This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

It seems I’ve been thinking about parenting a lot lately, and in particular, what it means to be an older parent, with adult kids. This became pretty clear to me last week, on retreat in Valton, Wisconsin, when I sat down to work on what I thought might be a book, not entirely sure what it was to be about, and ended up writing the first chapters of a novel about a woman working through letting her children go.

Oh, I thought. I guess you’re thinking about this more than you thought you were.

Over the last few years, there’ve been a lot of changes. I’ve had to adjust to having a child move to another state farther away than a car ride, and apparently, that move is permanent, and so I have to settle myself to seeing that child maybe only once a year or so. Her move occurred just before Covid hit, and so I went 2 years and 10 months without seeing her, which was excruciating.

I also had to adjust to my youngest getting older and older, and being more and more on her own. Soon after Olivia started college, I watched an episode of the television show Atypical, about an autistic boy as he graduates from high school and moves on to college. In this particular episode, the mom realizes her son left some required paperwork behind. She brings it in to the college office and is told she can’t drop the papers off, because she’s not the son. She tells a friend, “It’s like I’m suddenly not allowed to be his mother anymore.”

Oh, I felt that.

In the one case, with my daughter who moved, she didn’t seem all that affected by not seeing me for more than two years. I no longer had a role in her life, except as visitor. And in the other case, because of my daughter reaching a certain age, I wasn’t allowed to be her mom anymore, despite my being her advocate for all of her years.

I’ve been feeling like I’ve been fired.

And yet…there were two instances this week where I felt like a parent again, but in a slightly different role. Or posture, really.

First, my son asked me to come with him to pick out new glasses. I agreed, because I know what it’s like to try to pick out glasses when the frames still just have fake glass in them and you need your glasses to see, so you can’t really see what you look like. That seems like a simple thing.

But I also fully remember the story of this son when he got his first pair of glasses. He was the first of my then-three children to need them. He was four years old. His preschool teacher told me he’d flunked a vision test they’d given at school, so off we went to the eye doctor. The doctor did all of the usual things and said words like “astigmatism” and “near-sighted” and he eventually fashioned a pair of glasses for my son to try. “Here,” he said, “put these on.”

And Andy was awestruck. Behind the lenses, I saw his eyes widen. His jaw dropped. He put a hand up on each side of his head, holding the glasses on, and his gaze swept the entire room, up, down, left and right. “Oh!” he kept saying. “Oh!” And when the doctor took the glasses off and Andy’s world fell back to what it had been, his whole face fell. The doctor explained we had to have his glasses made, just for him.

“Mommy,” he said, turning to me, “when can I have them?”

Thank goodness for the optical stores that make your glasses in an hour.

And it was such a stop-in-your-tracks parenting moment. I don’t think I slept for a week, wondering how I could have missed the fact that my son was having such difficulty seeing.

Then today, I stood next to my thirty-six year old son and helped him pick out new frames.

No one knows that face better than me.

Then, last night, at the launch of my poetry book, Olivia In Five, Seven, Five; Autism In Haiku, I stood next to my soon-to-be 22-year old daughter and listened as she read her contribution to the book, a poem called “She Holds The Infinite World”, written about her experience with autism. I listened as she answered questions from the audience. She was calm, confident, well-spoken.

Brilliant.

And I realized, standing there, that parenting is just different now. Instead of standing behind them, hoping and praying that they won’t fall, but ready to catch them when they did, I now stand beside them. Still hoping and praying, but knowing they’ll be able to pick themselves up on their own. If they need help, I’m there.

If they don’t need help, I’m still there. Standing with them.

And I have to say, I glow just as much with pride now as I did with their first words, first steps, first everythings. And second, third, fourth everythings, and on into infinity, or at least as long as I live.

Beside them. All four of them. Always.

(Know one of the things I love most about Olivia? She still calls me Mama.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’ve been on retreat this week, thanks to winning runner-up in the Zona Gale Short Fiction Award, and so I’ve been isolated in the middle of nowhere, which in and of itself is a moment(s) of happiness. I am a city girl at heart, and so hearing coyotes, a rooster which insists on crowing in the afternoon rather than the morning (I like him!), the gentle baaing of sheep and goats, and the clip-clop of horses pulling Amish carriages aren’t high on my list of must-haves. But they’ve been a balm this week.

At my home in downtown Waukesha, I’ve been surrounded for months by the sounds of interminable construction. Sewer pipes are going in, and the major streets to the left and right of our one-block street are being changed from one-way to two-way. The noise is non-stop. There are cranes everywhere, the trucks beep whenever they back up, and the construction workers shout to be heard over the noise. One morning last week, I was awakened way too early by the construction noise, by every truck that delivers something to Walgreens showing up (Walgreens is literally my back yard), and our garbage being picked up. Every one of my nerves has been standing on end for weeks now. I’ve had the a/c on even though I hate a/c, and even on days when a/c isn’t necessary, just to have the windows closed and to cover some of the noise.

Out here, in Valton, Wisconsin, an unincorporated village that has, by its own description, “no businesses and no amenities”, the quiet has been wonderful. Though at night, I run a sound machine, because I can no longer sleep in absolute quiet.

But the sounds in this silence! We all know I don’t like birds, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like birdsong. I’ve heard more unfamiliar birdcalls here than I’ve ever heard in my life, and the majority of them are pleasant. I laugh every day at 3:00 in the afternoon when the rooster crows. One afternoon, I was taking a break on the lovely front porch, and a man who lives in the house across the street, hidden by trees, was chopping wood. I read to the whack of the axe, and then the thock as the chopped limbs were tossed into a pile. The rhythm was irregular, I couldn’t tap my foot to it, but it was such a nice accompaniment to the reading of a wonderful book while drinking strong coffee and eating Orange Oreos. And every time one of the carriages goes by, I hear the clip clop of the horse long before I see the carriage, and I look up. Even if I’m in mid-sentence, I look up. It’s just such a joy to see. And hear.

Yesterday, I was on the front porch again, coffee, Orange Oreos and book in hand. It had been a rough day. At 3:00 in the morning (why is it always 3:00?), I needed to use the bathroom. The bedroom is in a loft here, and you have to walk down the stairs to the main floor to reach the bathroom. The stairs are steep and smooth, smooth wood, with no runner for a better grip. There is a banister, but just on one side. My head was full of words, the ones I’d just read (yes, I was still awake – I’m a night owl) and the ones I’d written that day and was excited about, and when I glanced down, I thought I was on the last step. I wasn’t. I was three up. And so I fell. The pain was phenomenal. I got up and leaned against the wall. I could not put weight on my left leg. I wasn’t sure what hurt worse, my foot or my knee. Eventually, I got as far as the couch. Then the bathroom. Then back upstairs, which was excruciating, and probably really stupid. All I knew was I wanted to be in bed. So I was in bed where I shivered and shook. I called Michael, we debated my attempting to go to the ER (no businesses or amenities, remember. Closest hospital was a 20-minute drive away in bright sunlight. This was middle of the night dark and we had a heavy fog, and the roads are twisty and curvy with steep drop-offs.), decided against it, and he stayed on the phone with me until I stopped shaking.

The next day brought more pain. But I pushed through, then brought myself out to the porch and drank my coffee, ate my Oreos, and read my book…and heard a meow. Looking up, there was a tuxedo cat, sitting at the end of the front walk. “Hi,” I said.

He meowed and blinked.

“How are you?” I asked.

He tilted his head.

“Me? I’m okay. Lots of pain. I should probably go home. But you know…I think I need the silence more. And the chance to work.”

I swear he nodded.

“Do you want to come here? For a visit?” I’d been missing the pets at home. Ursula’s concrete head on my thigh while I wrote. Edgar smiling at me from his chair. Muse getting in the way.

He stood, twitched his tail at me, bowed his head, and left, disappearing through the trees toward the home where the chopping man lives.

And so I finished my snack and went back in to continue writing.

On the way here this past Sunday, I drove by many Amish carriages. But at one point, on the side of the road, a group of maybe 30 Amish folks walked toward me. They walked singly or in groups of two. As I drove slowly by, every one, every single one, smiled and flashed the two-fingered peace sign at me.

Peace. It was exactly what I needed. And the tuxedo cat agreed with me.

This whole week has been a moment of happiness. I’ve written, starting a new book, and a book I finally recognize. I’ve read and admired the words of others. I’ve slept. And yes, I took a tumble down the stairs, which is likely going to have some consequences.

But sometimes, the peace-filled sounds of silence in the middle of nowhere trumps everything else.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

My family and I have set up a chat amongst ourselves on Facebook Messenger. Populated by my husband, my sons, my daughters, my daughter-cuz-I-like-her-and-she’s-been-around-forever, and me, the chat was primarily set up to discuss the game Animal Crossing on the Nintendo Switch, which we all play. But every now and then, or actually, more than every now and then, we drift off topic. One day last week, the topic got a bit heated.

My daughter Olivia loves Halloween. She started talking in the chat about what she might dress up as this year, and how she’d like to decorate her room, and eventually, she made the exclamation, “I think Halloween should last for four months!”

Most of us were disgruntled by the fact that Halloween stuff was appearing in the stores in August. My son Andy called it a capitalist Hellscape. I said that if you’re so focused on a holiday that is so far away, you’re missing what’s happening right now. Rayne, my daughter-cuz-I-like-her, told Olivia the world is her oyster and she should do whatever makes her happy. Andy eventually declared The End, and we went on to other subjects.

I have to admit, I’ve never understood the phrase, “The world is your oyster.” I don’t want an oyster. Unless they are oyster crackers. I like oyster crackers.

But this conversation popped back into my mind a few days later, when my husband came home from grocery shopping. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said. “The new harvest of Orange Oreos is in.”

“No!” I said. “It’s too early! They’re likely not ripe yet!”

“I looked them all over,” he said. “I made sure none of them were yellowy. Only the most orange ones came home.”

I gave a cheer and ran to the snack cabinet.

So what is this then?

It’s Orange Oreo season. But I have to be clear – for me, it has nothing to do with Halloween. It has everything to do with the orange.

A week or so ago, I saw a conversation under a post on Facebook about how someone refused to eat some mint ice cream because it wasn’t green. “Mint ice cream has to be green,” this someone said. There were quite a few SMHs (which I just learned what that means last week too) and disparaging comments. I stayed quiet. I think mint ice cream should be green too. Speckled with brown chocolate chips.

Color means a lot.

I don’t remember exactly when Orange Oreos first came out, but I do clearly remember standing enamored in the cookie aisle of the grocery store. I brought them home and a love affair was born. In many of my short stories and almost all of my novels, Orange Oreos appear. The first story I wrote which had Orange Oreos in it actually featured the cookie in a major way. It is called Marriage In Orange, and I wrote it in 2007, so I assume the cookie came out around then. I rarely eat any other kind of Oreo. And there are a bajillion kinds of Oreos now, a far cry from the original white stuffed cookie I used to eat accompanied by milk when I was a kid. I was very much an adult when Orange Oreos came out. And I have been known to buy many packages and put them in the freezer so that I can have them long after they disappear from the shelves.

What makes them so special? I have no idea. I have to repeat, since we just had the raucous discussion in Facebook Messenger, that this has nothing to do with Halloween. I ate these cookies for years before I realized there were Halloween shapes stamped into the cookie parts. The packages often come with a Halloween word, like “Booooo!” on the cellophane wrapper. That all goes right over my head.

It’s all about the orange.

Do they taste like orange? Not in the citrus sense, no. But they taste like the color orange should taste. Many argue that they taste just like the regular original Oreo. I disagree. They taste BETTER. They taste ORANGE.

Some would say that it’s no accident that they come out at the end of summer, because of Halloween on the horizon. Again, I disagree. They come out at the end of summer, when we’re on the cusp of fall and cooler weather and leaves turning all different colors, including…orange. There will soon be frost on the pumpkin, and pumpkins are…orange. The Orange Oreo, with its black cookie and orange stuffing, is perfect to sit down with on an afternoon, the wind chimes singing with a breeze smelling of fall. You can put on a sweater and sit outside, joining the cookie with a hot, hot, hot cup of coffee. And you can feel not too hot and not too cold, there is no snow, there are no mosquitos, the sun is bright, the sky is blue, and, like a child with an after-school snack, you can relax in perfection of temperature and taste and comfort.

So.

Olivia loves Halloween.

I love Orange Oreos.

Her Halloween can last for three months, since it starts in August.

My Orange Oreos can last for a huge part of the year, if I gather enough packages and don’t overstuff my freezer.

Hm.

I guess the world is our o(reo)yster.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

My 62^nd birthday is almost a month gone now. As of this last weekend, I still hadn’t had a celebration with my family. It was difficult this year. On my actual birthday, I was gone, off to La Crosse, Wisconsin, to visit a book club, present at a bookstore, and teach a class called The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit at the loveliest of sculpture gardens. Since coming home, I’ve been busy, my kids have been busy, we’ve all been busy, and I came to a realization.

I guess I’m at an age and my kids are at an age now where getting together for Mom’s birthday is a thing of the past.

It made me sad.

At one point, when I asked my oldest son, Christopher, if he and his wife and my granddaughter, Grandbaby Maya Mae, were available last weekend to come over for a cookout for my birthday, he told me they were going to be in Chicago. I begrudgingly muttered something like, “I’m finally going to make my own birthday celebration because no one else seems to be.”

“Wait…” he said. “We were supposed to do something?”

Well, yeah. Honestly, I do everyone else’s birthday celebrations, I didn’t really think I should be responsible for doing my own.

And there was something about this birthday. For my generation and those before it, 62 was a pretty heavy number. It was the expected age of retirement, and often, over the previous generations, retirement was forced on people who didn’t necessarily feel ready to retire. Now, it’s not uncommon to see people working well into their sixties, seventies, eighties, and so on. So maybe that’s why 62 didn’t ring any big bells for my children. Life would go on as usual for their mother.

One of my students, a retired ER doctor who is ten years older than I am, said to me this week, “You’re going to work until you drop dead.”

Well, as someone who is self-employed, yes, that is likely. There is no pension for me. But yikes.

I’ve been very introspective since turning 62 on July 29^th. It’s been one of those self-assessment times. And while my overall conclusion is that I’m very happy where I am, I’m very happy with what I’ve done, I’d still have to admit that I’m not where I thought I’d be at 62. That’s a sobering thought when you obviously have less years to go than what you’ve already lived through. Some goals that I’ve held in front of me like a carrot in front of a donkey are likely to be unattainable. And somehow, at this age, you have to learn, or I have to learn, to accept that and be okay with it, or else settle into life as a bitter grumpy snarly person. Which, generally, isn’t who I am. But I don’t like carrots and the thought of swallowing this one is hard.

So back to my birthday. Despite busy schedules, I do have to cut my kids some slack. All four of them yelled a happy birthday to me in one form or another from across the miles while I was in La Crosse. When I got home, Olivia practically met me at the door, demanding that I open my present. It was a starfish Squishmallow (I love starfish – they are a part of my Oregon experience) and a new lovely pen in a blue the color of the ocean.

And then I had this cookout. I planned my favorite summer meal, because my birthday is a summer birthday and I totally love summer. I could live perpetually in summer. I drive a convertible for a reason. So I made brat patties and hot dogs and fresh corn on the cob from the farmer’s market. I made deviled eggs. My middle son Andy brought a peach pie, which is my absolute favorite. No cake for me, thank you, it’s always about the pie, and peach pie ranks at the top. There were only two of my kids in attendance, as one was off in Chicago with his family and one lives in Louisiana now.

But when Andy came in, he didn’t just carry a peach pie. He plunked a plant on my kitchen island. “This is for you,” he said. “It was on clearance.”

Which made me laugh. But what he brought me was a peace lily.

Which ultimately was what I was looking for, I think. Peace. Peace over turning 62. Peace over experiencing joy over the goals attained and not focusing so much on what hasn’t come to light. Peace over experiencing a different form of family, now that my kids are grown. Well, almost. The youngest is about to start her senior year in college, so she will be off on her own soon too. Peace over no longer hearing the news reported, but instead, it’s shouted, and it’s shouted over enemy lines where each side thinks of the other as the enemy even though we all live in the same place and so there is no meeting in the middle. There is no discussion. There is only noise.

Well…just some peace. And it was sitting on my kitchen counter, all green leaves and the beginnings of buds.

I brought it up to my office after dinner was done. It’s sitting on a shelf where I can see it every time I look up from my computer. If I look to my left, I see my deck garden, including the two hibiscus, Carla and Sydney, who are both blooming their hearts out.

During this week, the peace lily joined them and bloomed and bloomed. And I thought, well, that’s really it, isn’t it. Despite age, despite changes, despite it all, there are always blooms. And in this case, there is a very literal peace sitting right in front of me.

Thank you, Andy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Wednesdays are a particularly busy day of the week for me. I have clients in the morning at 9:00, 10:00, and 11:00, I teach a class from 1:00 – 3:00, and then I have evening clients at 4:30, 5:30, 7:00 and 8:00. In that 3:00 to 4:30 break time yesterday, I quickly grabbed some books I needed to mail and headed off for the post office.

An online book club is discussing my novel, If You Tame Me, on October 4^th, and I’ve agreed to Zoom in to the meeting. Several of the members requested signed books, which, of course, I was more than happy to provide. I wanted to give them as much time as possible to read, so while a trip to the post office would have been easier on another day, I kept my eye on the clock and zoomed off to the post office.

I rarely ever go all the way inside the post office anymore. They have a do-it-yourself machine in the lobby and I’ve become quite proficient. So I was tapping away at the screen when I heard someone behind me call my name, her voice lilting up into a question.

“Kathie?”

I turned and found Brenda, someone I’d gone to middle school and high school with!

Now school always requires a trip through my mental Rolodex. I went to three different high schools. Because my father worked for the Small Business Administration, he was transferred frequently as he traveled up the government ladder. I went to kindergarten in Berkeley, Missouri. Grades 1 – 5 were in Esko, Minnesota, way up north between Duluth and Cloquet. Grades 6 – sophomore year were in Stoughton, Wisconsin, a town outside of Madison. First semester junior year was in Cedarburg, Wisconsin. Second semester junior year through my senior year were here, in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Amazingly, thanks to the miracle that is the internet, I am actually still in contact with people from each school, with the exception of my kindergarten class. And that’s mainly because I only remember my teacher, an awful woman named Miss Wise who was anything but. She yelled at me once for coloring a tree blue instead of green. I responded by poking the corner of my crayon box into her eye.

I doubt that she was very fond of me either.

Brenda was from my time in Stoughton, and somehow, we’re both now in Waukesha. We also both have adult kids and a younger kid who is still in college, though Brenda, brave woman, went on to have younger kids yet. We’re also both grandparents.

But standing there, in the post office, we both became 12 years old again.

We talked about what we remembered. For me, there is one clear memory of Brenda, which includes a memory of a bruise that spanned my entire left thigh and was every color of the rainbow.

It was a winter day, and we were all outside for recess. Fifth and sixth grades were housed in a building called Central School, which is no longer there today. Across a large parking lot was the junior high, where we would go next year. Central was a sort of no-man’s land, a limbo, between elementary school and what was still called junior high then. We had a fabulous field to play in, surrounded by a low stone fence. There was an opening in that fence, and we could look down a steep hill to a river, if I remember right. We had a fresh snow that day, and ice as well. I don’t remember why a bunch of us were standing at that break in the fence, but Brenda took a step, and down, down, down she went. She couldn’t climb back up, it was too slippery, and the bell was about to ring.

Ignorant hero that I was, I shouted, “I’ll help you!” and then I slid down too, hitting every tree along the way. Hence the major bruise. Of course, this meant we were both stuck. But hey, she wasn’t alone anymore.

The bell rang.

Behind the school building was a set of stairs that led down to this lower area, and we decided to walk there to see if we could climb the stairs back up. But no, they were covered with snow and ice too.

Eventually, at the top of the hill, a few of the boys from our class stared down at us. Our teacher, informed of our predicament, sent out the boys to help. “Climb up!” they shouted.

Yes, that was oh so helpful.

We began the long climb up, grabbing onto tree limbs and trunks, slip-sliding the whole way. We did make it, obviously, since we were standing in the post office some 50 years later. The boys didn’t have anything to do with it, though. Neither did our teacher.

We did it.

In the post office, we laughed.

And then, as we were saying goodbye, Brenda said, “Your books really are amazing, Kathie.”

Spontaneous, unexpected comments about my work are rare. I’m pretty sure I glowed.

And then we parted, with promises to get together.

Like those comments, it’s also rare to have a moment where you get to catch a glimpse of who you once were, and a glimpse of who you are now. I was the girl who once leapt, without thinking, down an icy hill to help a friend. We were both girls who solved a tricky problem ourselves, without the help of boys or teachers. And now, we’re fully immersed in family, kids, grandkids, and on and on.

And I write really good books.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

On Monday afternoon, as I was driving home from the bank, my husband sent me a simple text message.

Olivia Newton John died.

So simple. Four words. The death of a celebrity.

Yet it took my breath away.

Olivia Newton John had been fighting breast cancer since 1992. Her death coming right after my celebration of five years out felt like a punch to my temples. Five years was huge. Yet five years could be nothing.

I danced and sang to Olivia Newton John as a teenager, like most everybody did. In high school, I worked as a kennelworker at the local humane society, and one of my clearest memories is dancing down the aisle between the dog kennels, pushing a cart filled with their dinners, and singing “You’re The One That I Want” at the top of my lungs. It was 1978, I was going to graduate high school, college at the University of Wisconsin – Madison was in my very near future, and I was balancing two boyfriends at once. Me! I was on top of the world and I rocked with Olivia and I swear the dogs danced with me. Though they might have just wanted me to feed them already.

As years passed, I didn’t think about Olivia Newton John much anymore. Not until June 26, 2017, when I sat in an examination room at the Breast Care center at my clinic. The week before, my mammogram tanked, and so did the immediate ultrasound, and now I was going to have a biopsy. The doctor was running late, and I was nervous, so I tried to distract myself by grabbing a magazine off the table next to my chair. It was People, the issue was from June 19, and on the cover was Olivia Newton John. It said that her breast cancer had returned after 25 years. It was located in her tailbone.

I threw the magazine across the room as if it scalded my fingers. Then, I carefully picked it up and put it in the trash can. I shoved it all the way down, past all the paper towels and whatever else might be there. I didn’t want anyone else to find it. Anyone else like me, who was waiting on a biopsy.

The next day, June 27, 2017, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

From that point on, Olivia Newton John and I were linked again. Me, just starting out. She, on this journey at that point for 25 years already. She was 68 years old at that time; I was soon to be 57.

I posted about this on Facebook, in her honor. To my surprise, I was contacted by a reporter from our local newspaper. She asked if she could talk to me about Olivia Newton John and my own experience, and I said sure.

We talked about the expected things. My diagnosis and prognosis. That day in the exam room. Where I am now. How I felt that Olivia Newton John was just a beacon of light for those experiencing breast cancer. She was diagnosed in 1992. It returned in 2017. She passed away in 2022. That’s a total of 30 years. And 25 of them were free, as far as anyone knew, of cancer. In that time, she did her best to help with breast cancer research, and to give hope and encouragement to those who were bound by the pink ribbon. She formed the Olivia Newton John Cancer Wellness & Research Center in Australia. On their website, she is quoted as saying:

“With more and more people affected by cancer every day, I believe we are in a world desperate for healing, and I’m committed to doing whatever I can to help. I also believe that when you go through something difficult, even something as dramatic as cancer, that something positive will come of it.”

For me, something positive has come from it. I’ve learned how to look for a moment of happiness every day. And I’ve learned that happiness is something you do have to look for in everything that is around you. You can’t wait for it to come to you. It’s already there.

And then the reporter asked me an unexpected question. “How else did Olivia Newton John affect you?”

I had to think on it, because it was a quality that was hard to put into words. Olivia Newton John remained herself. She didn’t become or embody the breast cancer experience.

I’ve known women who have basically taken on breast cancer as their personality. There was one in particular, who tried to create a one-woman show on stage, talking about her experience. Off stage, she wore pink sneakers with pink ribbons. She wore pink shirts emblazoned with breast cancer slogans, like “I saved the tatas!” She wore pants with more pink ribbons. Earrings and necklaces of pink ribbons. Everything, absolutely everything was breast cancer.

She became breast cancer. Whoever she was before, that person was gone.

Don’t get me wrong; I do wear breast cancer t-shirts from time to time, mostly when I’m working out. They remind me that if I was strong enough to get through breast cancer, then I’m strong enough to get through 60 freaking minutes on a treadmill.

But in general – I was me before I had breast cancer. And I’m still me now, although cancer is a part of my life experience. But it’s just that. A part. There’s just so much more.

Just like Olivia Newton John. All the way til the end.

You’re the one that I want, Olivia. Ooo-oo-oo, honey.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Well, if you follow me on Facebook, there’s no doubt what my moment of happiness was. And there’s another one now too, tacked on.

Five years ago, on June 27, 2017, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

And this past Friday, on my 62^nd birthday, I took my final cancer med. A little yellow pill that caused major side effects for five years. And that was also a daily reminder of what I’d gone through.

YAY!

The little yellow pill, among other things, leeched my body of calcium, and so for the 5 years, I also had to take calcium, with Vitamin D3, twice a day. The little yellow pill was so small, I rarely felt it as I swallowed it down. But the calcium pill was large and sticky and I often gagged when I took it. So I contacted my oncologist to ask if I needed to continue to take the calcium, now that the little yellow pill was in my little yellow past.

“No,” he said. “If you take calcium when you don’t need it, it can cause kidney stones. Stop taking it right away.”

And so last night, for the first time in five years, I swallowed no pills before I went to bed. No gagging before bed. I brushed my teeth, climbed between the covers, meditated, and dropped off.

YAY!

This morning, I pulled the calcium pill out of my pill-a-day container and plunked it back into the bottle. No gagging this morning.

YAY!

And now, it remains to be seen if I will have to continue taking magnesium and potassium, which were also depleted by the little yellow pill. Blood tests will determine that.

There’s a commercial on television right now, for a skin condition. In it, people have shards of glass sticking out of their limbs, and burning pieces of charcoal, and heavy pieces of armor. They stand up, shake their bodies, and these pieces just fly off.

I feel like pieces are flying off of me right now. In such a good way. Not like the piece I lost when I went in for the partial mastectomy.

There’s been a lot of discussion about being in the “new normal” with Covid. I am now returning to the “new normal” after breast cancer. As piece by piece drops away, such as no more breast MRI’s, mammograms returning to once a year, the little yellow pill disappearing from my pill container, members of my medical team stepping away, the radiation oncologist first, the surgeon second, leaving only my oncologist who I now only see once a year, I am wiggling myself into that new normal.

I think, due mostly to the media, people think that once you’re declared cancer-free, you step out into the sunlight and resume your life as if cancer never happened. That is just so not true. No matter the diagnosis, the prognosis, and the end results, everyone I’ve met who has dealt with any kind of cancer still has that little bit of fear tucked into them. It goes like this: “Cancer snuck into me once. It could do so again.”

I know women who are over 20 years out of breast cancer. The day of their annual mammogram, they shake. And so I’m prepared for that too, and I don’t worry about the lingering fear. Like all of the flying-off pieces, the fear flies off too. I tend to think of it when I look in a mirror. Because there, the evidence of what happened remains. But then I step away and move into my day and I’m grateful to be here.

I had someone say to me once, the day after my surgery, “Now don’t ever say you have cancer or you had cancer ever again. That’s putting it out into the Universe, and then it can come back into you.”

Good lord. I bit my tongue, but I so wanted to say to this person, “Do not expect me to be superhuman. I was a cancer victim; I am a cancer survivor. That’s not a definition that can be taken away from me. That’s not a definition I can forget.”

I also had a small handful of students who fell away because they felt the cancer was distracting me from teaching. One even said to me, “I used to learn so much from you. Now I’m not.” And this was someone who worked with cancer patients! Again, I bit my tongue, though I wanted to say, “Do not expect me to be superhuman.” For heaven’s sake, during the whole treatment, I only missed three days of work. If she wasn’t learning from me, it was because she was not listening. Not hearing someone who managed, through a terrifying time, to still reach out, to still help, to still guide. I teach writing, but I’ve always taught more than that. Especially during that time.

Maybe it was good that some of these pieces fell away.

One of the best moments I had during this whole ordeal was a friend saying, “You don’t have to be so brave. You can be scared. You can be sad. It’s all right.”

And I was. I am.

But seeing the pieces fall away, one by one…priceless. Feeling lighter, feeling more like myself, feeling like I’m still here. I’ve brushed away so much. And now…no more little yellow pill. No more sticky white calcium.

The fear? I can fold it away and tuck it into my back pocket.

And I’m okay with that. I’m okay.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Some weeks are just full of richness. I’m in La Crosse, Wisconsin, doing several events including visiting a book club, doing a reading/signing/discussion at a bookstore, and teaching a class called The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit at a beautiful sculpture garden. My week has also been full of reading in bed, sleeping in, taking a book along to read by the Mississippi River, and there’s more yet to come, since I don’t go home until Sunday.

But there was one moment in particular, an odd one, that had me laughing out loud all alone in my hotel room, and so I’ve chosen that one.

I’m staying in what is my favorite hotel, a Super8. It’s a very simple, basic hotel. The room is comfortable, the bed lovely, there’s a window I can open to let in fresh air. It has one of the best swimming pools I’ve ever been in, and it has a great hot tub too. Since I’ve learned to swim since the last time I was here, I’m actually using the swimming pool as a swimming pool. And I’ve discovered, without the blue line on the bottom of the gym’s pool, it is not feasible for me to swim in a straight line. Even with my mask on. Luckily, the others in the pool have been good about getting out of my way.

But it’s the people here that make it great. The folks behind the desk go out of their way to make your stay comfortable and everything you need it to be. They are even keeping me supplied with extra coffee!

So the other night, as I looked up from reading my book, I pondered the full size ironing board and massive iron that hung from one of the walls. I wondered how long it had been since anyone used it, or if anyone ever used it at all.

I’ve seen ironing boards and irons in hotels before, but usually, they’re tucked away. This one is right out in the open. My own experience with ironing is minimal and disastrous. When I was first married to husband number 1, and I was all of 21 years old, I bought what I thought was a beautiful shower curtain for our apartment bathroom. The shower curtain part was white, and then there were these sheers that hung over it in a drapery way, as if the shower was a big window. The sheers where covered with yellow flowers, and there was a valance too. I fought to figure out how to hang it all up, wanting it in place in time for my new husband to come home and be impressed with my domestic skills. But when I got it all up, I found that the effect was marred by the sheers being very wrinkled from being in the package. That just wouldn’t do.

We’d been given a tabletop ironing board and iron for a wedding present, so I fought the sheers back down, placed the board on my used kitchen table, turned on the iron and placed it on the sheer, fragile fabric.

And I burned the hell out of it.

This was probably the first secret I kept from that husband. Sobbing, I threw the burnt sheers into the dumpster behind the apartment building. When my husband saw the plain shower curtain, he was puzzled. “Why’d you just choose white?” he asked. “I couldn’t decide,” I said, “and it was cheap,” which pleased him.

So I studied this ironing board and iron in my hotel room. And then I laughed because my thoughts immediately turned to…The Waltons.

While I was still with this same husband, and our big kids were small, we made a trip to see the real Walton’s Mountain, which is Schuyler, Virginia. The Walton house, which is really the Hamner house, is still there, and there is a Walton’s Mountain Museum as well. There is a recreation of the kitchen and John Boy’s bedroom. We took the tour and I listened closely as the tour guide pointed out the quilt on John Boy’s bed.

“Do you recognize that?” she said. “That’s the very quilt that John wrapped Olivia in when he took her to the hospital when she fell ill with polio.”

I couldn’t help myself. “No, it’s not,” I said. “That’s the signature quilt that Olivia’s friends brought her while she was sick. Dr. Vance said she was too ill to go to the hospital, so they treated her at home. John wrapped her in the quilt to bring her down to the living room so she could watch Jason sing the song that he wrote, that just won him first prize at a talent show. The song was inspired by Grandma, who was ironing in such a rhythmic way that he got the song out of it. It was called The Ironing Board Blues.” And then I sang a few lines.

The tour guide and the group fell silent. My husband looked anywhere but at me.

“Let’s move on,” the tour guide finally said.

Hey, if you’re going to give a tour, you’d better get it right!

And in my hotel room, I laughed. My life, it seems, has mellowed into memories of burned shower curtains and The Waltons. And I’m just fine with that.

Thank you, John, Olivia (ever wonder where my Olivia’s name comes from? Now you know!), John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen, Erin, Jim Bob, Elizabeth, Grandma, Grandpa, and especially Earl Hamner who made my day when he friended me on Facebook a few years before his death.

I never touched another iron and I never will, though I gave the hotel iron a good pat for bringing me a laugh.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you’d like to see, here is a video clip of Jason singing his song. If you look closely, you’ll see Olivia is wrapped in the signature quilt. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy3xhhV7CvQ

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

This past Monday, Michael and I drove to our lawyer’s office to sign our wills.

That’s a hell of a way to start a Moment Of Happiness, isn’t it?

As we got to the top of the Barstow Street hill in Waukesha, one of the steepest hills to drive in this city, we were stopped…by a very long funeral procession. We sat there, watching the lead car, the hearse, and then car after car after car, each sporting a little flag and with their lights on in the daytime.  And I began to laugh. I mean, really. Think about all the possible metaphors and symbols here. We’re signing our wills. We get stopped by a long funeral procession, like a long life itself, being laid to rest. We had to climb a long steep hill to get there, just like we’ve been climbing the long steep hill of life…ohmygod, I could go on forever.

Except, of course, that’s sort of the point, isn’t it. I’m not going to go on forever.

But you know, I think it’s also important that I laughed.

And then, when the last car finally went by, we moved ahead, got to the lawyer, asked for a few more clarifications, and then, signed our lives away. Literally.

But I have to tell you, it didn’t feel grim. It felt…tidy.

Ever since Olivia was born in 2000, Michael and I have looked at each other from time to time and said, “We really need to get our wills done.” We’d nod sagely and with a great sense of responsibility, and then we’d put it off. Again. And there wasn’t just Olivia. There were my three older kids from my first marriage, Christopher, Andy, and Katie. As time went on, there was a daughter-in-law and a son-in-law. There was a granddaughter, Grandbaby Maya Mae. There was property and pets. There was intellectual property, with the copyrights for my books and Michael’s. For heaven’s sake, there was a business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop. And we kept saying, “We really need to get our wills done,” nodding, and putting it off.

Until Monday, when we signed on the dotted lines.

And it felt tidy. Responsible. Like I was taking care of loved ones, from my family to my students to my readers. I was making sure everyone would be okay.

Walking out of that office, I really didn’t feel sad or morbid or anything like that. I felt like, if I was coming to the final chapter of my own book, I would be ready to close the covers and sigh with the joy and satisfaction that comes after reading something really, really wonderful.

Next Friday, I’m going to turn sixty-two years old. I will be in a hotel room in La Crosse, Wisconsin, a little city that I love, by the mighty river that I love, and I’ll be in the midst of doing what I love. I’m visiting a book club on Tuesday, where they’re discussing my novel, All Told. On Thursday, I’m reading from and discussing All Told at one of my favorite bookstores, Pearl Street Books. On Saturday, the day after my birthday, I’m teaching a class, The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit, at the beautiful Kinstone in Fountain City, Wisconsin, and I’ll be surrounded by eager writers and visual artists. No, I won’t be home, but really, what better way to turn sixty-two?

And on that day, my birthday, I will be taking my final oral chemotherapy pill, which I’ve swallowed for the last five years for the treatment of breast cancer. While I am very grateful for the job that medication has done in squashing any possible attempts for the breast cancer to return, I will also be so glad to see that little pill go. Besides the side effects, which have been considerable, it’s been a daily yellow reminder that I’ve been sick with something that could have easily taken me out.

Taken me out before I had the chance to write my will, to take care of all my loved ones. To make sure they’re okay. And when I swallow that last pill, it will be with the knowledge that I’m okay. I’m still here. Doing what I love. Writing. Teaching.

Raising my children. Watching my grandchild grow.

Raising my students. Watching them grow. I had two more students receive book contracts this week. How amazing is that?

And, when I swallow that last pill, it’s also with the knowledge that when I close my own personal life book, it’s with the sense that everything is okay.

That little quiet moment at the top of the Barstow Street hill, on my way to sign my will, watching a funeral procession go by, and feeling myself fall into laughter, wasn’t such a little quiet moment at all, was it.

In my Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop this week, a student brought up this Julian of Norwich quote:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

I realize now, writing this Moment, that this is exactly what I’m feeling.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This past weekend, I led the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. It was our first one since Covid hit, but I believe our 14^th overall, and it was a cause for great celebration. I hosted 26 writers from 8 states for 4 days under 1 roof, at Mount Mary University in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. I lectured, I led workshops, I met with everyone in one-on-one consultations, I made sure everyone was fed, and I ran, ran, ran. And it was marvelous. I am never so happy as when I’m fully in my element, and my element is writing. In this little microcosm of the writing world, I surrounded myself with writers and I talked about writing and we all lived in a world of words.

Incredible.

I noticed, though, that there was a common theme cropping up in the one-on-one consultations. Many of the writers quietly said to me, “I’m not feeling very confident,” or “I’m not sure I can do this,” or “I’m not sure WHY I’m doing this,” or simply, “I just don’t think I’m very good.” Bear in mind that among these 26 writers, 12 already had books published, and many already had short pieces published. But, “I’m not feeling very confident.”

Recently, the company that published my novel, All Told, decided to become an all-hybrid company. This means that the writer pays for some of the costs of publication. This used to be called subsidy publishing, and while it’s a step up from self-publishing, I still don’t support it. I’m a firm believer that writers should be paid for their work. So when I offered this company my next novel, they offered me a hybrid contract. And I offered them a solid no.

Which meant I found myself back at square one. Finding a publisher. I was suddenly without a home for my work.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

I immediately went into a tailspin. 13 books already published, and I wondered if I was a fluke. I wondered if I was done. If my whole career was over. If there ever was a career to begin with. This new book, which I consider the best I’ve ever written, suddenly became filled with flaws.

But after I finished crying, I sent it out anyway. And it was accepted at another publisher within 48 hours.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

I’ve written before about my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Fatticci, who, after hearing me read what turned out to be a short story in front of my class, breathed, “Oh my god, Kathie, you’re a writer!” There was also Mr. Salt in the 8^th grade. I had to read a story in front of that class too, and after I sat down, I began scribbling furiously on my paper, rewriting everything, because I was convinced it was terrible. When I glanced up, Mr. Salt was looking directly at me, and he mouthed, “You are SO good!”

And there was Mr. Stein in high school. On the back of one of my stories, which I still have 45 years later, he wrote in red ink that I was gifted. But, he wrote, with giftedness comes a responsibility. And he went on about how I had to use that gift. How I had to give back to the world. How being gifted didn’t mean it would be easy. But I had a responsibility to keep at it and never ever give up.

Never give up.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

And well, I’m a teacher now too, aren’t I. My element isn’t just writing (as if writing could ever have a “just” in front of it), but teaching.

And so, one by one, I told them about my recent crisis of confidence. And I also said:

“Oh my god, you’re a writer!”

“You are SO good!”

“You have a responsibility.”

There are times in your life where you just suddenly find yourself clicking into a niche where you just feel that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You are doing what you’re supposed to be doing. You BELONG.

I felt that when I signed my 14^th book contract, for my novel, Hope Always Rises, which will be released on March 7^th, 2023. I felt that all four-day weekend long, as I gave a lecture, led the workshops, and met one on one with all these writers, facing down their “I’m not feeling so confident.”

The 26 writers I sent on their way were all smiling. Will they feel confident for the rest of their lives? Of course not. But will they know where to turn when they need to? Will they hear my words again, just like I hear the words of Mrs. Fatticci, Mr. Salt, and Mr. Stein, over and over and over with each crisis of confidence? Yep.

In my element. Full of joy.

And, oh, by the way. I have another book coming out.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.