Hope finds understanding and forgiveness, and most importantly, friends.”

So a book about suicide – not the ones left behind, but the people who look at suicide fully in the face. What they go through, why they do it.

Maybe “dark”. Maybe “disturbing”. But I created the character of Hope to bring the light in. To make a difference.

One of the hardest things about being a writer is that you don’t always get to know if you accomplished what you set out to do. I’ve had many wonderful moments with the readers of Hope Always Rises. And then there was this book club, which I came to after a horrible night.

We had an incredible, rousing discussion. I was already glowing by the end of it. Then, as the group was breaking up, one of the members sat next to me.

“Thank you for writing this book,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I was Hope.”

Her eyes weren’t the only ones who filled. I. Made. A. Difference.

And by the way. I’ve been Hope too.

Do I make a ton of money as a writer? No. But I’m rich.

Am I famous? My readers know who I am.

And my Moment this week? I made a difference. With Hope.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

Well, first off, let me apologize. Michael came home from the hospital today, and my morning was spent with clients, my afternoon with getting him home, going to the pharmacy to pick up meds, dropping my car off to be fixed, running back here to meet with three more clients, fixing supper, and I just sat down to start working on tomorrow’s manuscripts when I remembered. Today is Thursday. The day I post my Moment. AUGH!

Whew. But Michael’s home. And yet…that’s not my Moment.

This past Saturday, Michael was still in the hospital. While the doctors had identified what was wrong (a UTI that went septic, and an ulceration inside his stomach where the feeding tube used to be), they couldn’t figure out (yet) why he wasn’t hungry or thirsty and was constantly nauseous and throwing up. I was more than a little glum.

It was a class-free Saturday for me. I teach two Saturdays a month, and so my free Saturdays mean a lot to me. Neither my son Andy nor my daughter Olivia were working, and so I suggested that we do one of our favorite things…what they call “thrifting” and what I call “scrounging”. My favorite place for this is a St. Vinnie’s, located in Pewaukee, Wisconsin, housed in what used to be a huge grocery store.

I’ve loved “scrounging” since my teenage years. My very first purchase was when I was fifteen years old and a neighbor down the road had a rummage sale. She had a small antique typewriter and I fell in love. My mother thought it was junk and refused to buy it for me, but a few hours later, I was still thinking about it. I had enough cash of my own, and so I slipped out the door and returned to the sale. The neighbor smiled and gave me the typewriter for half off. Five dollars. I didn’t even haggle. I think she saw the look on my face when my mother called it junk, and she saw the look on my face when I came back.

I’m 63 now, so I’ve had that typewriter for 47 years. It came with me everywhere, to college and to the variety of homes I’ve lived in. Now, it sits in the AllWriters’ classroom.

I was pregnant with my first child when I began to scrounge at rummage sales on a weekly basis. And I discovered flea markets too. Over the years, I’ve found all sorts of treasures.

And so, glum, I went to St. Vinnie’s this last Saturday, hoping for a treasure.

At first, I mostly found clothes. I wandered through the other aisles and didn’t really see anything. At the far end of the store, at least the way I travel it, is the furniture, and I went through there last. My son and daughter were by a huge bin of stuffed animals, and my daughter was looking for Squishmallows, while my son was examining a stuffed Jurassic Park dinosaur with wonky eyes.

Treasures.

And then my treasure. I wasn’t even sure what it was at first. Well, I knew what it was. It was a rhinoceros. But what was it doing in the furniture section? I scooted quickly toward it.

And it was a rhinoceros. A rhinoceros footstool. It had lovely horns and a woebegone expression on its face.

Kind of like the face I saw in the mirror when I looked in it that morning, though I don’t have any horns.

There was a lid on its back, and when I lifted it, I discovered a hidey-hole. It was just the right size for stowing a small notebook and some favorite pens when I needed to just get away from my desk and computer screen for a bit.

The rhino wasn’t perfect. Someone, likely a child, drew on his stuffed lid in a dark crayon, but because the rhino was brown, it didn’t really stand out. And perfection has never been a draw for me anyway. Just ask the myriad of clocks that hang from the walls of my condo and line the tops of my kitchen cabinets. They all came from flea markets and Goodwills and St. Vinnie’s and antique stores. Many of them don’t work. And I don’t care. It just means they’re even more needful of a home.

This rhino needed a home. Oh, that face.

I didn’t even have to say anything. My son, not uttering a word, came over, picked up the rhino, and put him in my cart. Yes, the rhino is a he, as far as I’m concerned.

The rhino now stands in my office in front of the rocking chair I’ve had since I was pregnant for the first time. I found it in a flea market. It was painted bright blue. My husband at that time grumbled when I brought it home, but he taught himself how to strip it and refinish it, and it’s a beautiful rocker that I treasure. It’s my reading chair in my office now, my days of rocking babies long gone. It’s covered with a blanket Michael had made for me, with the covers of my (then) books on it. When I’m not sitting on it, a big stuffed iguana rests there, purchased at a used bookstore when I realized I was likely going to be writing the sequel to my novel, If You Tame Me, which featured Newt, a green iguana.

Treasures.

But here’s the thing.

When Michael and I were out on our official first date, we went to a zoo. We had a wonderful time. But when we approached the outside enclosure for the rhinos, there was a huge crowd. We moved in to see what was going on.

The enclosure was fenced off, a rhino on either side. On the one, a female. On the other, a male.

A male that was, shall we say, clearly very, Very, VERY attracted to the female on the other side of the fence.

Holy cow. Or more accurately, holy rhino.

The female preened for a bit, then turned her back and trotted away to the other side of the yard. The male, demoralized, slumped to the ground. Right on his…well…his very obvious attraction.

The entire crowd, especially the men, groaned out loud.

Michael and I laughed so hard, we had to hold each other up. And from that point on, rhinos were special. I have a brass rhino hanging from my keychain. We have a few rhino ornaments on our Christmas tree.

And so, on this day when I was glum, there was a rhino.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfection.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Ohmygosh. It’s 9:30 at night, central time, and I just realized that it’s Thursday and I didn’t write my blog! Michael came home from the hospital today and I’ve been caught up in that, plus keeping up with my clients. I’m so sorry!

Check back in just a few – I know exactly what I want to write about. I just have to do it!

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

Well…

Last week, I wrote, and I quote, “But every now and then, something happens. It usually happens in a flurry, almost as if the Universe (or whatever) is sensing that I’m reaching a low point and so it throws a bunch of positive stuff my way.”

And then there’s other times. Like this week. Times when the Universe seems to decide instead to throw everything at me to the point where I wonder if I’m going to have to cancel writing the blog at all because I simply can’t find anything to be happy about.

Early Monday morning, at 2:00, my husband Michael fell. The sound shook the house. I was still awake, and I ran down to see what happened. I found Michael on the floor in the doorway of what is currently his room – usually Olivia’s. He was disoriented and confused and I knew there was no way I should try to get him up. I called 911, discovered that my 3-story condo is not the best place to have an emergency, and then trailed after the ambulance as they drove him up the hill to the hospital.

Where he’s been all week. He had a UTI, which may or may not have gone to sepsis, depending on who I talk to. Inside of Michael, the area where the previous feeding tube had entered his stomach was ulcerated. In the ambulance, his heartrate dropped to the 30s, his temperature was only 95 degrees, and his blood sugar was through the roof.

As of today, depending on who I talk to, his UTI/maybe sepsis has resolved with IV antibiotics. They used a scope to go down his throat and inside, where they cauterized and clipped the feeding tube ulceration. However, he is still vomiting a lot, and they don’t know what’s causing that. There was talk of a bowel obstruction, but that has since been proven nonexistent.

It’s been a very frustrating and frightening week. I canceled classes and clients and resumed my daily trips to the hospital, though at least this time, the hospital is literally just up a hill. I can see it from my bedroom window. I make a point of waving out my window every night before bed, in case Michael is looking out, though even if he is, he likely can’t see me. But it makes me feel better.

And so I thought, What the hell am I going to write about this week? I think I’m going to have to admit defeat and not write anything. Then a former client responded to one of my Facebook posts. I’d said about this hospital, “They don’t even have limited visiting hours like Froedtert, so I can easily stay late and work in his room, and then coast down the hill and go to sleep. Plus – they have fabulous food.” And my client said, “That’s Kathie. Find the thing to be grateful for to keep yourself going. You go, Kathie.”

That’s me? I go? Huh.

So I kept thinking about it. Yesterday, I came home tired from the hospital, having spent another afternoon and evening watching my husband vomit over and over. I opened my door and was greeted, as always, by our dog, 50-pound Ursula, nose-first, checking me over. But she wasn’t alone at the door.

Standing next to her was a little orange cat. Out of all the cats I’ve had before, I’ve never had a door-greeter. But there he was.

Oh, this cat.

Most know that I recently lost both of my older cats within 5 weeks of each other. Edgar Allen Paw was fourteen years old. His legs suddenly went out permanently from under him, and he lost all bladder control, and he was in pain. So I helped him cross to the other side. And then five weeks later, my Muse, on her 21^st birthday, suddenly collapsed. And then she was gone. And I was deep in grief. Over all of it. This entire awful winter. But Muse’s passing was pretty much what did me in.

I wasn’t going to get another cat. I am too old, I said. I don’t want my pets to outlive me. Yet a couple weeks later, I somehow found myself on various animal shelter websites, “just looking.”

When I went in to the humane society where I used to work in high school and college, I didn’t connect with the cat I went to see. I connected with a little orange cat named Oliver.

Who was only a year old.

I met him, then left him behind. I cried all the way home. I’d picked up Muse’s ashes just before I stopped at the humane society. She rode beside me in the car. I kept one hand on the lovely carved wooden box that held her.

And then I waited a week. But after a week, a quick check of the website showed Oliver was still there. So I went back. And he came home.

Where he started out shy. And then…he evolved into a holy terror. Just like Muse, who we’d had since kittenhood and whose nickname, given to her by Michael, was Demon. Holy cow. You know that game that kids play, where they try to cross a room without ever touching the floor? Someone, somewhere, taught this cat that game. I watched him fly down the steps, up onto the back of the loveseat, leap to the back of the couch, leap to the cat tower, the coffee table, the island, the other counter, back to the island and then through the air to me, where I sat on the loveseat.

So he’s like Muse. And…he’s also an orange tabby, like Edgar. But I was used to old cats, who basically slept and kept me company. I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing, bringing him home into what was essentially chaos, and HE was chaos.

But on this day, I was exhausted. The condo was quiet, with Michael in the hospital. And this little orange cat met me at the door, along with Ursula, and then like her, he stood quietly under my hand as I pet him from nose to tail. When I moved to my recliner on the love seat, he followed me, waited until my footrest was up, and then he leaped gently onto my lap.

Where he purred, the whole time I cried.

He stayed with me the whole evening. Ursula, doing her part, either had her concrete head in my lap as well, or she was stretched out by my feet.

And I felt better.

Just that morning, I’d posted a photo of Oliver on his cat tower, and said that I was thinking of changing his name to Dennis, for Dennis the Menace. But no. He’s Oliver. And I absolutely made the right decision and brought home the right cat.

A little bit of Edgar. A little bit of Muse. And exactly what I needed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

One of the many things I’ve discovered since Michael’s accident is how all-encompassing the role of “caretaker” is. I’ve refused to even use the term – it has a permanence about it that I’m resisting. Every indication is that Michael will recover and return to work, to full functioning at home, to his life. We don’t know that for sure, of course, but no one has told us to prepare for his never going back. And so I resist it. It might be denial. It might be selfishness. It is the absolute refusal on my part to think that this is going to be the way it is from now on.

But…I am starting to accept that I am a caretaker…for now. There are things Michael can’t do safely yet that I am doing. Doling out his medicine. Cooking the meals and bringing them to him. Helping him into bed each night. Two of our biggest current obstacles are his right eye and right ear. Michael had a fracture directly above his right ear, and this has affected the hearing in that ear and the vision in that eye. The vision is blurry, sometimes causing double vision, and the eye is not always tracking the way it should. The ear is, in his word, “noisy”. He knows there’s something going on that he can hear, but there is noise in the ear that prevents him from hearing clearly. We will be seeing a neuro-ENT and a neuro-ophthalmologist, but scheduling in the medical profession being what it is right now, we couldn’t get in until mid- and end of May. He was released from rehab on March 22. That’s a long time to go with fuzzy eyesight and loud hearing.

But we’ll get there.

My point is this. There are days right now where I feel like my entire life is taking care of Michael. I forget who I am, or, more accurately, I shove who I am just outside of my consciousness, while I do what I have to do and try not to notice what I’m missing. Missing, as in it’s not there, and missing, as in I really miss it.

I’m missing being me.

This is a hard feeling. It makes me think that I’m, as I said before, selfish. Uncaring. Ungiving. Mean. All things that I know I’m not, when I’m being me, but this caretaker role is just so new.

But every now and then, something happens. It usually happens in a flurry, almost as if the Universe (or whatever) is sensing that I’m reaching a low point and so it throws a bunch of positive stuff my way. Positive stuff about what I do, what I love, what I feel identifies me.

And that happened this week.

Here is my flurry:

• My new novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, is due to be released by the publisher on October 3^rd, a full half-year from now. In my email, to my surprise, I received a notice from UPS that I was having a delivery the next day, when I hadn’t ordered anything. I puzzled over this, worried that it might be a scam, and then the lightbulb went off. The delivery was from my publisher. MY BOOK WAS COMING!

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more affirming than holding your own book. Seeing the cover, no longer on the screen, but in your hands. Seeing your name. Reading the words, your words. You know, I never had a child through C-section, but in my mind, it’s like that, knowing your baby is coming the next day and you just have to get there to be present for it.

Boy, was I present. I had just gotten up when I glanced outside and saw that big brown truck parked in front of my door. Pajamas and all, wild hair and all, I ran down the steps and greeted the driver.

And then there the book was. And there I was. Me.

(Don’t Let Me Keep You is up for pre-order directly from the publisher. You can get it at https://www.blackrosewriting.com/womens/dontletmekeepyou?rq=Kathie%20Giorgio

• As if to remind me that there were other books before this one (14 of them!), my publisher emailed. My only book, with this publisher, that didn’t have an audio book version, was getting one. Through AI technology, which, you know, I bash. But in this case, I cheered. That book that was created from the first year of this blog, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, is now available as a real book, an ebook, and an audio book. And there I was again. Me. You can see it here:

https://www.amazon.com/Todays-Moment-Happiness-Despite-News/dp/B0CY9JTD1Y/ref=sr_1_6?crid=2OZ0SU72S6KJM&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.ThKfku_kOC7tnU4QpUnbAtQr4xphIXZyVhz1Hu6od4j7NE6-O2u69AosOiD57wH1rbWXtGusFTMDolDDrX42thzz_jrNI0zjP3JCsm8n63mLtpD3sIFTDYIq–yxZeKQTIKEo-4iK9ItCS8hrPtb1zmTfWl8suFo-cAGqnupC0zN8iduKHCEyF6hMHKERJhEreWCrhPaVQXpb4n8pJjcaimtDetLGVKO3QgqD7p-lzI.zrEIJ6nAgInzAoENltnMM1M_jKPYiOh2FHy4VHPWR8k&dib_tag=se&keywords=Kathie+Giorgio&qid=1714077864&sprefix=kathie+giorgio%2Caps%2C146&sr=8-6

• Then another reminder. Out of the blue, I was contacted and asked to be a guest at a book club. “We chose Hope Always Rises for our August book,” the woman said. “We all would really like you to join us!” Of course I said yes. And there I was again. Me.
• Then, another woman called me. She’d heard one of my interviews on a radio show, and she wanted to invite me to speak. She runs a group at our local Park, Recreation and Forestry department – which just happens to be where I taught my first class 28 years ago. This group gets together once a week for a “brown bag lunch and conversation.” And she booked me for next year, 2025! The topic she wants me to talk about: My journey as a successful writer.

Me.

• And finally, as if that wasn’t enough, I opened an email this morning that features “hot new releases” in books. The first two books that were listed? Both by my students. Both books that I’d worked alongside these authors, watching their development and creation.

Reminders, for me, in a flurry. Who I am as a writer. Who I am as a teacher. Who. I. Am.

Oh, and one other thing. I managed, in the middle of everything this week, to actually sit down and write on two concurrent afternoons. I thought I’d started my next book, a sequel to a previous book. But suddenly, in a flash that I’ve experienced many times and that I love so much, I saw an opening sentence scroll across my vision. I do literally see words at times like these. I sat down and wrote them, and then more spilled out, and suddenly, I am working on a book that I didn’t plan, that I didn’t think about, that I just started to write as word after word appeared. And I’m already in love with it.

That’s who I am.

Sometimes, I need a reminder. Right now, I need LOTS of reminders. And oh, I was so happy to receive these reminders, these Moments, and to feel at home within my skin again.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

So my moment this week happened on Tuesday. Want to know what happened?

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!

Oh, the joy of nothing! For the first time since Michael came home on March 22^nd, we didn’t have a doctor’s appointment on our calendar for that day. We didn’t have an occupational therapy visit, or a physical therapy visit, or a speech therapy visit, or a nurse visit! There were no messages on MyChart from Froedtert or ProHealth. There was NOTHING! NOTHING! N-O-T-H-I-N-G!

<insert maniacal laughter here>

Okay. So I became a little unhinged. But really, this felt momentous. When Michael was preparing to come home from rehab, the people at rehab all cheered, “Imagine not having your drive every day anymore! It’s going to be so freeing!”

I cheered with them, until I began to see the writing on the wall and on our calendar. We haven’t had a week without at least three doctor appointments. We’ve had one therapist or another every day. My drive to the rehab was replaced and exceeded by my drives to the doctors at a variety of clinics and by running up and down the stairs to let the therapists or the nurse in.

It’s been just a little crazy. And really truly, I’m grateful. The doctors have all reported good news. The therapists have been working steadily with Michael and his recovery has been nothing short of amazing. I think back to the days I walked into his hospital room(s) to find him still and quiet and unable to be awakened, when the only signs of his being alive were the machines, the rise and fall of his breath, and sometimes, a frown. I think back to the days when I walked into his hospital room(s) to find him awake, but still not present, not recognizing me, living in the past at least twenty-five years ago, and the constant sad requests to “help me, help me, help me.” I look at him now and I am just struck speechless.

But holy cow, our schedule.

You have to bear in mind that I live in a live-where-you-work condo. AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, my business, is on the first floor and we live on the second and third floors. I am used to having this space to myself during the day and this is where I work. Over the years, Michael has been away at his job and Olivia has been at school and so the house was quiet during the day, other than my talking with my students and clients. I’ve grown used to, and depend on, the peace.

Nothing has really been peaceful since January 17^th. When Michael was still in the hospital and rehab and I was alone, even at night, that peacefulness became very heavy. My home, which would come alive in the evenings with the sounds of Michael cooking and taking the dog out and talking to the cats and watching television and talking to me, took on a new kind of silence. It was a silence of emptiness, instead of a silence of purpose, which I experience during the day.

And then he came home…but the normalcy didn’t come back.

Though I will admit, my favorite times are when my workday is finally done, usually around midnight, and I come downstairs and I sit next to Michael on our loveseat with separate recliners. We watch television (currently reruns of the Love Boat and the original Frasier) and as the weeks since his homecoming have gone by and his recovery goes on, our conversation has resumed. Discussions about the guest stars on the Love Boat and where we know them from. Laughter.

Oh, the laughter. At times, though, tinged with regret. We started watching the Love Boat before the accident because we were planning on taking a cruise for our twenty-fifth anniversary coming up in October and so we “prepared” ourselves by watching the series about a cruise boat and its guests. That cruise has been canceled. I don’t know that it will ever be rescheduled.

But it’s at those times, late at night in our recliners, that the normalcy is almost there. Almost. There is still the walker standing at the ready by Michael’s feet. There is still knowing it will be me that takes the dog out for her final run, it’s me that loads and starts the dishwasher, it’s me that sets up the coffee pot for the morning, all things that Michael used to do. But it’s almost there. Watching Michael, I know there will come a time when he does these things again.

And then there was this Tuesday, just a couple days ago. The only people on my calendar were the people that were supposed to be there: four clients in the morning, two clients in the evening, and a class from 7 – 9. On Tuesdays, we do Tuesday Sundaes, a treat of frozen custard from Culver’s, and Olivia comes home so she can have a sundae too.

There were no doctors.

There were no therapists.

It was Just Us.

Oh, joy.

(Of course, on Wednesday, there was the occupational therapist, and today, there was the nurse, and tomorrow, there is the physical therapist…but there was Tuesday.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(And just for fun – in the photos, I’m including a picture of our new kitty, Oliver! Adopted from the humane society on Saturday. He is the perfect combination of Edgar Allen Paw and Muse – he is an orange tabby like Edgar, and he’s tiny, like Muse.)

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

I never, ever, EVER thought a dentist would be my Moment. Never. I have been afraid of the dentist for my entire life. And by afraid, I don’t mean that I tremble a bit as I walk into the dentist office. I mean that I do everything I can to NEVER walk into that office. I mean that I will be physically ill as I walk into the office. That I will shake so hard, the dentist will have to figure out how to hold me still while he or she is doing what needs to be done. That I will cry before, during, and after the appointment.

It’s ridiculous, really, and I hate it. But it’s always been this way.

The first dentist appointment I remember going to was to have four baby teeth extracted when I was in the second or third grade. The roots of my baby teeth did not dissolve, as they’re supposed to, so that they will pop out as the adult teeth grow in. My pearly little baby teeth stayed firmly in my mouth, not even a wobble to them, until I told my mother that something felt strange. When she looked, she saw that my adult teeth were already erupting behind my baby teeth. I now had two sets. So off to the dentist we went.

This was not a kind dentist, or even a sweet-natured pediatric dentist who loved children. This dentist treated everybody of all ages and he did not treat them gently. He first tried to yank out my four baby teeth without any kind of painkiller at all, that soon had me screaming in the chair and trying to escape. He then slapped a smelly black mask over my face and pumped me full of ether.

Ether was a horrible thing. Ether flashbacks are very real, and there are actually support groups for people who were ethered during surgeries and dental procedures. It’s odd and striking how similar everyone’s experiences are: like others, I felt like I was falling down a dark twisting tunnel and there was weird maniacal laughter all around. The smell was singular, and as I write about it, I can still smell it. To this day, I have trouble wearing masks. I never wore one, until the pandemic, and then I had to, and I would have to find small private corners where I could take it off and breathe for a bit to rid myself of the panic.

When I came to that first day with a dentist, I was in a side room off the dentist office that had cots. I immediately rolled over and threw up. From that point on, I tried to hide erupting teeth as best I could. I only had a couple teeth that came out the normal way, and I didn’t lose my last baby tooth until I was 17 years old.

Consequently – fear of the dentist. No, not fear. Terror.

Which means, as a 63-year old adult, I typically only go in to the dentist when I absolutely have to. I can’t use laughing gas, because that involves a mask. And I can’t be drugged beforehand because, since Michael doesn’t drive, I always have to drive myself.

In 2017, when I was dealing with breast cancer, I noticed a strange phenomenon. I broke a tooth and had to go in to the dentist. It only needed a filling, which was a relief, but I also noticed that I didn’t feel fear. I went in, sat in the chair, opened my mouth and just waited for it to be over. It was as if the experience of the breast cancer was so all-encompassing, the dentist no longer mattered. I had bigger things to worry about.

But after breast cancer…the fear came back.

A couple weeks into the current ordeal of Michael’s being struck and run over by a minivan, I was trying to throw aside some of the stress by having some of my kids over to have dinner and to play Animal Crossing Monopoly, a family favorite. We had pizza and then settled around the game board. I pulled out my classroom candy (a benefit of attending classes at AllWriters’ – there is always a basket of candy on the table!) and I chose one of my favorites, a red Twizzler, for myself. I bit down and heard that crack that should cue horror music. I broke a tooth on a freaking piece of licorice.

In the middle of dealing with the chaos with Michael, I wondered if it would have the same effect on me as the breast cancer did. But no. I made the appointment and walked into the dentist office, tearful, nauseous, shaking. And this time, so full of stress that when the dentist lowered the seat, she said, “Kathie, you’re not curving with the seat. You’re like a board. Try to loosen your muscles.”

Yeah, right.

This was a new dentist to me, as I rarely go back to the same dentist twice. I hope to never see the dentist again when I walk out. But this dentist…well, we talked about my experiences and my fears. And we talked about what was going on with Michael. She and her assistant sat on either side of me and held my hands as I talked and cried. And then…they got to work over several weeks as they prepared the tooth for a crown. It was ground down, then a fake crown put on, and finally, this week, the real crown installed.

And here’s the thing. Unlike that first monster dentist who acted like I was just a body, this dentist listened. As soon as I gave the smallest of squeaks, she stopped. Even if nothing hurt, but I just thought it might hurt, she stopped. She and her assistant explained everything as they went. And they believed me when I said something was hurting and they gave me more of whatever it was to numb me. I’m immune to novocaine, so she ordered something special, and eventually, I was frozen from my forehead to my chin. It was amazing.

And somehow – she made me laugh. By the time we reached this week’s appointment, my body curved into the dentist chair. Even though she looks like she’s about twelve years old, I didn’t mind when she called me “kiddo”. She’s just a kiddo kind of person.

I puzzled over this as I drove home this week, the new shiny crown in my mouth, the closest I will ever come to being royalty. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt. It did, but only for little tiny moments and then she addressed it until it didn’t hurt anymore.

I think it was that I was listened to. Unlike that first awful dentist. Unlike the one I had in my teenage years that didn’t believe me when I said the novocaine had no effect on me and went ahead and did the work anyway while I screamed myself hoarse. Unlike other dentists who have rolled their eyes.

She listened. She treated me seriously. And…I made it through.

How sad, really, to be 63 years old before I have a positive experience with a dentist. But I did. I might even go back before there’s a problem.

Maybe.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m afraid this Moment isn’t going to be very happy, and I’m sorry about that. I’ve tried really hard to think of something, and I have, though it’s wrapped in an unhappy event, way too similar to one five weeks ago.

I’ve lost my  Muse. My little gray cat. She died on her 21^st birthday. And she is one of the two cats I’ve had in my adult life that came to me as a kitten. The other cats, and dogs, have been adult rescues.

Einstein was the first. Einie was born in my parents’ culvert, along with three other kittens. There was a huge rainstorm on the night he was born, and one of his siblings washed up down the gulley, drowned. My parents rescued the rest. One kitten found a home with a friend who visited the nursing home where I worked at the time. My parents found someone to take the mama kitty and one baby. Which left the little orange kitten, who was the last to be litter-box trained and the last to…well, just about everything. I brought him home and hopefully named him Einstein. He was with me for 17 years.

Muse came through one of my classes, 21 years ago. I didn’t have the studio yet, but was already teaching what would be called the Wednesday Night Workshop through the Park & Rec department. One night, I complained that my home was mostly testosterone. There was Michael and my two sons. There were the two male cats, Einstein and Cornelius. There was my chihuahua, Cocoa. Estrogen-wise, there was me and my two daughters. There were six of them. Three of us.

The next week, one of my students came in with a friend who was traveling cross country in an RV. During the trip, her cat had kittens. I was given my pick. One was a little gray female who looked up at me with the most solemn eyes. “That’s Muse,” I said. And so she became mine.

I’ve had lots of cats in my life. Spooky, from my childhood. Jake, Einstein, Cornelius, Muse, Edgar Allen Paw. Jake died the day after his 18^th birthday. Einstein lived to be 17. Edgar Allen Paw died just five weeks ago at 14. Corny, a victim of cancer, died at 9. And Muse…Muse died about a half-hour into her 21^st birthday.

She slept with me every night. She had an uncanny ability to know where my fibromyalgia was hurting the most, and she would lay herself there, giving me heat from her body and vibration from her purr. During the day, she was always close by. Most of my clients who Zoom in for our sessions knew her, because she would sit beside the computer and put her face in where it could be seen. She liked to sit sprawled up my chest to my neck while I typed, and she sat in my lap when I was in my recliner. She also sat on the arm of my desk chair and she edited my work, often with a glare that told me I needed to rewrite.

Of all my cats, she was the one most intensely involved with me. I loved all the others, the others loved me…but Muse was my best friend. You could even call her my unofficial support animal, though she was so much more than that.

Since January, first Michael disappeared from our household. Then so did Edgar. I’ve been grieving and grieving hard, and that little cat stayed by me all the time. When I was upstairs, she was upstairs. When I was downstairs, so was she. When I came home from being away, it wasn’t just Ursula, our dog, who greeted me at the door.

When Michael came home, he was here for a week before Muse died. In that time, she sat in his lap more than she did mine. She was making sure he was okay.

She was moving steadily downhill after Edgar disappeared. While she was still by my side, and while she was always a tiny kitty, 7 pounds in her young adult life, 5 pounds as she aged, she became much, much thinner. She would cry by her water dish. And she stuck by my side.

I think, whatever it was that ailed her, she did her best to wait until Michael came home.

On Sunday night, late, just after midnight, so technically it was Monday and Muse’s birthday,  I heard her come through the kitty door which led to the litter box. And then I heard the classic sounds of a cat being sick, though this was deeper and harsher. And then she gave a very painful meow.

By the time I got to her, she was lying on her side. She was so small.

I scooped her up, put her in the kitty kennel, yelled to Michael that I was running to the emergency vet, and took off. On the way, I called my son and asked that he stay with Michael until I got home.

I talked to Muse the whole way. She answered in short, soft mews.

At the vet, with the plethora of possibilities of what could be ailing her, all of them bad, all not to be recovered from, all because of her age, I said I needed to let her go.

I held her in my arms as she was released.

And I don’t think I’ve stopped crying since.

I mean, in all honesty, and in the face of so many people telling me how well I’m dealing with all this, how strong I am, how I can do this, well, just how much is one person expected to take? Michael, struck and run over by a car. Edgar Allen Paw, losing the use of his legs, and now gone.

And my Muse.

I am hurting, and I am hurting big time.

The Moment? It was a hard one to come up with. It was a hard one to feel. But I am so happy, relieved, grateful, that I was able to take her away from the pain, whatever it was, just as she was able to help me over the years. Fibro pain. Emotional pain from depression. Grief from miscarrying a baby. Pain and fear from having breast cancer. Through all of this, for 21 years, I had a little gray cat to hold. And with five-pound ferocity, she made sure I was okay.

I’m not so sure I’m okay right now. But I am trying. And I am doing my best.

I am grateful that Michael is home and in one piece, though several pieces are healing. I am grateful for my big orange bowling ball cat.

And I am grateful that a little gray kitten happened to be brought into my classroom, at a time when I said I needed more estrogen in my life.

It wasn’t estrogen I needed. It was Muse.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Back in 2010, when I was fifty years old, my first book, a novel, was accepted for publication. It’s called The Home For Wayward Clocks.

I’d been writing for my entire life, with my first publication when I was fifteen years old. This was followed by many, many stories and short memoirs and essays, but the novel remained elusive, to the point where I thought it was never going to happen. I went through four agents before I sold the book on my own. The first was a local agent who wanted to branch out into literary fiction, but who had absolutely no idea what he was doing. I knew more than he did. The second agent was someone who was taking over for a very well-known agent and who asked me to come on board. I was delighted. She started trying to market a book that I wrote before Clocks. She kept calling me and cheering, “It’s made it through the first reading at (name of well-known publisher here)!” “A second reading!” “A third!” I was delirious, and then she dropped off the face of the earth. No answers to emails or phone calls. I picked up the phone and called (name of well-known publisher here) directly and worked my way through until I got hold of the acquisitions editor. I explained my situation and who I was and she started digging. “Oh, man,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Kathie. I don’t have any record of your book or that agent. We never received it.”

Heartbroken.

I was hanging out regularly at that time in a writers’ chatroom called the Writers’ Grill – it’s actually where I met Michael, my husband. I told the usual attendees about what happened. A woman I knew fairly well, by online standards, messaged me. Turned out she was the owner of a very well-known agency in New York. She asked to see my book, which was what would eventually become my novel, In Grace’s Time, but then was totally different. She loved it and then advised me on how to break off with the missing agent, which included sending registered mail that said I was no longer under contract with her, and because it was registered, she signed for it, which proved she received the letter. Then began the wait for Grace.

During this time, I’d begun to work on The Home For Wayward Clocks. It took me 3 years to write that book. A year in with this agent and Grace, the agent said she didn’t have anywhere else to go with the book. “Editors are saying it’s too quiet,” she said.

Quiet?

I offered her Clocks and she said it was a beautiful book, but that she “didn’t handle dark stuff.” She told me to write another book.

So I fired her.

I landed another agent, who also owned a well-known agency in New York. She shopped Clocks for a year and failed. She told me to write another book, which I already was, but I fired her anyway.

And then I set out on my own. Not self-publishing – that is not something I would ever do. I wanted to be backed by someone who believed in me so much, they would put their name on my book.

And I found someone. On my own. The Home For Wayward Clocks was released on February 1, 2011, by The Main Street Rag Publishing Company.

I will never, ever, EVER forget what it felt like to receive the box that held my copies of my first published book. I opened the box, took out the first one, cradled it like a baby, and wept.

So then fast forward through thirteen years and thirteen more books. Four other publishers. More novels, plus short story collections, an essay collection, and poetry collections. A total of fourteen books in thirteen years, from someone who was once on the edge of believing even one book would never happen.

And then stop at this week. Oh, this week. Because to answer a question that everyone always asks me, no, it never, ever, EVER gets old.

No, I didn’t receive a box yet in the mail. But I got to see the cover of my next book, the fifteenth, the eighth novel. Don’t Let Me Keep You. And while I didn’t rip open a box (yet), I didn’t pull out the first one (yet), and I didn’t cradle it like a baby (yet!), I did indeed weep.

You would think, being a writer, that I would be able to easily describe what this is like. But it’s difficult. Many writers say it’s like seeing their baby’s face for the first time, and it’s close. But there’s a difference. When you hold your baby, you know, no matter what your circumstances are, that this baby is a product of two people.

But when you hold your book for the first time, you are holding something that is 100% you. Created by you. Only you.

Only me. I wrote every word. And I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote every word.

And this one, of course, I finished the final draft while sitting in the ICU, waiting for my husband to wake up after being hit, then run over by mini-van. I read out loud to him.

And you know, in the beginning after the accident, when I was in what I thought was the worst of it, when I wasn’t sure if Michael was going to live, I stood by his bed and held his hand and wept. A different kind of weeping than when I see my books. But what I said to him was the same as the title of my next novel:

“Don’t let me keep you. If you need to go, you can go. It’s all right.”

He stayed.

And this week, I got to see the cover of Don’t Let Me Keep You. And the feeling was just like it was for The Home For Wayward Clocks. And Enlarged Hearts. And Learning To Tell (A Life)Time. Oddities And Endings. True Light Falls In Many Forms. Rise From The River. In Grace’s Time. Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. When You Finally Said No. No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See. All Told. Olivia In Five, Seven, Five; Autism In Haiku. Hope Always Rises.

Hope always rises.

Only me. But…with a husband who chose to stay by my side.

Fifteen books in fourteen years, baby. Amazing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.