This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

Nine weeks and one day ago, my husband left home for his job, expecting an ordinary day.

Tomorrow, nine weeks and two days ago, Michael will come home.

I am elated…and terrified. I don’t know that I’m capable of helping him through this final path to his recovery.

But I’m sure as hell going to try.

Because of this, I’m keeping the Moment short today. I have about a million things to do to prepare for his homecoming. And on top of it all, we are under a winter storm advisory and we’re expecting about eight inches of snow tomorrow.

Of course we are.

So. This week’s moment of happiness despite the news is simply this: Michael is coming home.

This Moment has been nine weeks and two days in the making. That’s enough.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

In moments of crisis, like my family and I have been going through for the last eight – 8!!! – weeks, it begins to feel like your entire life is the crisis. The crisis becomes your sun, and everything else in your life circles around you like vague satellites. You have moments where those satellites come close and it feels almost like a normal life for about five minutes, but then the sun shines again.

Despite the positive feel of warm sunshine, in this case, the sun is not welcome. You want the sun to become the satellite, and then a falling star, falling away to never be seen again.

During this week, I found myself experiencing a soar in frustration, anger, and just “I’ve had enough”-ness. Nothing really went wrong – in fact, a lot went right. Michael is now walking all the way across the rehab’s gym with a walker. He climbed halfway up some stairs. He rolled himself to the gym in a wheelchair and he walked back with a walker. Today, when I came in, I found him with the occupational therapist, taking his first shower in 8 weeks.

Two weeks ago, he wasn’t even standing for very long.

He has returned firmly to the present time. His short term memory still wobbles, but it’s getting firmer every day. He’s eating almost normal foods.

The change is amazing. Heartening. Uplifting.

And the rest of the world suddenly seemed incredibly annoying.

Here’s an example that hasn’t happened yet, but I see it looming. Tomorrow, I have a client on the phone at ten in the morning. And, at ten in the morning, a host from a local radio program is calling me for a fifteen-minute interview about Michael’s accident. And at 10:30, a mobility company is coming to install the stairlift.

See the problem? And that’s been my week. I am a hyperorganized person. But I keep messing up my scheduling. Earlier this week, I was getting into the shower at 2:00 so I could leave at 2:30 to make it for a 3:00 appointment – an appointment actually for me. As I ran past my desk, I glanced at my desk and saw…my appointment was actually at 2:00. I wasn’t there.

That led to a major meltdown.

During one afternoon this week, Michael said to me, “I just want my life back. When can I have my life back?”

Me too.

But then a couple things happened that taught me something.

First, I had a couple companies come out to give me estimates on putting the stairlift in. The man representing the second company and I were talking and he mentioned living near the high school I graduated from. When I told him this, he asked when. It turned out that his mother and I went to school together. I mentioned that my kids all went to the high school. He did too, and he said, “Who were your kids?” I listed, “Christopher, Andy, Katie…” and his eyes went wide. “Mrs. Lokken?” he shouted.

Turns out he was a young kid that hung out at my house when I was that Mrs. Lokken. He lived down the street. He had a tough life. At the time, I had my tough moments too.

But here we were, standing in my stairwell. And we were both fine. We’d gotten past those moments and moved on to other ones.

Moments are moments. They pass. Lesson number One.

Then, a little bit later in the week, I was in the middle of tearing my hair out and wondering if I was ever going to be myself again. Probably the biggest thing that’s affecting me is that I haven’t written a word, other than this blog, since handing in the latest novel. And writer is my primary identity. Because I meet with clients in the morning and I have clients and classes in the evening, I write in the afternoon. But on this particular afternoon, and on every afternoon since the accident happened, I wasn’t writing because I was gathering stuff together to go see Michael. Due to my schedule, visits just have to be in the afternoon. Just as I was getting ready to shut down my computer and pack it up, an email arrived. I opened it and found that a poem of mine was accepted for an annual poetry calendar.

And one of the neat things? The theme of the poetry calendar was “Shine.” My poem, Pre-Dawn Dreaming, was all about shine. And suddenly, I was surrounded by it.

Oh, I thought. There I am.

So there was another moment. Moments of normalcy. Moments when I am who I am.

And like standing with that young man in the stairwell, time goes by and we’ll move on.

I absolutely hate the phrase, “This too shall pass.” Not as much as I hate the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason,” or “God only gives us what we can handle.” I don’t believe either of those. But this will pass. Michael will come home. Life will go back to normal. It might not be my old normal, but there will be a normal.

Someday, I will stand in another stairwell, or on a sidewalk, or in a room, and I will realize this is all over, it’s in the past, and I will have long stretches of time I don’t even think about it. I won’t even be writing about this in the blog anymore.

On one of the times when Michael said, “I just want my life back,” I found myself saying, “I’m just so glad you have a life,” and “It’s all good.”

It’s hard as hell. But it’s all good.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last week, I was asked to be on a local television channel’s morning talk show, to talk about Michael’s accident and the fundraiser associated with it. I’ve been on this show many times, always talking about my latest book release, or presenting as a spokesperson for the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books. It felt really odd, going on the show for a totally different reason. A totally awful reason. But I was eager – I’ve suddenly become passionate about pedestrian safety, for obvious reasons, and it seemed like this would be a wonderful way to get the word out, in the area where the accident happened.

Over the years, I’ve done a lot of appearances like this, and so I no longer get nervous, particularly when it’s in a space that I recognize. The big yellow couch – sat on it before. Talking with the hostesses – I know them well. Watching the cameras zoom around without any people attached to them because they’re controlled by computer – weird, but that’s just how it is. And so when I settled on the set, it all felt familiar and comfortable.

The questions came and I answered. That’s the way interviews work. Ask, answer, ask, answer. We even took the time to call hello to Michael, who I knew was watching from his hospital room. He was being transferred to rehab later that morning, and so a sense of celebration was in the air.

And then they asked me a question which just threw me for a loop. This doesn’t happen much anymore; I can usually tell what’s coming. But they brought up my blog, this one that I’m writing for right now, and the book associated with it, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Collection of Spontaneous Essays, which is the entire first year of the blog when I wrote it every single day. “You’re so positive!” the hostesses said. “So how are you staying positive with this experience?”

Positive?

In that moment, I wanted to shout, “I’m not positive! I’m angry! And I’m sad! And I’m going crazy, trying to stay on top of everything I suddenly have to stay on top of! How can I possibly be positive about a situation where my husband was nearly killed?”

But the professional in me kicked in, and luckily, they also gave me a lead-in, mentioning the sand dollar blog I wrote a couple weeks ago. So I followed up with that and got through it.

When it was done and I was back in my car, driving toward the hospital where our next adventure awaited us (ambulance ride, settling in to the rehab), I pondered this, and I’ve continued to ponder this.

First, they think I’m a positive person. I don’t think of myself as a positive person; I usually struggle with it, which is part of the point of this whole blog. The positive doesn’t come to me naturally. I have to look for it.

And second, they thought I had an answer to how I stayed positive during this time. Which means they think I am staying positive during this time, despite the fact that I wanted to stand up and shout, “This whole situation sucks!”

And so maybe…maybe…well, maybe I’m succeeding at finding the positive, even when I’m being challenged to the greatest extreme. Maybe.

I have a hard time accepting that, so I continued to think about it through the rest of that day, and in this week that’s followed.

And, well, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am handling this pretty well. Even during the times when I feel like I’m not handling it at all.

As I sat down to write this blog this morning, I took a moment to just actually sit, with my hands folded in my lap, and look around.

My home is intact. My bed is made. My cat and dog, Muse and Ursula, are fed and sleeping close by. The dishwasher is full of clean dishes. My laundry is done, folded, and put away. There are groceries in my cupboards and fridge.

I just finished meeting with my three morning clients. This evening, I will meet with three more. Total, this week, I taught 3 classes, with a total of 35 students, and met with 20 clients. Every manuscript was read, critiqued, and the discussion was ready to go.

My next novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, was not only turned in on deadline, it was turned in early. I finished it in the ICU. In the ICU!

I’ve kept up with this blog, even though each week since the accident, I’ve wondered what the hell I’m going to write about.

And the hardest thing – I managed to make a clear-headed decision about the quality of life my cat Edgar was having, and I was able to make the appointment, get him there, and be by his side as he was helped to the other side.

In a little bit, I’ll be heading out to the rehab to see what Michael is up to today. This week has been a huge one in terms of leaps ahead. Michael is now pretty much fully in the present time. His brain is no longer forcing him back 20 years. I am his wife, not his sister. On Monday, I watched as he took his first steps in 7 weeks. He held on to the parallel bars and he had a therapist in front of him and to either side…but damned if he didn’t walk. He did it three times.

24 hours before, he was barely standing.

“Look at me,” he said, looking over a therapist’s shoulder and locking eyes with me. “I’ve become an old man.”

“Funny,” I said. “You’re putting me more in mind of a toddler.”

And we laughed. LAUGHED.

The next day, I didn’t see it, but he walked briefly with a walker.

I am no longer worried about if Michael will come home. Instead, I am starting preparations for him to arrive.

I’m reading a novel.

I’ve played Animal Crossing.

Over the weekend, I went out to dinner with 2 of my kids, and we went to see a movie. American Fiction is amazing. And while there was a person missing, someone who is usually by my side wasn’t there, it still felt incredibly close to normal.

I’m sleeping at night.

You know what?

I am staying positive about this whole thing. I have my moments of tears and extreme frustration. I have my moments of fear and of feeling completely ignorant. And mostly, I have my moments of the most overwhelming, all-encompassing rage at this driver who caused this, and this city which doesn’t seem to care. Those moments are hard to deal with, because I just don’t know what to do with it when it hits.

But I think these moments are all part of staying positive. Because eventually, even in the midst of the great anger, I take a deep breath and move on to the next thing in my life, whether it’s taking care of my husband, taking care of students, taking care of the house, taking care of my kids or Ursula or Muse, or taking care of me.

I guess the whole point of this week’s post is just this: I’m doing okay.

Which is saying a lot right now. It’s saying enough. Sometimes, a Moment of Happiness is simply a Moment of Well-Being.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you would like to see the interview on the television show, here is the link:

Local Author Finds Her Next Chapter To Be Challenging (tmj4.com)

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

Given the events of the last six weeks, you might think that my husband being moved to rehab would be my moment of happiness. And it is a moment of happiness! But there was a moment right before it, that sprang directly out of a moment of profound sadness, that comes to my mind first.

Fuzzy orange cat hair is my moment of happiness.

Almost fourteen years ago, our cat Cornelius (Corny for short) died suddenly and at a fairly young age. What was thought to be infected teeth that needed removal ended up being a malignant tumor in his sinus. The vet thought he could still live for “a while”, but instead, less than two weeks later, I discovered Corny on my bed, the tumor erupted through his nose. I flew with him to the emergency vet, and a few minutes later, my Corny was gone.

We have always honored a pet’s life by saving another. So that Sunday, Easter Sunday, I headed out for a trip to Home Depot to buy lightbulbs. But instead of turning in there, I continued on to a local humane society.

Our cat Muse was 6 at this time, and I wanted to adopt another cat close to her age. I’d checked the humane society’s website and knew there were 2 6-year olds on site. I would just look, I told myself.

When I walked into the cat room, a big orange fluffy kitty immediately pressed himself to the door of his cage. He was on the bottom row, and I bent to give him some ear scritches through the bars. He pressed and pressed. If he could have, he would have squeezed through. I looked at his nametag – the humane society called him Trivium, which I  knew to be a muse of grammar. This made me laugh. But his age…only 1 year old. I scratched a little longer, then stood, brushing the orange hair off my clothes and hands. It floated around us like a citrus cloud.

“Nice meeting you, bud,” I said. Then I turned to look for the 6-year olds.

The orange kitty snaked his paw out between the bars and hooked his claws into my pants leg.

And so I was caught.

When I went up to the front desk to ask to see Trivium one on one in a little room, the girl there said sure, but that “He’s kinda shy.”

“Like hell,” I said.

In the room, the orange kitty climbed into my lap and tucked his head into my elbow, where he promptly fell asleep. “I’m taking him,” I told the girl.

When she called home to make sure that Michael knew his wife was at a humane society, adopting a cat, which he didn’t, smart, smart Michael, who knows me well, said, “Oh, yes. I know.” I never did get the light bulbs.

Trivium came home and by the end of that afternoon became Edgar Allen Paw. His first vet described him as a “genetic anomaly.” He had extra toes. His tail was too short for his body and it also had an extra kink in it. His head was also too small. He mostly meowed without making a sound, but when he did, it was straight out of Jurassic Park.

And he was my boy.

Fast forward almost fourteen years. Edgar grew into a large cat. I called him the bowling ball. At his peak, he was 18 pounds. But he was a naturally big boy – the vet said his optimum weight was 16 pounds. Over the last year, he began to develop problems with his back legs. They would suddenly and without warning splay out, useless. And then…they’d come back.

However, in the middle of all this chaos with Michael, Edgar’s legs went out again, and this time, they stayed out. He lost control of his bladder. And in our open concept three-story condo, with very few doors, he kept falling down the stairs.

I knew what I had to do. But I surely didn’t want to do it.

At the vet’s, Edgar couldn’t stand up. My vet gave him a sedative to calm him down before the final injection. She left us alone for a bit, giving me a few precious moments before that injection was performed.

Fourteen years older, I did not sit on the floor, as I did on the day he chose me. But I laid my arms flat on the examination table and Edgar curled into my circle. He tucked his head into my elbow and he fell asleep.

He knew he was safe, and with his person, just as he knew it fourteen years before.

When it was all over, the vet, who knew about what was going on with Michael, gave me a huge hug as I sobbed. And then she left us alone again, so I could give Edgar a last goodbye.

I stroked him from nose to kinky tail tip. I counted his toes. And then I took the corner of the blanket he was laying on and pulled it over his body, leaving his head out, and covering him like he was sleeping.

Just before I left, I noticed the tufts of Edgar’s fluffy orange fur, left there after the vet shaved a spot on his front leg to put in the IV. I thought of fourteen years of constantly having orange fur on my clothes. Of the clouds of it when I brushed Edgar. How all of the furniture in my house, no matter what the original color was, had a definite orange tint.

After pulling out a tissue, I picked up the bit of fur and folded it inside, and then tucked it into my purse.

On that first morning without Edgar, I walked into my office and glanced at where his bed used to be. I always started my day with a “Good morning, Eddie-grrrr.” But on that day, I walked to the bookshelf behind my desk. On it, in front of my row of published books, sits that tuft of orange hair. “Good morning, Eddie-grrr,” I said. “Good morning, Ed-Fred. Good morning, my bowling ball cat.”

I have never been so happy to have orange fur in my house.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Over these five weeks since Michael’s “accident”, I’ve been amazed with the generosity and compassion of people. I’ve been rained on with well wishes, lovely emails, Starbucks cards, restaurant cards, gasoline cards, and more.

And then yesterday, a student visited me to deliver a care package. Inside, among other things, I found a tissue-wrapped object. When I opened it, I found…a sand dollar.

A sand dollar!

My student said, “It was my mother’s. I thought you would like it.”

Oh my.

Many of you may already know about my experiences with sand dollars. Here’s a recap.

In 2015, I went to the Oregon coast to my favorite little house for a two-week retreat from the world. I was not in good shape. I was feeling the most depressed and the most desperate and the most worthless that I ever had. When I arrived on the coast, I dropped my suitcases, ran through the house and out the sliding glass doors and down to where the ocean met the sand. And I yelled, asking the ocean and the world and the universe what they all wanted from me and what else I could do. Why, I asked, should I even try anymore? Why was I breathing? When the waves didn’t part with answers, I told the ocean or God or whomever that, if I was on the right path in my life, if my life was worth it, let me find a whole sand dollar. A whole sand dollar. In all the years I went to the Oregon coast, I only found bits and pieces.

And then I settled in to wait for an answer, to see if one would even come.

One very foggy evening, I was walking the beach. The fog in this part of the Oregon coast is magical. It sparkles. It was like walking in a glitter storm while the ocean breathed steadily beside me. From far away, I watched as an old man approached me. No matter which way I moved, he kept adjusting his movements so that he came directly toward me. Eventually, he stopped, and we were face to face, nose to nose. I noticed I didn’t feel scared. Without saying hello, he smiled at me and said, “Have you found a whole sand dollar?”

I was stunned. “No!” I said. “I’ve been looking for one!”

He pulled three whole sand dollars out of his pocket and held them out to me. “Choose one,” he said.

I did. And I never saw the man again. I went home and I kept on working. I kept on trying. I kept on believing.

Why “Choose one”? Why three? I think it’s because I did indeed choose this life that I’m living.

In 2017, I had breast cancer and couldn’t go to the Oregon coast during treatment. A friend of mine went to the coast and as he stood there, gazing at the ocean, he thought of me. And then he felt a bump on his foot. Looking down, he found…a whole sand dollar. He brought it home to me.

In 2018, I returned to the coast. Again, I dropped my suitcases and ran out to the ocean. “You didn’t tell me my path included cancer!” I yelled. And then I asked, if I was going to be okay, that I again find a whole sand dollar, but this time on my own, without anyone bringing it to me.

On my last day there, I walked out to say goodbye to the ocean. As I stood there, there was a bump on my little toe. I looked down and found a teeny tiny…whole sand dollar.

And now, here we are in 2024. In the middle of the greatest chaos I’ve ever faced. 2197 miles away from my special spot on the Pacific Ocean. I’ve asked myself a million times if Michael is going to survive. If I am going to survive. If I am capable of dealing with this, if I am doing everything I should, if I have any idea what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve felt totally overwhelmed and over my head.

And now, all of a sudden, I’m holding a sand dollar from a special student. A whole sand dollar.

There couldn’t be a more comforting thing. There couldn’t be a more perfect thing.

Everything is going to be all right. I’m still on the right path. I am capable. I can do this.

And Michael is right beside me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

It seems like late at night is when most of the worries and questions come. The introspection. The looking around and wondering just what the hell happened a month ago, and how can it only be a month, and at the same time, it feels like years have gone by.

Nights are raw and confusing. And very, very lonely.

One evening, as I was watching the latest episode of the old television show, Eight Is Enough, I turned to point out to Michael that an actor from The Waltons was on the screen. Eight Is Enough was often called the modern edition of The Waltons, back when “modern” was the late 70s. The shows frequently shared the same writers, and so actors, actresses, and even storylines sometimes crossed the screen. Of course, when I turned to talk to Michael, his recliner wasn’t reclined, and it was empty.

He was at the hospital, where he’s been since January 17^th. And so I burst into tears.

Nights are for tears too.

It occurred to me this week that I am grieving for Michael, even though he’s still here. As he heals, there are days when he’s fully alert, when he knows me and tells me he loves me, when he asks about work, when he asks for his phone or his computer. And there are other days when I morph into his sister, when he says he was never married, and I basically cease to exist.

And so there’s grief.

I am pretty well-versed in literature, between being an English major and then a grad school student and then a writer and an editor and a teacher who reads pretty much every genre there is in this world, and some that haven’t been created yet. But I remembered reading in novels about grief that women who lost their husbands would often sleep with the husbands’ shirt. That shirt held his body and, if unwashed, still contained his scent.

In the early days of this event, I folded the laundry that Michael left in the dryer. As I folded it and stacked it, while simultaneously watching yet another episode of Eight Is Enough that I couldn’t talk to Michael about, our dog Ursula came over, sniffed the pile, and then flung herself over several stacks.

She’s never done this before. But she’s also never had an important person disappear on her like this, and have the other important person often dissolve into tears. Especially at night.

So I thought of those references in novels and I thought of Ursula. But Michael didn’t have any unwashed laundry.

When my mind wandered more down Ursula and the laundry, I remembered the clothes that Michael was wearing on the day of the accident. I remembered the shock when I got home on that first night, carrying the bags of his belongings. I pulled out his clothes, one by one. Jacket, shirt, pants, underwear and socks. And all shredded to rags by the paramedics as they worked to get to Michael as fast as they could. The next day, I put the bags into the dumpster behind my condo. Then that night, Ursula sprawled on the laundry. I decided to get the bags back out and find what was left of his shirt.

It was the last thing he wore when our life was our life. And it was what he was wearing after the disaster. The “accident”.

I brought it in and gave it to Ursula. For a few days, she plopped herself on it and mouthed it gently. But then she left it alone. I placed it in Michael’s space on the couch, where Ursula often cuddled with him.

And now, as I thought of grief and novels, I thought of that shirt again. What was left of it.

That night, when I went to bed, I draped that shirt over Michael’s pillow. And then I draped my arm over it all.

And lord help me, I slept better than I had in a month. It was like he was there.

Earlier this week, Michael was having one of his bad days. Over and over, he asked me, “Where’s the captain?”

“What captain?” I asked back.

“The captain of the boat.”

“You’re not on a boat, Michael. You’re in the hospital.”

“Where is Captain Stubing?”

Captain Stubing. Played by Gavin Macleod, on the 1970’s show, The Love Boat.

Just as Michael and I were watching Eight Is Enough together before the disaster, we were also watching The Love Boat. We’d made reservations to go on a cruise to celebrate our 25^th wedding anniversary. The cruise was to be in August, our anniversary in October. We were flying overseas, and then cruising through London, Paris, and parts of Scotland and Ireland.

The trip of a lifetime. It’s canceled now.

So we watched The Love Boat. I wondered with Michael if we would throw confetti over the side and wave at people as our boat left the harbor. If we would have friendly funny people like Captain Stubing, Doc, Gopher, Julie, Isaac, on board with us. What things we would see, what things we would do.

“Where is Captain Stubing?”

He was talking about a show we were watching together, to prepare to celebrate our 25 years.

It was like he was there.

My moment of happiness? Gratitude for novels that tell me about lives that I’ve never experienced, but find myself in now, up to my neck. Novels that give me ideas on how to handle something I have no idea how to handle.

Gratitude for The Love Boat. For Eight Is Enough. For a dog who is grieving with me.

And absolute happiness that Michael is here, even on those days when he’s not.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

My husband is talking to Matthew Perry.

Yes, you read that right. My world has become very surreal.

My husband Michael continues healing in the hospital. Three weeks ago, he was hit, and then run over, by a minivan. He has multiple skull fractures, a fracture of the T-10 vertebrae in his back, and traumatic brain injury.

Up until this past Tuesday, he was in and out. Sometimes making sense, most times not, almost constantly begging for help, asking that his “mittens” that keep him from pulling things out that can’t be pulled out, be removed, asking that the NG tube be removed from his nose, the cervical collar from his neck.

It’s been a very hard three weeks. When you have to say no to your husband, over and over and over again, when he asks for help and you can’t offer any, it’s just the most helpless feeling in the world. Especially when your husband doesn’t understand why you can’t help.

This past Tuesday, my day started with the hospital calling and saying Michael was being moved back to the ICU. They said he was wheezing and had a high whine in his upper respiratory system, and so they wanted the closer attention of the ICU staff to watch over him. I made it through my morning clients and then ran to the hospital. I went to the Neuro ICU, only to find he wasn’t there. There were no beds available, so he was moved down a floor to the Transplant ICU.

Sure.

By the time I got there, Michael had had a breathing treatment and his breathing was fine. I got to his room, walked in, and he looked right at me. I mean, right at me!

“Kathie,” he said. “Where am I? What is going on? I don’t know what’s going on.”

He was there. HE WAS THERE. Awake, alert, making sense.

I tried to tell him what happened. I had to stop and start over several times, because he said, “Wait, I’m not understanding you.” All of his responses were appropriate.

But then…in between all coherent statements…

First, he asked for someone named Theresa. “Where did she go?” he asked. I messaged his sister and asked who Theresa is. “That’s a cousin, who died a while ago.”

Okay.

Then, a little while later, he called, “Matthew! Matthew! Hey, Matt, buddy! Can you come help me? I need these mittens off.”

Matthew? I don’t know a Matthew. I asked who that was.

“It’s Matthew Perry,” he said.

Um…what?

I asked him how he knows Matthew Perry.

“I met him a few days ago.” He kept asking Matthew, “Matt, buddy!”, to come over. And then he sighed and said, “He just isn’t listening.”

So my husband knows Matthew Perry, who played Chandler Bing on the television show Friends. Matthew Perry died on October 28 of last year.

Throughout the afternoon, Michael continued to call for Matthew Perry in between normal conversation. He asked about his boss and about work. He asked what happened to him. He recognized the hospital. “I know Froedtert,” he said. “My doctor is there.”

Yep.

It was nothing short of amazing. He was there. He was talking, having conversations, making observations, and then from time to time, drifting off to a land only he could see.

And Lord help me, I laughed. Every time he called for Matthew Perry, every time he called Matthew Perry “buddy”, I giggled.

And when Michael heard me laugh, he laughed too.

It’s been three weeks since Michael and I laughed together.

After I left the hospital, our daughter came in to see her father. He recognized her, called her every single one of the nicknames he has for her. And then, in between conversations, he asked for Monica, another character from Friends. He asked for other names, which we didn’t recognize, but we were told by a Friends fan that these were names from minor characters who made short appearances with the show. Characters he couldn’t possibly know.

Here’s the thing. Michael and I don’t typically watch Friends. If it was the only thing on when we were staying in a hotel, we’d watch an episode or two.

But here he was, talking about minor characters. Looking for them.

All the characters were called by their character names. Except for one. Matthew Perry. And the only one he asked for help, to come release him from the mittens, was Matthew Perry.

And to top it all off – his nurse’s name was Ross. The name of another character on Friends.

He also asked for his father. Michael’s father died when he was in college.

At one point, when I told Michael that Matthew Perry was not in the room, he said, “Yes, he is.” He pointed. “He’s standing right behind you.” he told me.

And I decided to believe him.

Let me tell you, if Matthew Perry is helping to bring my husband back, I’ll start watching Friends. And I will say thank you every time Matthew Perry steps onto the set.

Bring back the laughter, Matthew. Bring Michael back home.

We will watch Friends together.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Ever since my world turned completely inside out and upside down two weeks ago when Michael was struck by a minivan, I’ve been finding my Moments in weird places. The not-weird are the obvious ones, the ones everyone looks for. Sunshine after days of gray. A cat purring on my lap. My kids.

But the Moments that are sticking with me, that are resonating, are different, and sometimes, I think they’re things that people will wonder, “She gets a Moment of Happiness from THAT?”

Yep. And I just don’t fight it.

Since Michael’s accident, and I hate the word accident, because it just doesn’t seem to fit, it’s so much bigger than an accident, but since his disaster two weeks ago, I’ve really only had two major meltdowns. I’ve been teary here and there, I’ve choked up, that sort of thing. But I’ve returned to teaching, and people seem surprised. I even had someone ask me if I was okay, and when I said I was, she said, “It’s okay to not be okay, you know.” I do, and I also think it’s okay for me to be okay. Michael is alive, I am putting one foot in front of the other, Michael is alive, I am waking up, doing what I need to, and going to sleep, Michael is alive, Michael is alive, Michael is alive. Maybe when all the facts finally come in, I won’t be okay. But I am for now.

Except for 2 meltdowns.

On one night, as I was driving home from the hospital, I decided to treat myself to dinner from Culver’s, a burger place with fantastic frozen custard. I knew I had a meal at home, left for me by a caring student, but suddenly, my world just shrank down to a desire for a burger and a strawberry shake. So I went through the drive-thru, got my meal, and went home.

I didn’t realize that when I put my purse in the passenger seat beside me, the shoulder strap curled into my cup holder. The same cup holder where I placed my shake.

When I parked, I reached for my purse first, to put it over my shoulder. When I grabbed it, it launched the shake. Strawberry shake went all over my car, and I mean all over. The dash, the windshield, the seats, buried my remote to run my car, and all over my cell phone.

And I lost it.

Anyone who looked out at my car at that moment would have seen the car rocking. I hit everything my fists could reach. My language made purple look pastel. I went from me to animal in one flat second.

And then…I cleaned up my car. I cleaned up my remote. I cleaned up my cell. And then I went inside and ate my supper and drank the teeny bit that was left of my shake. I shared my fries with my dog, Ursula. I slept well.

Several days later, I was hustling to get out of the house and back to the hospital. I’d packed my lunch…a ham and cheese sandwich, and a little container of peaches. I didn’t want to bring one of my own spoons as I was afraid I would accidentally throw it away or leave it at the hospital. So I stopped in my classroom to look in the drawer where I keep plastic silverware for when students bring treats to class.

No spoon.

I was digging and digging and digging, while trying to hold on to my purse, my computer bag, the bag that carried other things that I might need at the hospital. And my thermos of cold water, which recently lost the little plastic appendage that closes up the spout.

The thermos slipped out of my arms, crashed to the concrete floor, and the lid flew off, and 22 ounces of water and ice spread everywhere.

And I lost it.

I threw the thermos across the room. I kicked the cabinet. I slammed the drawer closed. And I shrieked to the world, “I just wanted a f…ing spoon! That’s all I wanted!”

And then…I spread paper towels down on the puddle to pick up later. I picked up my thermos, which survived, and refilled it. I decided I would ask the nice nurses for a spoon, or I’d go down to the cafeteria in the hospital. I got in the car and drove off. My car still smelled of strawberry shake and I decided I liked it.

So was it these particular meltdowns that were my Moment of Happiness? No.

It was the aftermath. My shoulders relaxed. I breathed deeply. I laughed at myself and this whole bizarre situation. I felt a sense of calm come over me that left me…okay. And it’s okay to be okay.

I’m okay. And in those aftermath moments, I knew it. And didn’t question it. The pressure blew, I let it, and then…I was okay.

Still am. But it’s finding myself like that that helps me to realize that, no matter what, I will deal with this. I can deal with this. I don’t want to, but I can.

Just don’t be near me when one of these meltdowns hit. You might get hit by a flying thermos.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, my world shrunk this week to the size of a hospital room. Last week, my husband Michael was hit by a car. He has multiple skull fractures, a possible vertebrae fracture, and a traumatic brain injury. It’s been one week and one day now since he was hit. He is out of the ICU and in a “step down” room – one step down from ICU, but not in a regular room yet. He will likely be heading to rehab.

Hard to find a moment of happiness? Well, yeah. I feel like I’m being challenged to the max. I thought it was hard when I was dealing with breast cancer. That now feels like a walk in the park. There are so many fears. So much sadness. And the paperwork is relentless. I wish there was a business out there that simply stood by you during times of crisis and guided you through what you should be doing and what everything means. I am having to learn new languages and learn them fast.

But the moment of happiness. When I sat down to try to consider this, I found that there were several moments that made me smile or laugh, and many moments that brought me to tears.

*the moment he finally opened his eyes, clearly looked at me, widened his eyes in recognition, and opened both arms for a hug.

*the next day, he opened his eyes and said, “Hi, hon.”

*yesterday, he called me by name. By name. I hadn’t heard my name in a week. And there it was.

*support from my students has been incredible. I’ve had an absolute rainstorm of Starbucks cards, which, believe me, are more than welcome. Some days, knowing my iced grande cinnamon dolce latte with just 2 pumps of cinnamon dolce is what gets me through. Students have been dropping off lunches and dinners so I don’t have to put my mind to cooking – which is going to be a challenge anyway, since I don’t cook.

*readers, fans, writers, students, clients from around the world have been posting on my Facebook page. I can’t answer all of these, but I do read them, and they lift me. Please continue being there. You can find me on Facebook under my name.

*my kids are wonderful. Olivia has been at the hospital with me every single day. When I start to cry, she’s there with open arms. When she starts to cry, I return the favor. My son Andy has been stopping by the condo after work to let out Ursula the dog and to feed everyone, Ursula and the two cats, Edgar and Muse. They are so confused. They know Michael is missing and I’m sure they’ve picked up on my stress.

*Michael’s boss and the people at MATC (Milwaukee Area Technical College), where Michael is an accountant. Michael’s boss has been calling me almost every day. She’s delivered messages from the school president. They’re doing everything they can to help. I’m learning that when they refer to the MATC family, they mean it.

I won’t say that this isn’t hard. It is. I’ve certainly had my moments of breakdown. Last night, I couldn’t stop staring at the counterspace in the kitchen designated as Michael’s, which held the orange bag he always carried to and from work. I just couldn’t stand looking at it anymore, knowing that he wasn’t going to be picking it up in the morning and taking it with him. So at two in the morning, I cleaned off his counter. I put things away. It’s clean and clear. Tonight, I plan on folding the laundry he left in his basket and putting it away. I’m an organizer, and I know this is my way of trying to gain control of this uncontrollable situation.

But my moment. The one Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. Boy, “despite the news” took on a whole new meaning this week.

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

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

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

My name never meant so much.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

I’m afraid that there will be no Moment this week. Right now, I am sitting in the NICU (Neurological ICU) of a local hospital, watching my husband of almost 25 years. Michael.

Last night, as he walked from his office to the bus stop to come home. When he crossed the street, he was in the crosswalk and with the light – Michael has always been an impeccable pedestrian.

But a car coming to the intersection decided to take a right turn and not wait for the light. He drove into Michael. And then he rode over Michael.

Michael has a fractured skull and possibly some factured vertebrae. He is covered with bruises and contusion.  Almost 24 hours later, he is still in shock, but beginning to talk and move a little in his bed – which he’s not supposed to do. Michael is a side-sleeper and they want him on his back. From time to time, he calls out help.

He has not said my name. And I can’t help. Last night, when I brought home his things, I discovered all of his clothing, jacket, shirt, pants, underwear, are in shreds. From the car? From having the clothes cut off? He is missing a shoe and his glasses.

I am having a hard time dealing with this.

So no This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite The News today. This is only the second time I’ve missed since starting this blog in 2017. I’m sorry. But I can’t.

Except for this. He’s alive. He’s alive.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.