Category: General

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

Last Saturday was my youngest daughter’s 26^th birthday. Olivia was born one year and one day after Michael and I were married. We always said she was our first anniversary present.

Michael and I lived together for almost two years before we were married. In talks before we fully committed to each other, Michael said he would really like to have a child of his own. He lived with his brother and sister-in-law when they had their three boys, who were the same age as my three kids from my first marriage. Michael had a hand in raising them. Now, with me, he loved his stepchildren and they loved him. He thought he’d like to have one of his own.

I was 37 when Michael and I moved in together, and after giving it much thought, I said we could try until I was 40, and then this womb would be closed for the rest of my life. From 37 until we married when I was 39, there were no pregnancies. But on our honeymoon…I became pregnant.

That pregnancy lasted for 12 weeks. Michael named the little one Gourd, because he always called me Punkin, and a gourd is a little punkin. We were both heartbroken. I didn’t realize how much I wanted one more child until I lost Gourd.

And then…we very quickly got pregnant again. Olivia came in just under the wire. I was 39 when I became pregnant. I turned 40 three months before she was born.

My mother-in-law came to stay with us for the first month after Livvy was born. She said she never saw two people more in love with a child.

Many know the story of Olivia. She was a difficult baby. She needed absolute silence to sleep. I couldn’t rock her; the rocking was too stimulating. She slept tightly swaddled so her own movements wouldn’t wake her. Trying to get her to eat table food was a trial – she didn’t like the textures of food in her mouth and she would shriek throughout every meal. We took advantage of the shrieking to shovel food in. At least some of it would make it down.

By three years old, she was still not speaking. Our pediatrician recommended we have her looked at by a specialist to see if she was on the autism spectrum. The day Olivia and I saw the specialist, Michael couldn’t get off of work, so I faced it by myself. After several long hours, I sat in the specialist’s office with Olivia sitting quietly at my feet, playing with my shoelaces. The specialist told me she was indeed on the spectrum. I was told she would likely never talk, and would always look at Michael, me, and her siblings as bumps on a log.

Each time the specialist said something negative, Olivia tapped the toe of my shoe. When I looked down, she beamed at me.

I beamed back.

There was a ton of paperwork to fill out to give Olivia the services the specialist said she needed. It took me over a week to fill them out, and then I brought them to the post office and mailed them. Both Michael and I felt uncomfortable with all of this, and I kept thinking of Livvy tapping my shoe and smiling. I never heard anything from the organizations, and when I called, they said they never received the packet. It must be lost in the mail.

Michael and I decided to leave it lost. We decided to listen to Olivia. Luckily, in Olivia’s elementary school years, we had an incredible team of teachers and aides that chose to listen to Olivia – and to us – too.

Fast forward.

Olivia, at our request, was 100% mainstreamed. She began to talk, non-stop, and with the vocabulary of a college student. Before bed every night, she would stretch out on the floor and stim (waving her hands and feet in the air) and tell stories, which Michael wrote down and I read back to her. She began to read for herself. She listened to an orchestra play at a school assembly, and then that weekend, she heard a violin quartet at a poetry reading, and she came home and demanded a violin for Christmas.

Santa delivered. She became a gifted violinist, eventually playing for the Wisconsin Intergenerational Orchestra, because when she went to college, the school didn’t have a music program.

Yes, college. When it was time for college, she was accepted with scholarships and awards for her academic and artistic achievement in all four colleges she applied to. She went to Mount Mary University, where, when she was 8 years old, she joined me on a labyrinth on campus, skipped and danced through it, then flung her arms to the sky and shouted, “I’m going to college, Mama! I’m going to college!”

And she did. She was on Dean’s List every semester, except for the first, when she was adjusting when Covid hit. Went on to grad school, majoring in Art Therapy. A few weeks before she graduated with her Masters, she was hired as a full-time art therapist. She’s my first child who landed a job in her field before she even graduated.

When I visited her pediatrician after Livvy and I saw the specialist, he read the results and then he shook his head. “Look at her, Kathie,” Dr. Joe said. “We both know better, don’t we. I can’t believe Dr. X said these things to you. Yes, she’s on the spectrum. But that’s not going to stop her. It’s just a part of who she is.”

And who she is is amazing.

Last Saturday, she chose to go mini-golfing at an outdoor course that we’d never been to. There were four of us…my son, Andy, me, Olivia, and Olivia’s boyfriend, Tim. We had a wonderful time, and we closed the place down. I watched Olivia as she moved through the course, laughing, humming. Beaming. I thought of the 8-year old, skipping around the labyrinth.

When the night was over, Andy and Tim went home and I settled at my computer while Olivia got ready for bed. Her work week is Sunday through Thursday, so she had an early morning. When she came upstairs to say goodnight, I asked her if she had a good birthday.

“Yes,” she said, and beamed.

But then she grew serious and just looked at me. “What?” I said.

“Is it okay,” she said slowly, “that I still wish Dad was here for my birthday?”

Me. She asked me. The person who has been beating herself up for still being deep in grief 2 years and 9 months since Michael’s accident, and 2 years and 4 months since his death.

“Yes,” I said. “You will probably always wish Dad was here for your birthday. The wishing won’t stop. But eventually, the pain will.”

I hugged her tightly and kissed that soft cheek I’ve kissed every day for 26 years. She remains, always, an anniversary present. Olivia always, always, always is my Moment Of Happiness Despite The News.

I wished he was there on her birthday too.

And yes, that helps. Despite Anyway.

ADDENDUM: Oops. Turns out my older daughter Katie also landed a job in her field before she graduated with a PhD (a PhD!) in math. She graduated at about the same time Olivia graduated from high school, and there was a LOT going on, so I beg forgiveness. And offer up my forever enduring pride. (I’ll add a photo too…)

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

Yes, there is a moment of happiness. But I also want to talk about last week.

One of the things I’m learning, that I never wanted the opportunity to learn, is that grief is this twisting, turning thing. Some call it a roller coaster, but that doesn’t quite work, because a roller coaster follows a track. There’s no track here. There’s also an obvious end with a roller coaster, where it slows down and whoever is running the ride comes and lifts up your gate that safely held you in.

But with grief, there are impossible twists and turns, no obvious end, possibly no end at all, and not only is there not someone who lifts up your gate and sets you free, there’s not even a gate, and so you are unsafe for the entire damn thing.

Last week, as I wrote, was our 27^th wedding anniversary. Each time I write or say that, the editor in me wants to correct it and say, “This would have been our 27^th wedding anniversary.” But there’s no would have, for me. It is. And it was also the third time that Michael wasn’t present for the anniversary. I thought the first time, four months after his death, which was our silver anniversary would be the hardest, and it was very, very hard. I thought the anniversaries after that would be easier. The 26^th was. But this one, the 27^th, just blew up out of nowhere.

I’ve always said that writers are this weird conundrum of strong ego and absolute crippling lack of self-confidence. Well, I’ve met this personality’s match with grief. It is a weird conundrum of deep down sadness, denial, and impossible-to-believe-in hope, that you somehow believe in anyway.

At the worst point of last week, where I was completely losing myself, I cried out to my daughter Olivia, “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”  In that moment, I really didn’t know. But of course I do. He’s dead. He’s not here because it’s no longer possible for him to be.

But in an undertone, Hope keeps whispering, “If you just do everything right, if you just fix this, if you use all the powers everyone tells you you have, he’ll be here.”

Hope always rises. Even when it’s impossible.

So. The moment(s) of happiness.

The first actually happened last week, and I wrote about it in the brief post that appeared instead of the blog. Last Wednesday, the week of our anniversary, I had an appointment to meet with and talk to a somatic therapist. Somatic therapy comes from the belief that the body remembers, and holds every moment of trauma within. Michael’s accident and death were certainly traumatic. I will never ever forget running to his cubicle in the ER, when I followed the sound of his screaming, and then his not recognizing me. So in the same week when I was unexpectedly knocked off my feet and out of my mind with the grief of the anniversary, I was also possibly going to start somehow touching that trauma.

I canceled the appointment. But I explained why. At that point, I was struggling to even get out of bed. As I said last week, that therapist emailed me back, and said,

“It makes so much sense that this is a difficult time, and that even getting out of bed may feel hard right now. I hope you can allow yourself to be exactly where you are today, without needing to do or accomplish anything. Let the bed hold you, and give yourself permission to be gentle with all that you’re carrying.”

I gave myself permission, and it was just what I needed to do. Without those words, I don’t know that I would have.

Then this week, still feeling the aftershocks of the anniversary, and walking around as if there are land mines of grief everywhere that I could unexpectedly step in, I had to cancel three meetings with coaching clients. And I flinched in a major way. I know I have to deal with an image that I project, and my students and clients and readers see me as that strong person. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been told, “You’re strong. If anyone can get through this, you can.”

But as I found out this week, those words are meant as encouragement, not expectation. My community, my family, at AllWriters’ also sees me as human.

Words I heard this week:

“Please take care of yourself. I’m always here if you need me.”

“Kathie, do not stress about canceling.  Take care of you.  I’m so sorry to hear it wiped you out like that.  Grief hits at different times in life.  Sometimes it’s an anniversary and sometimes it’s a commercial on tv.  Or a button on the carpet.  It doesn’t matter how it comes at you, but it does matter that you take the time to heal when it does. Praying for you.”

I am surrounded by people who are standing by me. I’ve said, about Michael, that I’ve lost the one person who was always by my side, and always on my side.

But it turns out there are many, many more.

I am so grateful.

To better days.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

HELLO TO THOSE WHO READ THIS BLOG:

Tomorrow, October 9th, is my 27th wedding anniversary with Michael. It is also the 3rd anniversary without him.

This date has hung over me all week. I’ve tried hard, but I just can’t shake the sadness. So I’ve decided I’m going to honor it instead. Yesterday, someone who knew I was hurting more intensely this week emailed me and said, “It makes so much sense that this is a difficult time, and that even getting out of bed may feel hard right now. I hope you can allow yourself to be exactly where you are today, without needing to do or accomplish anything. Let the bed hold you, and give yourself permission to be gentle with all that you’re carrying. ”

I’m taking her advice, and allowing myself to be exactly where I am right now.

Happy 27th anniversary, Michael. I so wish you were here.

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

This week, the humane society emailed me and asked how we were doing with our new cat, Poe, now that we had her for three months. I laughed. We are definitely “doing” with Poe. I just don’t know “how”.

Three months ago, our cat Cleocatra (Cleo) died suddenly shortly after her second birthday. We were aware that she had feline leukemia, but we never thought it would affect her so quickly, since she was an active, healthy, crazy, loving cat. She was a perfect combination of goofy and majestic. A coat that deserved to be on the shoulders of a queen. Behavior that was just weird. She was half of what I called The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers. She and Oliver were three months apart in age. And they were inseparable.

Cleo fell deeply ill overnight and died within days. We were all stunned.

I wasn’t anywhere near ready to adopt a new cat, but I was worried about Oliver. He didn’t know where Cleo went – she just disappeared. He looked for her in all of their places. He seemed sad, and I figured he was grieving too, even if he didn’t know for certain that she died.

So I started to keep an eye out. At the humane society website one night, I saw Poe.

Poe is white and black, not black and white. A black and white cat is called a tuxedo cat. Poe, white with black, is called a cowcat, but she is definitely not like a cow.

It was her name that drew me in. The humane society gave her the name of Poe. While Michael was still in the hospital, a month after his accident, our cat Edgar died. Edgar’s full name was Edgar Allen Paw, after Edgar Allen Poe, who was one of Michael’s favorite writers. And now…here was Poe. I felt like all signs pointed to her.

Livvy and I met her, and while she wasn’t very outgoing or friendly, we brought her home. We attributed her standoffishness to her history. She was found with her mother and her siblings, all feral. She was brought from Michigan to Wisconsin, via car, which had to be traumatic for a cat who hadn’t even been inside a house. She stayed in a cat rescue, and then the litter was brought to the humane society. One by one, they were all adopted…except Poe. She was suddenly alone.

Like Oliver.

Once home, she spent most of her time hidden, though she would come out to be by Oliver. She very quickly attached herself to him, and while she was pestier than Cleo, he accepted her. Eventually, she stayed out, no longer hidden. She had places she preferred to be. She would rub against my legs at dinner time and sometimes answer me when I talked to her.

But two months went by, and we still hadn’t been able to pet her. If we approached her, she ran.

One night, about a month ago, I was in bed, almost asleep. Oliver was beside me on Michael’s pillow. Oliver took up a place there after Michael died. I was petting him slowly, he was purring, and suddenly, Poe was there too. She sat right next to Oliver, so while I was petting him, I also rotated my hand toward her. I stroked her chest and her sides. But when I reached for her back, she ran.

My gosh, she’s soft.

I considered it a triumph. For a couple days, I roamed the house, singing, “I pat the Poe!” to the melody of “I shot the sheriff!” by Michel Jackson.

And I waited for her to join me again.

She didn’t.

It got to the point I thought I might have dreamed the whole thing.

Then there was last night.

I was again almost asleep, petting Oliver, who was in his place on Michael’s pillow. And then there was Poe.

I blinked hard to make sure I was awake.

She sat beside him, and we went through the routine again. Oliver, Poe, Oliver, Poe, chest, side, chest, side.

Then Oliver left, walking behind my head to my bedside table.

Poe stayed. She sat on the pillow and looked at me.

I kept petting her. Chest, side, chest, other side, over and over.

But when I reached for her back, she left. Not running, though. She walked behind my head too, stopping to sniff my hair, and then she followed Oliver.

Ever want to sit up in bed and whoop, but you can’t, because then you’ll startle the creature you’re trying so hard not to startle?

I’m thinking this is a Poe corner (not to be confused with The House At Pooh Corner). The wall might be long before we approach the next corner. But that’s okay. It’s always ahead.

Poe is most definitely not Cleo. But she’s also not Jake, Einstein, Cornelius, Muse, Edgar Allen Paw, or Oliver. She moves at Poe speed. She turns Poe corners.

And she’s happy. She knows she’s safe. She isn’t alone. She’s becoming fully Poe.

Which I think is what we want for everyone.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

There are many amazing moments in parenthood, times that you stop and observe your kids from a distance and think, I’m so glad I decided to have children. Just look at them!

Of course, there are other moments, especially from age 0 to 18 years, when you look at them and think, What have I done? Parenthood attitudes can change from hour to hour, minute to minute, second to second.

Which is why I truly appreciate being the mom to adults now. Getting to see who my kids have become, despite me, or maybe even because of me.

I have four kids. They are still my children, but I’m tempted to change my vocabulary now to say I have four adults. My first three came bing, bing, bing, in a four-year period. Babies 1 and 2 are 26 months apart. Babies 2 and 3 are 13 months apart. This may be why there are 13 years, not months, between Babies 3 and 4. The “babies” are now 42, 40, 39, and turning 26 next month. For the first time since 1989, I don’t have anyone in school. They’re all working full-time jobs, and doing very well. Three are college-educated. Two have advanced degrees. All four have a very proud mom.

It’s weird, really, how whatever age they are, I look at them as “young”. By the time I was soon-to-be 26, Olivia’s age, I was married (at 20) and I had 3 children. I looked at my middle son, Andy, the other day, and realized when I was 40 years old, like he is, I had 3 teenagers and a newborn. At almost 26 and 40, I felt heavy with adulthood. But I look at these 4 and think, Why are they so young? I don’t remember ever feeling as young as they look to me.

I have one grandchild, and she is now thirteen years old and taller than I am. I’m watching her progress from pink and purple dresses and tutus, to black holey jeans, black t-shirts, and black and white rubber-toed sneakers. I watch my oldest child, Christopher, as he parents, and I admire him as my only child who has a child. This week, I had to reach out and tell him, just like I used to tell him when he got good grades, or performed well in cross country or band, or made a good decision, what a good job I think he’s doing with being a dad.

Both my daughter Olivia, at soon-to-be 26, and my granddaughter Maya, at 13, have gotten into what is called cosplay. Think of “Trekkies”, and those conferences where everyone showed up dressed as their favorite Star Trek character. There’s a whole universe dressing up now, trying to resemble characters from video games, graphic novels, comic books, Anime, and more. And they take it very seriously at their conventions (called cons), which feature events like runways to model your costume, or talent shows, and even drag queen or burlesque shows. The costumes are elaborate, the play-acting complete. I’ve watched Olivia completely transform herself into someone or something I don’t recognize. And now my granddaughter too. But Olivia got into it after she had her driver’s license, so she takes herself to these things. At 13, my granddaughter needed a driver. And as this “con” was in Madison, an hour away, my son was recruited to drive her, and to stay and wander around for the entire day.

Though recruit is probably the wrong word. He volunteered. Which is why I had to reach out to him.

Undoubtedly, my father would never have taken the time to drive me to something like this.

I also don’t doubt that my son’s father, my first husband, wouldn’t take him to something like this.

But Christopher went with enthusiasm.

When I texted Christopher, I said, “Just wanted to tell you – you are such a great dad for bringing Maya to this con!”

He answered, “Of course. LOL!”

I said, “There are a lot of parents who don’t like the cosplay. They find it weird and some say it’s evil. So I think you’re great.”

He said, “It’s 100% not. LOL!” (My son was a happy boy, and now he’s a happy man.)

I said, “It’s just a form of self-expression. Good for you for supporting Maya!”

He answered, “I mean, I’m not into it myself, but there’s nothing wrong with it at all.

So yes. I’m perfectly happy taking her.”

And he was. He did. I got reports throughout the day, including how Maya and her friend filled the back seat with chatter and giggles. I heard from my daughter too.

I sat back and listened, relishing in the fun and joy from a distance, and also realizing, quietly, that I’ve raised four great people.

And (so far), one great parent.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

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

You know, I don’t know if it’s my ability and inherent connection to being a writer, but I like to think that my observation skills have been helping in the whole grief process. I am capable of standing back, looking at what’s going on, and thinking, Well, look at that. How interesting. This is developing here, and so that’s why I’m feeling that there, and this leads me to this and takes me away from that… It’s all very similar to when I look at the pages I write and pull myself out of the story so I can firmly and clearly edit. It’s almost like disassociation. Except that I’m very aware of it.

I was aware of it this week when my doctor used the word “catastrophic” (no, not in regard to me or my health, don’t worry, I’m fine). It was the first time that I can remember anyone applying that word to Michael’s accident and subsequent death. Words have a lot of impact on me, which is pretty obvious, I would think, and so when he said, “Everything that happened with Michael was just…just…” He shook his head. “Catastrophic.”

So mentally, I stepped aside and thought, Catastrophe? Catastrophe. Huh. I thought of things that I considered catastrophic, and they were mostly events I saw on the news. Hurricanes, tornadoes, flash floods, tsunamis, earthquakes. Massive. And then I applied the word and my meanings to Michael.

And I thought, Okay.

It took me back to my time on the Oregon coast, when I arrived there 66 days after Michael died. I was doing the first of my daily walks beside the ocean, and there was the usual collection of dead jellyfish in the sand. Seeing them, my mind blipped to Michael, and I pictured him like a jellyfish. But then I realized…

Michael didn’t die. He was killed.

It was the first time I applied that word. I don’t remember anyone else ever saying it to me.

And again, I had to step aside and examine the word. And the thing was, it was a relief. It helped the whole senseless thing make sense. Okay, not quite. Michael’s accident and subsequent death will never make sense to me. But it helped my feelings about my reaction to it make sense.

When my doctor said, “catastrophic,” it was another moment of sense-making. I’m not just getting through the death of my husband. I’m working my way through his being killed, and killed in a catastrophic way. And catastrophes come with aftershocks.

I’m sure I’m no different than others when I get impatient with the grieving process. What amazes me is that I appeared on a pretty even keel during the five months Michael was trying to recover, and I was on an even keel for the first year he was gone. Even keel, but I started having physical things happen. Falls – three of them, bing, bing, bing, requiring my first ever stitches, bruising my ribs, and making a mess of my shoulder. Illnesses. And one that probably seems positive. I’m a lifelong insomniac. When I came home from the ER that night of the accident, I prepared for a sleepless night…but as soon as I was in bed, if not sooner, I was out. I have never slept so deeply or so long or craved sleep as much as I have in the last almost three years since the accident.

But when I hit the first anniversary of Michael’s death, it was like the automatic pilot was turned off. The switch pulled out and tossed into the trash. The grief hit me harder than any weather system. And “catastrophic” became very, very real.

So where the heck is the Moment in this?

Well…I’ve spent a lot of time wondering and worrying if I’m doing grief right. If I’m living up to my reputation of being a “strong” woman. For most of the time since that first anniversary and the upheaval (upheaval…there’s another good word) that occurred inside of me, I’ve felt I was an absolute failure.

But the realization that Michael was killed, and my doctor bringing up and confirming that it was a catastrophe helps me make some sense. Not as to why it happened, but why it’s affecting me so. And not only does it let me know that I’m not doing it incorrectly, it’s reassuring me that there is no right way. It’s just the way it is.

Good grief, am I about to say, “It is what it is” again? Gah!

But I feel better about not feeling better. There we go. Moment of Happiness.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

So I’ve had a difficult time coming up with something this week. It wasn’t a week where awful things happened that I had to climb out of; it was a week that wasn’t bad, but where nothing really stood out as making me happy. These kinds of weeks are actually more difficult, when it comes to this blog, than the weeks where something bad happened.

And when I thought that thought, I immediately scolded myself. My mother-in-law, Michael’s mother, died last week. Another death, and another significant being gone from my (still alive) life. Kathie, I scolded, how can you think nothing bad happened? Your mother-in-law died!

Michael’s mom was fabulous. From the moment I met her, we clicked. She loved thrifting, I love thrifting. She loved Michael, I love Michael. We both have (had?) a wicked sense of humor and she could just send me rocking.

One Christmas, she gave my oldest son present after present of Green Bay Packer themed things. Each one more ridiculous than the next, which was appropriate for someone who was obsessed (then) with the Green Bay Packers (now, it’s the Milwaukee Brewers). But the kicker, the final present, an itty bitty thing…was what looked like a miniature toilet brush, but was intended to scrub out your belly button.

I laughed so hard, I literally fell off the couch.

Of course, the funniest thing happened later, when I discovered that my most gullible child took the present seriously and actually tried to use it. It broke.

So I totally loved my mother-in-law, and she was a great example of anti-mother-in-law jokes.

But every time someone told me or posted to me or sent an email, expressing their sympathy, I always said thank you…but I felt like they were feeling sadder for me than I felt for myself.

So of course, I began to ruminate on this.

And here’s the thing. My mother-in-law was 91 years old. She’d lived an incredible life. How many people do you know who actually ran away as a teenager, joined a circus, performed around the world, caught malaria, and ended up on the stage of the Ed Sullivan Show as a contortionist? How many mothers-in-law out there have photos of themselves in front of a television camera, where she’s standing on her hands, her arms erect, her body and legs straight overhead, her knees bent, and her feet resting gently on her skull?

At 91, my mother-in-law was so ready for the next step. She was in in-home hospice, in a hospital bed in her living room. She apparently had blood clots making it difficult to breathe, cancer, and heart issues, and the doctors said, “There isn’t anything more we can do.”

She also firmly believed she would be meeting up with her husband and her youngest child in Heaven.

When I was told that she was gone, the first thing I felt wasn’t loss and sadness. It was relief. For her. I was happy for her.

So the ruminations continued.

Michael was only 59 years old when he died. He was finally in a job that he loved, a job where he felt indispensable and needed and respected and, maybe a weird word for a professional job, but treasured. He was in full stride. But a passenger van interrupted that stride. He survived for five more months, but he was confused. He was in pain. He was having to relearn things that he didn’t understand why he had to relearn them.

There are three big moments during that time that I relive over and over and over again, and that I will never forget.

1. Opening his eyes with purpose for the first time after the accident, while I was saying goodnight to him. His eyes immediately shifted to me, and then both his arms opened.
2. The day he managed to walk up to our third floor and out to our deck. He sat outside in the sun and open air for the first time since the accident. He looked up at the sky and smiled, then turned the smile to me.
3. Day 3 in hospice, when he suddenly opened his arms to me again and pulled me into a hug that had me dangling over the bedrail. We set off the bed alarm. “Michael!” I said. “The alarm is going off! You have to let me go!” He hugged me tighter and said, “I will never let you go.” He then went silent and he died two days later.

With the other deaths I’ve experienced in the last two and a half years, there are similar stories. My cat, Muse, had a stroke and died the day after her 20^th birthday. My cat, Jake, had a stroke and died the day after his 18^th birthday. But my cat, Cornelius, died at only 8 years old of cancer. And my cat, Cleocatra, died soon after her second birthday of feline leukemia.

There just is no comparison. Some deaths are just so wrong and unfair. And some are a relief to the person, and to those who love them. But all of them reverberate with loss.

I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this.

I am so happy that my mother-in-law experienced the amazing life that she did. I am so grateful for the way she took me in, and treated me as her own. And, as awful as it sounds to say, I’m glad she died and is no longer in pain or misery, and I hope she’s where she so dreamed of being. To have a significant death be a moment of happiness feels odd to me…but, to use a phrase I absolutely hate, it is what it is.

But my rage and overwhelming sadness at losing Michael continues. As I was getting dressed this morning, my cat Oliver jumped up to sit by me. He is the remaining half of the duo I called The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers. Our new cat Poe has helped, but Oliver and the rest of us are still deep in missing Cleo and angry over her sudden departure. I looked at Oliver, scratched his head, and asked, “Oliver, do you think I’m ever going to be okay again?”

He smiled as only a cat can, and bumped his head in a hug against my arm.

Mom, I’m so glad you’re not in pain anymore. And I’m so glad you had the life you did, you circus-joining contortionist, you. I am honored to have had you in my life, and you remain there as well. If you see Michael, please tell him…well, just tell him.

And yes, that helps (weirdly). Despite. Anyway.

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

I am a bit of a fiend when it comes to organization and putting things in the right order in the right place. In a sense, it’s out of necessity. My life is busy-messy, and if I let one ball drop, things topple like dominoes (using two cliches and a mixed metaphor there – not bad!).

Since Michael’s death, my home has been the victim of a reorganization sweep. I understand easily where that comes from – a need to try to get my life back under my control, which of course, it never really was. But Michael’s been gone over two years now, and the sweep continues. Just when I exhale, settle in my recliner, and think it’s done, I notice something else and a new keep-throw out-donate episode ensues.

Recently, I started moving around the artwork in my home, which is extensive. I love art, and I love knowing the artists who created the artwork. Having the artwork makes me feel like I’ve helped someone make a living in an impossible field. It’s why I don’t purchase ebooks either, even when that “purchase” is free, because I know what that means for authors – little to no royalties. I’ve already said to my daughter Olivia, who rolls her eyes, that if I ever do downsize from here, it has to be a place that will still hold my books and my artwork.

She mentioned to me recently that I even have artwork hanging in my garage. I do. The artwork was stuff that I love, didn’t want to get rid of, but couldn’t find a space for on my walls. So this made me conscious of my walls. And an episode ensued.

In my classroom, I had the original artwork for my book covers, which are done by artists that I commision, and also photographs that I’ve taken and Michael also took. One cover, for my short story collection, Oddities & Endings, Michael took the photo, but the painted mannequin in the photo is my artwork. There were also other places in my home above the classroom where my book covers were framed. After studying my stairwell from the first to the second floor, I moved all the book covers, going in order of publication, of course, and so there they all are now, marching up the stairs. I’ve made arrangements to purchase the artwork for The Birth Of A Widow. However…I’m missing 9 of the 18 covers, and so I’ll be working at getting those soon.

That left blank wallspace in the classroom and in my home. Some things were just moved to new spots in the classroom, but…in came many artworks from the garage. There are only 3 left in there.

Whew.

So I sat down in my recliner, exhaled, and picked up my remote to watch an episode of The Golden Girls. I’ve never seen the show in its entirety, so it’s on my list now. Yes, even my tv watching is organized. But as I turned on my television, I glanced into my kitchen. My gaze rose to the clocks lined up on top of my cabinets.

I collect clocks. Mostly antique clocks – they have to be key-wound or chain-driven. But over the years, people have given me clocks as gifts that don’t quite fit that bill. They run on battery. When we moved here, having open above-cabinet space delighted me, and the clocks that stand on their own went on up.

And suddenly, as Dorothy and Blanche and Rose and Sophia argued on my tv, the clocks looked crowded.

The next time my son Andy came over, he obligingly climbed up on a stepstool and lowered the clocks I’d selected to find new homes. I carefully packed them in a large box. They all got loving pats. Now, there is one clock to each cabinet, a symmetrical state that makes me sigh in contentment. And all the clocks are antiques.

But there’s a benefit to this kind of organization and clean sweep. Sometimes you find something you forgot about.

Tipped over on the cabinets were two small matching gold clocks in the shape of books. When Andy handed them to me, I gasped. They were modern, run on battery…but they weren’t going anywhere.

Michael and I committed to becoming a couple over a Labor Day weekend, when I drove to Omaha and stayed with him for the first time. He moved to Wisconsin in April. In between, on Christmas, he came for a visit and he gave me a golden clock shaped like a book. That same Christmas, my kids gave me an identical clock. Michael and the kids did not know they were giving me the same thing.

But the magic of the gifts appeared when I opened the covers of the books. Inside the front and back cover of the kids’ clock were their group portraits. All three of my kids grinning at me.

And then Michael’s gift.

After Andy handed it to me, I opened the front cover first. There was Michael, twenty-seven years younger, on that Labor Day weekend. He’s standing in a cornfield at Boys Town, where he took me on an afternoon jaunt. Then I opened the back cover, and there I was, that same weekend. 36 years old. Sitting on a bench. And looking at Michael like I just can’t believe he’s real.

He was very, very real.

Since Andy took those little forgotten clocks down from the cabinets last weekend, I’ve looked at each a dozen times or more. They did not go in the give-away box. They are sitting on the mantel, under my tv. I see them every day.

I see him every day.

What a gift. Then, and now.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

My first marriage lasted seventeen years. Our relationship started as my first date ever when I was sixteen years old and so was he. We were married when we were twenty, in between our junior and senior years of college. It ended when I divorced him. On the day our divorce was declared final, he and I stood outside the courthouse, each of us in front of our cars. My tears wouldn’t stop, and I told him, “If I’d known how hard this was going to be, I would never have gone through with it.”

He crossed his arms. “Oh?” he said. “Well, if I’d known how easy it was going to be, I would have done it much sooner.”

There was a lot of pain, before, during, and after.

My second marriage, to Michael, lasted 24 years and 8 months. Our marriage didn’t end by either of us making a choice. Unless you count my decision, as power of attorney, to withdraw life support and sit and watch Michael in hospice. Where he lasted not quite 5 days. I told him I loved him, right before his last breath. He didn’t answer, but he exhaled and relaxed, and that was it.

Also a lot of pain, before, during, and after.

A couple months later, when I was on retreat on the Oregon coast, I ran into a couple on my morning walk. They told me they were there to celebrate their 35^th anniversary. “Oh,” I said. “My husband just died. Four months shy of our silver anniversary. I guess I’ll never get to experience that.”

They quickly moved away.

It’s a thought I’ve had often since Michael’s death. In total, I’ve been married for 41 of my 66 years. But not to anyone long enough to experience that silver anniversary.

My ex-husband, a couple weeks ago, took his family, which contains our children and our children’s families, and his second wife’s family, on a cruise to celebrate their 25^th anniversary. The silver anniversary.

So I’ll sound like a child for a moment. It’s not fair that he and his wife got to celebrate a silver anniversary, and Michael and I didn’t.

Lot of pain.

The first anniversary that Michael was gone, which was our 25^th, I truly only remember one thing. I went online and ordered a crystal ornament, for a Christmas tree. Our anniversary was in October, and so I thought it could be a new ornament for the year. I had it engraved, with our names and our wedding date. The ornament itself said 25^th Anniversary. When it arrived, it lasted for all of a half hour before a cat knocked it from the counter where I’d left it to show Olivia. It shattered on our concrete floor. Hoping this wasn’t a commentary sent from Michael, I ordered it again. This time, I hung it on a wall in our bedroom. It’s still there. It never made it to the tree. But I never packed it away with the Christmas stuff either. It’s always where I can see it when I go to sleep and when I wake up.

It would have to do.

A few days ago, I went along with two of my kids to a large thrift store. I wasn’t really looking for anything in particular. But I love thrift stores. They’re like gigantic treasure boxes, filled with things that you might see as treasure, or things that others see as treasure. I eventually wandered down several glassware aisles, displaying, well, glasses, but also plates, serving dishes, cups and saucers, vases, and on and on. Partway down an aisle, on the left, I saw a silver number. 25. I stopped by it. The number was on top of a lovely china figurine, and it was for a 25^th anniversary. I touched it.

Livvy stopped beside me. “Twenty-five,” she said. “Like you and Dad.”

I nodded. “But we weren’t married for 25 years,” I said. “Dad died four months shy of our anniversary.”

She shrugged and wandered off.

I’ve wondered a lot if I’m still married. I feel married, even though I haven’t seen Michael for a couple years now. Whenever I have to fill out one of those stupid forms that asks if you’re single, married, divorced or widowed, I have a very hard time. Legally, I’m a widow.

But I feel married.

I guess I’m a married widow.

I walked away from that little figurine. But then I pictured it, sitting on top of Michael’s urn, which sits on top of my piano in our living room. So I turned around and went back. I nestled it into my cart; I had a blanket and some shirts in there, and so it was easy to keep it safe. I bought it and brought it home. I wondered if the checkout clerk would ask me about it, but she didn’t. That was a relief. I found that I didn’t want to explain myself. I just wanted to bring it home, and, in a sense, share it with Michael.

Every night since, after I turn off the television, prepare the coffee for the morning, and make sure the cats have food, I stand and look at the figurine and the urn. When I climb into bed, I look at the ornament on my wall. Then I look at the empty side of our bed, Michael’s side, of course. I rest my hand on his pillow.

I simply can’t imagine Michael saying to me, “If I’d known how easy it was going to be, I’d have left you much earlier.”

Yes, this is a Moment of Happiness. I feel like I’ve done something for Michael, and for me. I’ve acknowledged who we were, and who we are, together.

I gave us a silver anniversary.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Not happening. I’m sorry. I found out late last night that Michael’s mom is in hospice, and so Olivia and I are getting on a plane and going to see her in Omaha. It’s been frantic.

I’ll be back next week. Good thoughts please.