This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

Last week’s moment was about a conflagration of lightning bugs, collected in one small corner of Waukesha’s Riverwalk, and how it seemed like they performed a light show just for me. It truly was magical, a word I don’t use often.

So you can imagine how my heartrate picked up this week when I was in my car at a red light at an intersection right by the river, close to where the conflagration took place, and from my seat, I could see, around the corner, a bright flashing light. The fireflies! They were back! And I’d be able to see them from my car!

The light turned green and I turned and slowly approached the blinking light, not wanting to frighten them away. I almost hoped for a train, so that I’d have to stop and watch. There was no one behind me, so I could go as slowly as I wanted. Semi (my convertible) and I crept forward, getting closer and closer to the happily blinking light…

Only to find out that it was a tipped-over road construction sawhorse, its orange caution light blinking and blinking from the ground.

I laughed all the way to Farm & Fleet, where I was picking up my daughter from work. And I was really, really happy no one else was with me.

My imagination has duped me on multiple other occasions. When I was around eight years old and living in Esko, Minnesota, way, way, WAY northern Minnesota, I was out playing on a summer day next to the creek (pronounced crick, please) that ran between the neighborhood’s back yards. I saw a strange hunk of pink, streaked with white near the bank, and near where my brother’s friend built a treehouse that wasn’t in the tree, but at the base of it. I crept closer and saw more and more pink streaked with white. It was a ham! Someone left a ham out on the bank of the creek (pronounced crick, please).

I ran into the house and got my mother. “A ham?” she said. “Who would leave a ham by the creek (you know how to pronounce it now)?” She followed me outside.

It was a big sheet of insulation, probably stolen from one of the houses being built nearby, and tucked up to the treehouse.

I’m sorry. It was a ham. And that light was a lightning bug conflagration.

I also had a pet turtle for years. Her name was Myrtle. My brother had a turtle named Pokey, and when I found Myrtle, I was delighted to have a turtle of my own. My brother kept telling me (for years) that she was a rock. Well, she wasn’t. She had a perfectly shaped shell, and it didn’t matter that I never saw her head, tail or feet. Or that she never ate. Or moved. Or that she lived in a shoebox on the bottom of my closet and only came out when I thought to play with her. Or that she never died.

She was a turtle. I kept her until I was twelve years old and we moved from Minnesota to Wisconsin. My mother wasn’t willing to move what she saw as a rock. So I brought Myrtle out by the creek (remember? crick?) and set her under a bush, near a source of water and lots of green vegetation. I’m sure she’s alive and well today. Turtles live a very, very long time. Especially that one. She was magical.

A ham. A turtle. A lightning bug conflagration.

I visited a book club this past weekend, one of my favorite things to do. We got into a discussion on where the ideas for stories come from. I told them that I have a solid belief that fiction writers never lose that ability to pretend. Whatever it is as children that allows us to see our stuffed animals as real (I can still hear their voices), or to lose ourselves in sandboxes or sailing boats (sticks) down the creek (crick), or eating airy delicious fish caught from that same creek (crick) with a stick, a string, and a bent nail (no bait) doesn’t go away when fiction writers grow into adults. We don’t repress it. We don’t lose it. And frankly, we love it.

I love it. Some might see insulation, a rock, and a knocked-over construction sawhorse with a desperately blinking orange caution light. I see a misplaced ham, a loyal and faithful companion who never dies, a conflagration of lightning bugs, sending magic out into an otherwise normal life. And I also hear my own laughter.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Today is June 27^th. Which means that exactly two years ago today, I received the phone call that confirmed that I had breast cancer. I was in the shower when the call came in, of course. Luckily, I brought the phone in with me. I shut off the water and answered the phone with shampoo streaming down my face. I closed my eyes to keep out the burn.

“The biopsy was positive, Kathie,” my doctor said. He has an always-chirpy, always-happy voice, so that, combined with the word “positive”, which is usually a good word, confused me.

“So I’m okay?” I said.

“No,” he said. “You have breast cancer.” He then told me that someone would be calling me to set up my next steps, but I didn’t hear much. When his voice stopped, I said goodbye and hung up the phone. I resumed my shower.

I managed to get clean, get dry, and get dressed before my legs went all rubbery and I went down. It’s not a feeling I ever want to feel again.

But two years later, I am still here, and as far as anyone knows, I’m cancer-free.

38 years ago, on June 27^th, I was married for the first time. I was a month shy of 21 years old and I really didn’t know very much. And I was scared. 17 years later, I left that first marriage. I knew a lot more. I was braver. But knowledge and bravery still didn’t make it easy.

June 27^th is not my favorite day.

Last night, on June 27^th Eve, I went for a walk on Waukesha’s Fox Riverwalk, one of my favorite places. I take photos whenever I go, so I knew that the last time I managed to find time for this walk was on July 9, 2018, almost a full year ago. It’s a three-mile loop and it’s beautiful, as long as you’re not walking during red-winged blackbird baby season, when those damn birds bounce off your head, convinced you are a baby bird killer. People actually wear bike helmets when they’re walking during that time. I’m scared of birds, so I just avoid the whole thing. But now, on June 27^th Eve, while those birds gave their very distinctive call wherever I went, the attack season seemed to be over.

It was a gorgeous night. I worried that I might not be able to make the whole loop, since it was almost a year since I last did it. But I did, and at one point, I almost let myself skip. I said hi to the ducks. I waved cautiously at the geese. I saw frogs and this weird thing that swam and looked like a ferret. But for the longest time, I didn’t see what I was so hoping for.

Fireflies. Lightning bugs. Glowbugs.

Where I grew up, they were called lightning bugs. I never caught them in jars, because I knew they would die, but I did chase them and hold them in the palm of my hand so I could see them blink on and off. To a nine-year old, this was the most amazing thing, and at almost 59, that nine-year old inside of me always smacks both hands over her mouth and whispers, “Wow!” whenever she sees them.

Three-quarters of the way around, I’d pretty much given up on seeing them on this night. I wondered where they were, if the weather has been too cold, if the damned red-winged blackbirds ate them all. But then, in a grassy corner right next to the river, tucked in by the Moreland Avenue bridge…there they were.

Dozens. Dozens!

All lighting up. All blinking. Blue-gold light popping everywhere. I swear I could hear the sound. They didn’t leave their corner. They just flashed. Little flashlights. Little fireworks. Little bits of lightning. Absolute magic.

I was the only human there. And I smacked both hands over my mouth and whispered, “Wow!”

I don’t know how long I stood there. But I felt treated to my own private light show, which brought back my 9-year old self, and created delight in my almost 59-year old self.

Those lightning bugs weren’t the only thing glowing as I walked back home. On June 27^th Eve.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

So this week, my 10^th book, due to be released on September 26, showed up by surprise on my doorstep, and today, I drove to Techny, Illinois, to lead the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. We have a full house this year, 23 writers representing 10 states under 1 roof, and I pretty much sang the whole way. This is my favorite weekend of the year. And the moment of opening the box and seeing my tenth book was just…mind-altering.

I can’t tell you the moment when I first started writing, but I can tell you the moment I realized I was a writer. Before that moment happened, I spent a lot of time, once I knew how to read, tracing the pictures from my picture books and then rewriting the story the way I felt it should be written. I’m told it was sort of spooky to watch me play, because I would set up my toys (mostly Breyers horses and Barbie dolls) into a scene and then sit back and stare at them. In my head, a whole story was unfolding, with dialogue, characters, plot. When it came time for the scene to change, I would move the toys, then sit back and let it all play out in my head again.

When I was in the fifth grade, way up in northern Minnesota, a new English teacher named Mrs. Faticci introduced Creative Writing Thursdays. We had to have a separate notebook just for that, and I remember carefully picking out a blue one. On the cover, I wrote in block letters, MY CREATIVE WRITING. I wondered what it would be. On the first day, Mrs. Faticci told us she was going to put a record on the record player (please don’t say, “What’s that?”), and we were to listen to the song and write down our impressions. The song was “Oh, Shenendoah”. After we wrote, she had us each go to the front of the room and read our results. The kids had lists and senses – there’s a boat, I hear the waves, etc. When it was my turn, I read an entire short story. Characters, dialogue, setting. Conflict, resolution. When I finished, the room was silent. I thought I’d done something wrong. But all I’d done was write what appeared in my head as I listened to the music. I was ready to slink back to my seat when, from the back of the room, Mrs. Faticci whispered, “Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer.”

I will never forget the absolutely physical feeling of something settling into place inside of me. That’s who I was. And now I had a name for it. I was a writer.

Even now, I get goosebumps.

The thing is, and I’m going to be lecturing on this later tonight, when we find our place, land on our path, learn who and what we are, we seem to believe that everything is going to go smoothly from then on. For years, we’ve heard lectures on Follow Your Bliss, Live Your Dream, Do What You Love. But no one says what should come after that: Follow your bliss, but it won’t always feel blissful. Live your dream, but sometimes, it’s a nightmare. Do what you love, even when you hate it.

Holding that tenth book in my hands this week – I felt that physical settling in again. All was right. I’d started here, and I’d ended there, just as I was supposed to. And in between, a rollercoaster daredevil ride that left me wanting to throw myself off the tracks from time to time. That filled me with self-doubt and depression. But that ultimately, I just kept following.

My first short story was published when I was 15. My first novel was published when I was 51. Well, three months short of 51, but 51 nonetheless. And yes, I see the 1-5 and 5-1 of those numbers.

When I held that book this week, and then on the way here, driving to the retreat that I’ve led for 13 years now, I felt that settling. It hasn’t been easy. Not at all. But it’s who and what I am.

And you know what? It’s been worth every rejection slip. Every difficult moment that comes with running a small business. It’s been worth it. And I would do it again.

Our paths aren’t made of rainbows. They aren’t even yellow bricks. They are rough and bumpy and totally hard to find sometimes.

I am so happy to be where I am.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Earlier this week, I said to the Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop, “You know that saying, ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same,’? Well, where’s the same? I’d like a little more of the same!”

There’s been a lot of change recently. This past Saturday, my youngest daughter Olivia graduated from high school. The event started at noon and I was teaching until eleven. We had our timing down pat: She would leave at 10:15, with her father and brother and niece, and I would leave as soon as my students were out the door. Everyone else was meeting us there, and between all of them, I should have a saved seat. At 10:15, in my classroom, I heard the house door close and when I looked out the window, there she was in her purple cap and gown. She turned toward the window, looking back at her father to laugh. Her joy was sky-high. All I could think was, There she goes. There she goes away from me. She was outside the window and on her way.

So of course, I burst into tears in front of my class. No, that wasn’t embarrassing.

Then, when I arrived at the graduation and found my family in the seats, my older daughter Katie immediately came over to me. She’s just graduated from the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee with a PhD in math. I wasn’t even sitting yet when she told me she’d accepted a job teaching at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette, and would be gone by…July 1. This was June 8.

Oh, man. And there are other changes underway too, too many for me to grasp. I find myself wanting to clutch my own head, to keep it from blowing off.

Today, Olivia and I met with Katie for coffee. The two of them sat across from me. I should have taken a picture, but I was too busy watching them, my little girls. Not so little anymore. Both of them moving confidently into the future. I hope I gave them some of that, even as I’m not feeling so confident as I move into mine.

I hugged Katie twice as we left Starbucks. She headed for a bus stop to take her to her apartment and sorting and organizing and packing and Olivia and I went to the car to head for home. As we went around the block and then down the street, I watched the bus stops and then I saw Katie there. My girl. She stood under the sign, looking down the street, and I wondered for a moment if she was looking for me. She stood straight and tall, sunshine lighting those blonde waves that I used to brush and braid, her backpack flung over her shoulder, and she was smiling. But she kept looking down the street as I drove by. She wasn’t looking for me; she was watching for the bus that was taking her away.

Between my schedule and hers, as a new university instructor, I have no idea when I’ll see her again.

Oh, man. Where’s the same? I thought. I’m tired of change. I was quiet as I drove home. A home which has gone through many different definitions already, and a home that is facing more.

When I opened the door, there was our dog, Ursula LeGuin Giorgio. She’s always waiting, wagging her whiplash tail and grinning that special way dogs grin. When I dragged myself upstairs to my office, she followed. And as soon as I sat down at my writing table, she set her concrete head on my thigh. I swear, my thigh has an Ursula-head-shaped groove in it. Because whenever I sit, there she is.

There she is. Something, someone, that isn’t changing.

“Thank you, Ursula,” I said and hugged the stuffing out of my surprised dog.

And yes, that helps, Despite. Anyway.

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

Last night, I felt like a curmudgeon. I felt grumpy. Jaded. Not just a skeptic, but a super-duper skeptic. Negative Woman! Able to bring people down in five seconds flat!

I haven’t felt like that since partway through writing the year of Today’s Moment Of Happiness. I’ve now finished the first year of This Week’s Moment, and I’m into the second. While I would never describe myself as a unicorn and rainbows person, I did believe that my overall outlook had changed, pretty much thanks to The Moments.

Last night, that all seemed to fly out the proverbial window. Except the window was closed and it smacked against it and created a horrific splatter that would never be cleaned up, because I was so skeptical, donchaknow. I was Negative Woman.

I was at my daughter Olivia’s Senior Send-Away. I’ve never been to one of these before, and I’m not really sure of the purpose, since most of the senior class wasn’t there, and neither were the faculty. It’s final exam week, after all. But the orchestra played and the chorus sang. An English teacher gave a little speech. There was a video of the teachers, giving last-minute advice to the graduating class.

I heard things like, “Live what you love! Follow your dreams! Be whoever it is you want to be! Choose your life and follow it!” and on and on until the room was full of dancing unicorns and sparkling rainbows.

Except for the black cloud over me. I sat there, my arms crossed, and thought continually, like a mantra, Whatta crock!

Live what you love, I thought, and then try to get health insurance.

Follow your dream and then try to pay your taxes.

Be whoever it is you want to be, and then find out you’re not valued by what you do, but by how much money you make.

Choose your life and follow it and find the inevitable dead end.

Boy, was I ever in a mood. And when I thought of my daughter going out into this black cloud world, where there are no unicorns and rainbows only last for minutes, and I couldn’t do anything to protect her, well, there were tears.

After the orchestra performed, the kids came out and sat in the audience. Olivia sat right in front of me, so she wouldn’t have to crawl over me, since I had an aisle seat. At one point, one of the speakers said that the kids should look around them, see the people who love and support them and always, always will, especially their moms and dads, and that they should reach out and grab their hands and hold them tight.

Olivia didn’t turn. But she stuck her hand straight up in the air and then bent her arm at the elbow so that I could reach out and grab her. We both held on tight.

“These are the people who will always believe in you,” the speaker said.

Always. Always. I immediately thought of Olivia’s preschool teacher. The day Olivia started kindergarten, I stopped in the preschool room and told the teacher all went well. “We believe Olivia will grow up and have a normal life,” I said. “A great life. We believe she will go to college. She will be who she wants to be. And she will do it well.”

Be whoever it is you want to be, the teachers said. Follow your dream. Live what you love. Choose your life.

“We believe,” I said to this preschool teacher.

She hugged me and patted my back and said, “Well, we can always dream.”

Follow your dream.

Look at my daughter now. Look at what she’s done. And just imagine what she will do. We will always, always believe.

Earlier this week, my daughter admitted she was a little bit scared of college. She mentioned it casually, on the drive home from school.

I didn’t hesitate. “It’s okay to be scared,” I said. “Everyone is. But you are going to be great. Just look at you. And you are going to have the absolute best time.”

I wanted to say, with all my heart, that this girl is the brightest star in my sky. But I thought that would sound too much like a Hallmark card. Sometimes Hallmark cards are just the exact right thing.

By the time I got home last night, the black cloud was no longer over me. If I had to listen to those speeches all over again – and I probably will, on Saturday, when she graduates – I would still roll my eyes and think, Whatta crock.

But then I would look at my daughter. And all I would feel is hope. Look at her.

I believe.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I finally did something I’ve been thinking about doing for a while. It took me almost two years, with the last four months containing three appointments, two cancellations, and…today. Today, I did it.

No, I didn’t get a tattoo or a new piercing.

I went boob shopping.

I’ve debated what I would consider my “cancerversary”, the day I became free of breast cancer. To be exact, Stage 2 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. I’ve finally decided on July 25^th (2017) as that was the day of my surgery, the day cancer was carved out of my body. I considered the day I finished radiation, September 25^th, 2017. But I went back today into my Today’s Moments, and on the day of surgery, I wrote:

One of my ABCD mentors (After Breast Cancer Diagnosis) just texted me and said in all caps, THE CANCER HAS LEFT YOUR BODY! Shortly after, my other ABCD mentor texted and said, You are now over that first mountain and that beautiful valley is still ahead.

I did not have a full mastectomy, but a partial. My doctors use that term because of the amount of my breast that was taken. When the surgeon sliced me open, she found that the tumor was larger than she anticipated. When I woke up in recovery, I was told that a sizable chunk of me was gone. Then, a year and two months later, there was a sudden infection in the surgical site, requiring a drain to be inserted and six weeks of powerful antibiotics. The result was that my breast, already deformed, collapsed on one side.

Naked, it left me wanting to not be naked. Dressed, I felt increasingly self-conscious because I was obviously lopsided. I found myself wearing looser and looser shirts and consistently crossing my right arm over my breast.

In February, I made an appointment at the Cancer Center’s in-house store that carried prosthetics and mastectomy bras. The day of, I canceled. A couple months later, I did it again. A couple weeks ago, they called me to see if I wanted to reschedule. I said yes.

I had great trouble with this. It feels vain to me. It feels shallow. But dammit, every morning when I get dressed, every time I go shopping, every time I pass a mirror, my eyes zero in on that sad little right breast, no longer at all what it used to be.

This morning, I considered canceling the appointment. I had things to do. I always have things to do. But then I got in my car and went. As requested, I wore a snug-fitting white shirt. A favorite that was no longer a favorite because of that sad breast.

In a comfortable room in the little store, the nicest woman took care of me. She measured me and then measured me again. She didn’t react in any way to how my breast looked.  I kept my right arm crossed over it until she had me lift my arms to my sides and then, I closed my eyes.

By then, I’d told myself, You’ll just try it on. Then you’ll say no. You can do this. You can accept who you are now. This is who you are.

She brought in three styles of bras. Each had a special little pocket sewn to the inside of the right cup. Then, she opened a little pink zippered cloth box and she pulled out the fake breast. It was shiny and smooth and I watched as she slid it into the pocket. I put the bra on and then together, we maneuvered the prosthetic into place. I watched in amazement as the bra filled out…with what looked like me. Then she had me pull on my shirt. I raised my eyes to the mirror.

And there I was. There I was.

Just as I was on June 19^th, 2017, the day before the mammogram went south. As I was through ultrasounds, biopsies and an MRI. As I was on July 25^th, 2017, in the morning, before I was rolled into surgery.

Oh, there I was.

I admit it. I cried. And I also wished I hadn’t waited for so long. If it’s vain, if it’s shallow, I don’t care. I have never been so relieved to see someone I know in the mirror.

I drove home, wearing the new bra and my right breast’s new best friend. Ever try driving while continually glancing down to admire symmetry?

I had an Elton John CD playing and the song Electricity came on. And I heard these lyrics:

I suppose it’s like forgetting

Losing who you are

And at the same time

Something makes you whole

Yeah. It’s just like that.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

A couple weeks ago, I was sick with pneumonia, which just felt like the ultimate insult during a finally-warming-up spring. A student suggested I visit a salt room. I’d never heard of such a thing, so I checked into it and found one close by. A salt room is exactly what it sounds like – a room made of salt. The walls, ceiling and floor are covered in white, the salt loose on the floor like gravel, and textured on the walls like plaster. A machine embedded in one of the walls blows more salt out, ground to a barely noticeable mist, and as you lay in anti-gravity chairs, you breathe it in. You’re covered with a blanket to protect your clothes and the temperature is kept at seventy degrees. I walked in a skeptic and walked out a believer. The salt thins the mucus, so it’s great for sinus and lung issues. It was amazing.

But it was also a different sort of reprieve. It wasn’t until my third time there that I realized it. Everything is white – there is no visual stimulation. The only sound is the machine pumping in the salt. It’s like walking into a desensitization chamber – the only thing you have to do is sit and breathe. Everything slows down. I brought a book with me the first two times, but that third time, I set the book aside and fell instantly into a sleep so deep, it was dreamless and all awareness fell away.

All because everything in my life slowed down for that 45 minutes.

I’ve been thinking, Slow down! a lot lately. The other day, Michael and I were discussing what we might want to do in five years, and I heard myself say, “In five years, I’ll be sixty-four –“ and I came to a dead stop. Sixty-four? 64? Of the Beatles’ When I’m 64? How the hell did that happen? Slow down, slow down, slow down!

My grandbaby, Maya Mae, is six years old now. The other day, Facebook gifted me with a Facebook memory, a photo of her beaming in her stroller, happy, happy baby, not even able to sit up yet. A short time later, I was driving past the Fox River, and there was my son and my granddaughter. “Hi, Maya!” I yelled and she gave me her queenly wave. She was so tall, striding by my son. No stroller. Absolutely under her own power. She wasn’t even holding his hand.

Slow down, slow down, slow down.

And then, of course, Olivia. She went to prom last weekend. I watched as she had a make-up session, and then I helped her into her dress. She slipped into high heels, grew suddenly taller, and strode confidently across the room. Strode confidently to meet her boyfriend, walk with him hand in hand, laugh during photos. Michael and I watched them cross the street in downtown Milwaukee and head into the Bradley Pavilion ballroom. My daughter, my youngest, in a ballroom.

Slow down, slow down, slow down.

I breathed deep, pretended I was in the Salt Room, with everything coming to a stop. Not forever. Just for a while. Just until I felt like I could catch up. Like I could accept all the changes, but hold tightly to the past. That happy, happy grandbaby. And my little girl, who used to spend hours lining up hundreds of colored plastic bears throughout the house, in a persnickety order only she knew. Who belted out Laura Branigan’s Gloria when she was only three years old and couldn’t quite speak. Who looked at her anxious parents on the first day of kindergarten and said calmly, “You can go now.”

You can go now.

Slow down, slow down, slow down.

Later that night, after we came home, Olivia washed all the make-up from her face, leaving behind pink cheeks and a bright smile. She asked for my help hanging up her beautiful dress. And then she put on…her fuzzy one-piece Care Bear pajamas.

Oh, that’s better!

She came out to the living room and sat next to me, on the armrest of my recliner. Olivia has never been a lap-sitter. She likes to be close by, cuddled in, but still her own independent entity. So just as she sat next to me when she was three, when she was seven, when she was twelve, and just last week, she sat next to me in her fuzzy pajamas and rested her head on my shoulder.

And there it was. Everything slowed to a stop and was its own crystal clear moment, even as it reflected back over the fuzzy-pajamas cuddle time moments from our past. It was all there – the promise of her future, the joy of our past.

That was all I needed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Many years ago, when my daughter Olivia was four years old, I took her to a shoe store in search of pink sneakers. For Olivia, the world was pink. Her room, her clothes, her stuffed animals, her ponytail holders, her backpack, her bedspread. The day before, she was in an art class where the teacher had the kids creating their own kid-versions of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, a painting filled with a myriad of rich, rich blues. Olivia studied the painting, studied her paints, and did it in pink. The teacher sighed as she handed the finished project over to me. “We tried to get her to use blue,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

She looked at me like I was crazy.

In the shoe store, Olivia quickly grew bored with the kid aisle and so she skipped around, looking at women’s shoes. I wasn’t worried; we were the only ones in the store and Olivia kept up a constant chatter that always let me know where she was and that she was okay. Nonverbal until the age of three, at four, Olivia was a fountain of never-ending conversation. She made up for lost time by speaking to everything and everyone – our pets, her toys, the walls, strangers on the street, herself, and at night, in her sleep, she spoke out loud of her dreams. Now, she talked to the shoes and I pondered pink sneakers with white rubber toes, sequins, and cartoon characters. And then I heard, “Mama! Mama! Lookit!”

Around the corner, she careened, her pink-socked feet tucked into a pair of brilliant silver women’s STILETTOS. And she was RUNNING.

Instantly, I pictured a twist, a fall, two broken ankles, a concussion, a broken nose, an unconscious pink child. At the end of the aisle, the store manager stood with both her hands to her mouth, her face a mask of horror as I’m sure she pictured a lawsuit. Olivia skidded to a stop in front of me and then stood, proud, perfectly steady, popping a hip and tilting her nose to the ceiling, her mouth a model’s sneer.

“Those are just lovely,” I said to Olivia. “But we need to get you sneakers. Go put those away, okay?”

“Okay, Mama,” she said. “I just wanted to show you.” She strutted away, hips swaying, and she gave a queen’s wave to the manager.

The manager and I looked at each other, both of us letting out a breath. “Ohboy,” I said.

My life with this child has been 18 years of ohboys.

Tonight, I am taking Olivia shopping for shoes to wear with her prom dress. Prom is in two days and we just discovered that the shoes we thought she was going to wear are not tall enough to lift the skirt from the floor. While the dress, a two-piece, isn’t bright pink, it does have a pale pink cast to it, and soft pink flowers on the skirt. The sequins on the top are rose gold. Last week, my pink child said to me, “I want a crown to wear to prom.”

A crown. Ms. Pink Van Gogh wants a crown. Well, of course, I found one. A rose gold tiara. The night we realized the shoes were too short, I had Olivia get into the full outfit. I placed the tiara on her head, and there she was.

There she was.

I thought about all the things you read these days, about putting girls into STEM, about rejecting princess-dreams, about, well, all of that. I have a girl who has always loved pink, who loves to draw and paint, who writes, who plays violin, guitar and ukulele, who does well with math and science, but doesn’t embrace them, who ran in stilettos at the age of four, and who wanted a crown for prom. She stood before me, tall, shoulders back, head upraised, surrounded by soft pink, topped with sequins, and she was the picture, the definition of strength. Of courage. Of determination to be who she is, no matter what the world proclaims is the right way to be.

I called her father upstairs to see. He looked straight at her and said, “You’re beautiful.”

Before he went downstairs, he turned to me, and I saw his eyes were filled with tears.

On August 21, we will take our pink child to college. We will unload all of her pink necessities into her room and we will help her hang posters of VW Beetles on her walls. And then we will kiss her goodbye, get in our car, and drive away. I’m not going to think about that now.

But I am going to hold that tall, beautiful, confident, I’m-not-afraid-to-tell-you-who-I-am pink young woman in my heart forever. That moment with her, echoing the four-year old who stood before me in stilettos, gave me enough joy – and ohboys – for a lifetime.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

For the last couple weeks, I’ve been fretting over the feeling that I forgot something. Each time I remembered something, I thought, That’s it! But then the feeling returned and I was back to fretting again. It followed me around like a little storm cloud.

And then, one day last week, when I was muttering an almost daily mantra given to me by a good friend from grad school, that mantra being, “I’m going to rock the system,” it hit me.

I missed the anniversary of my friend Sam’s death. The day he chose to take his life.

On March 3, I remembered to put a happy birthday on Sam’s Facebook page, which is still up as a memorial to him. But on April 23, the fifth anniversary of his leaving this earth, I was silent. Not out of choice. Because I plain and simple forgot.

Since this realization, the feeling of forgetting something has left me. Instead, I descended into misery.

I met Sam within minutes of stepping foot onto Vermont College’s grounds for my first semester. This was a low-residential MFA program, it was December, I was a long way from home, it was dark and I couldn’t see anything around me. At home, my youngest daughter, Olivia, was thirteen months old, not yet diagnosed as autistic, but already making waves, and I was sick with guilt over leaving her. I didn’t know what I was thinking, deciding to go back to school for a graduate degree when I was forty years old, the mother of four, a hard worker already putting in 65 hours a week teaching other writers, and now I was taking on more. I was scared to death. I wanted to go home.

As I stepped off the shuttle bus that brought me and other students from the airport, I couldn’t see much of anything to ground me. But then there was this man standing beneath a light post and he smiled. He fell into step beside me. To this day, I don’t know why.

He helped me check in, get my keys, drop my stuff off. And then he led me to the dining room and we talked all through the late dinner.  He asked me all about myself and I told him, because I was so desperate to have someone know me, here in this world where I was suddenly surrounded by absolute strangers. By the end of our meal, he did know me. He recognized who I was by the stories I’d had published.

“Kathie,” he said, “you’re going to rock the system. You already are.”

And then I was okay.

Throughout our years after grad school, we maintained contact. We each shared the same publisher for a while. And everything, everything I decided to do, everything I did, Sam said, “Kathie, you’re going to rock the system.”

To this day, I say it to myself. Whenever I’m scared. Whenever I’m unsure. Which happens way more often than people believe.

On April 23, 2014, Sam chose to end his life. I knew he was having a hard time. I intended to speak with him later in the day. I was busy. But by later in the day, he was gone.

And now, I missed that morbid anniversary for the first time. I didn’t leave a note, letting him know what he meant to me and what he means to me still.

A couple days after this realization, I was heading into a meeting I didn’t want to go into, and I muttered to myself, “Kathie, you’re going to rock the system.”

Which resulted in realization number two. I haven’t forgotten Sam. I haven’t forgotten him at all. He is with me constantly, a smiling shadow that falls into step beside me, and never more than when I repeat those words. I just no longer focus on his death.

I focus on his life. His passion, his compassion, his incredible knowledge of what a person needs right when they need it and his willingness to give it. I don’t need to remember his death.

I only need to remember him.

And I do. Which brings me great joy. My life was enriched when he came into it, and my life continues to be rich because of his impact and care. I didn’t forget, Sam. I just didn’t need to remember.

I never know from day to day what “rocking the system” means, exactly, but thanks to Sam, I do it. Because he saw it in me.

Thanks, Sam. I miss you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I have bronchitis, and two little patches of pneumonia growing in my lungs.

Well, there’s a weird way to start a Moment! But bear with me. There’s a reason.

There are so many things they don’t tell you in Cancer School. I don’t even know where Cancer School is, actually…I think it must be right next door to Parent School in some nondescript building in the middle of nowhere. Because we can’t find these bastions of knowledge. We struggle along and wish that someone could have filled us in BC (before cancer) and BK (before kids).

Well, I’m telling. Cancer Surprises 101.

There’s so much about the cancer recovery process that isn’t spoken about to the general public. Watch a movie, and you’ll see cancer patients being told, “We got it all!” and “You’re clear!” and the patient and their families burst into tears and then romp out into the sunshine to return to life as it was before the diagnosis.

Trust me, it’s not that way. But then little things start coming along to let you know you are indeed still the person you were before cancer. Here’s some that have struck me happy:

*I tried on a shirt in the dressing room and my eyes didn’t go immediately to my right side, to see if the difference was noticeable.

*I forgot to put on my “sleeping bra” and yet still managed to sleep comfortably through the night.

*A song that caused me to burst into tears all through the Summer of Cancer no longer brings sadness. In fact, I can belt it out without my voice cracking.

And then there was today. I’ve been coughing coughing coughing for two weeks now. The pollen count went way up and I’m asthmatic, so I assumed it was asthma and allergies. My emergency inhaler, which I hadn’t used in over a year, suddenly came out of hiding and found its way to my lungs, first once a day, then twice. Yesterday, the cough suddenly grew deeper and I woke this morning with chills and a fever. As an asthmatic, I’ve dealt often with bronchitis and pneumonia, so the first thing I did was call in for an appointment. I’d also been lectured by my oncologist that the cancer treatments I received would leave me somewhat short in the resistance department for quite some time.

“A few months?” I asked back then.

“Maybe years,” he said.

Cripes.

But here’s the first weird thing that actually made me smile. I typically get bronchitis or pneumonia two to four times a year. Since my breast cancer diagnosis two years ago – not once. It was like my body shoved everything else out of the way to focus only on getting rid of the cancer. And now…well, we’re back to business as normal.

This “normal” feel continued as I went to my clinic. The Cancer Center is on one side. Everything Else Center is on the other. I haven’t been to Everything Else in almost two years – not since June 20, 2017. Today, I breezed past Cancer, parked in the Everything Else lot, and walked in.

Then I went through more normal. Breathing like a constipated train while the doctor listened to my lungs. Chugging off to x-ray to see if there might be pneumonia. And then back to my doctor. My regular doctor. My normal doctor.

“You haven’t been on antibiotics in two years!” he exclaimed.

“Two years!” I echoed.

“You haven’t had bronchitis or pneumonia in two years!” he crowed.

“Two years!” I sang and raised one fist in triumph.

“You’re normal-sick!” he cheered.

“Normal-sick!” I cheered with him, raising both fists and then we gave each other high fives.

Oh, what a weird, weird moment. But it was wonderful. I was at the doctor’s office, just like an everyday normal person. I had an everyday normal illness. I would get better after an everyday normal run of antibiotics and rest.

And my body returned to business as normal. The red flags were down. I had a sickness I wasn’t scared of. I had a sickness I was familiar with. I’ve pretty much graduated with a PhD from Asthma/Bronchitis/Pneumonia School. Normal.

I’ll probably be bitching about pneumonia tomorrow. But for today, I’m happy. If I ever find that Cancer School, I have a few lectures to give. I have a few for Parent School too.

Oh, yes. That helps. Despite. Anyway.

The Bronchitis/Pneumonia arsenal, complete with Starbucks!