I’m living an improv life.

Sometimes I try to pep-talk myself by saying “there are others who have it worse” and I’ll listen to and watch true-crime documentaries to back up that statement. Tiny windows into lives that are, by the documentaries’ accounts, seriously more fucked up than mine.

But that only lasts for about 30 seconds after the credits roll. Comparing lives doesn’t really work for me. I’m more driven by my own thoughts, goals, and accomplishments (or failures), and comparing present day self to who I was a year ago, or five years ago, than whatever any other human has going on in their life. After the shock of what crimes people think they are going to get away with wears off, I usually just end up feeling dismayed at humanity. It’s not a great treatment plan.

I’ve come out of the fog of the first six or eight months of widowhood. Mostly. Many weekend mornings, I still lay in bed for a long, long time. Doze in and out until the anxiety of Not Being Productive forces me up. I feel like I at least now have more bearings in a way that I didn’t for a long time. I hated that feeling of limbo, like standing in the middle of an expansive rope suspension bridge that frays by the minute. But I also hate this new feeling: Facing the truth–this is actually my life now.

It’s not entirely dreary, though. I am finally enjoying doing things with people again. My visits and activities are much shorter than in the past, but what I can sustain has been fun and it’s a relief to laugh freely. People have asked me if I feel guilty being happy, when I’m happy, because that’s a typical talking point around grief. I don’t feel guilty, but there is an undercurrent of sadness because it highlights the gaping hole next to me. Often after I’ve gone out with a friend or hung out with my kids, I’m alone again and the sadness steps up a notch. Not because I’m alone, but because Joe is not here. There is a big difference.

The truth is in my face every single minute and yet still so hard to believe he’s just not here.

I went out to listen to some live music last night at The Purple Fiddle. Joe and I would make this drive quite often out to Thomas and Davis, two recovering coal towns that have become destinations and the beautiful Blackwater Falls State Park. We actually lived in Thomas for a month or so when we first moved to West Virginia–it was the first town I “met” and when I saw an enormous pride flag on the main street I thought, “this is going to be okay”. Of course it’s not indicative of all the towns or population of WV, but it is indicative of the fact nothing is what it seems from the outside. A reminder to not rush to judgement.

But as I drove alone last night, chasing the sunset into the mountains, I had this urge to pull over, climb a peak, and scream Joe’s name from it. If I did that, maybe he would finally hear me and come home. My brain knows he’s gone, but my heart has still not quite caught up.

Last summer, as we inched to the end of August, Joe and I had to accept we were facing our last days together. Accept is a complicated word. I suppose I had to fully accept it because the next two months of care were going to be intense and I knew it. I needed to be calm, prepared for anything, and it basically felt like cramming medical school into a matter of days. But I also wanted to just curl up next to Joe and have him tell me it was all going to be fine. But it wasn’t. And we couldn’t have many of those deeper conversations I longed for because of the nature of his cancer. Many cancers create issues with salivary glands and excess mucus and with esophageal cancer it’s a major issue. We all get runny noses and extra tears and all sorts of messy when we cry. For Joe, his cancer made it a thousand times worse and would result in him being physically ill. So for two people who have always shared and planned and cried together, we were cut off for the first time.

It sucked for both of us. We’d get emotional over the fact we couldn’t be emotional together–it was an evil catch-22. And as the weeks and days ticked by and he slowly reverted to a more childlike awareness, I had to accept my partner was gone before he was even gone.

Most of the time I don’t dwell on those memories, though it does help me to understand some of the reasoning behind the stupor caused by loss. And the level of pretending you must commit to just to get through a day both before and after that loss. Some days I want to do exactly nothing except rot in my robe and watch reality TV. In theory that is a choice I can make, and sometimes need. I have given myself the grace to do what feels right on any given day. But long term, who is going to allow it without consequences? Not my dogs, not my utility companies, not my boss, and frankly, not me either.

When Joe was sick, there were so many beyond exhausting days. I’d fantasize about completely falling apart. Maybe lose my shit in a Walmart, throwing over clothing racks and swiping everything off the shelves, to be checked into a psychiatric ward. Or maybe become a true crime documentary–The Bank Robbing Widow–so I could be sent to jail. At least I wouldn’t have to cook. I thought about Thelma and Louise-ing my car off of one of the many massive bridges between mountains into a deep ravine. Dark, I know. I didn’t do any of those things, and I wouldn’t. It’s just kind of crazy what your brain comes up with as an alternative to pain. I know well enough now, I’ve had enough painful experiences, to let myself have the dark thought. Cry. Laugh at it if necessary. And then continue living.

So that’s where I am. Living.

Sometimes living is trudging. Sometimes it’s improv. And sometimes it’s a warm, rainy Sunday morning when you’re finally able to plunk out a few hundred words and find yourself again.

I admit it: I’m chicken shit.

But it feels unfair that children’s authors are expected to also be activists. That we’re supposed to stand on the picket line for any book that’s targeted—unless it’s Mac’s, or some conservative writer’s book, then we must all attack it like a school of mindless piranhas. (That is a simile, lest we forget what similes are.)

I don’t think anyone is mindless, and I believe in the work of authors and activists who are fighting for our children’s right to read.

But the reality is that social media in particular becomes this feeding frenzy of nonsense where everyone jumps in whether they have read a book or not—on both sides of the aisle. Hell, in every aisle of every building. Everyone’s got an opinion. In more ways than one, mine is always represented somewhere. So. I choose to abstain.

Until I stumbled upon this gem.

I was happily doing my job and minding my own business, trying to find a contact for a new Penguin imprint when my eyes screeched to a halt on this pink, Hallmark channel, frosted cupcake of a book.

Before we dive into this curiosity, let me share the marketing info.

Someone in marketing thought “we can sell the shit out of this ‘plan your dream crush/date/wedding journal’ to seven-year-olds”. Thing is, they are right.

But that speaks more to the parents of 7-year-olds than the children themselves. And let’s be real—not parents, mothers. Mothers are typically the ones buying books. Teachers and librarians also—who are generally women.

So I toss this right back into the court of marketing: How much more can we continue to infantilize women? Or tell little girls that their one hope is to hook a man like…Travis Kelce.

I’m sure many will argue this book is just for fun, or shows what a great relationship a powerhouse of a woman can have. Taylor is talented; she’s smart, and she doesn’t allow people to take advantage of her. All great messages for young children.

But is that really what’s happening here? Let’s dive in.

Copy from Penguin’s website:

“Prepare to say ‘I Do’”

Forget first grade, girls. We have bigger plans for you. Forever.

“Confidence level: elite”? Or stalker status, maybe. Crossing just a few boundaries, methinks. This page really creeps me out. Last thing I want is my little girl thinking it’s okay for a boy (man) to act like this.

I was probably around 10 or 11 when I had my first crush. I wrote about it in my journal and later ripped out the page because I was so confused that it was for another girl. This would have been around 1985. My parents were total hippies; my mom gave me alllll the books, including Free to Be…You and Me by Marlo Thomas, the GenX manual on loving and accepting all people. Yet, I remember how embarrassed I was of myself—it was the only page I ever ripped out of a journal, and I journaled for decades. It was, after all, only the 80’s. And as open-minded as my parents were, we didn’t talk about these things (or frankly anything) as a family.

First crushes, learning about your own sexuality, that’s sensitive stuff and for some of us (late-bloomers by this book’s estimation) very private. I’m not opposed to playfully talking about crushes in general, and I loved those stupid quizzes in Tiger Beat and Bop when I was a couple years older, but the flippancy here doesn’t work for me.

Also, is your 7-year-old listening to football podcasts? Who is this book really for?

When I was a kid, I loved filling out pages about myself like this in activity books. Only mine were generally from the Muppets and Sesame Street and didn’t mention dating, icon status, or main character energy. What great self-awareness.

But hey, I did learn on Travis’ bio page that he’s a Libra. Sagittarius and Libra just like me and my love—maybe T & T will make it after all. A girl can dream.

“Ready to get romantic?” Um, what now?

We have folks out there trying to ban puberty books because they mention they/them pronouns, but this grooming is just fine. Not to mention those options for a “great hangout”: a movie, TV, or a workout. Magical. So many sparks.

And of all movies to promote. I’m cool with bending the age ratings on media with younger viewers in some cases—depends on the child, the topic, the reason for its rating, but Happy Gilmore? Come on now. Can we encourage just a tad more depth? We’re talking about getting married here. Our media choices should reflect that. How about The Drama or Something Very Bad is Going to Happen. Just an idea.

I’m probably going to get hate mail on this one because of all the Swifties out there, but if this is where I draw the line in the sand, then so be it. Hopefully most will understand the sarcasm and hyperbole, and I’m honestly not trying to knock on the author. Just, maybe the execution of this concept?

If Mac Barnett is right, and 94.7% of children’s books are crud, I guess we’re all in good company with Taylor and Travis. So, wherever you are, Erik Forrest Jackson, please take my words with a grain of salt. I’m sure you’re going to make a killing off this book, and I’ll just be hanging out over here on Substack. Maybe getting a cease and desist from Penguin.

Publishing is a weird world. Always virtue signaling that they are doing the right thing, always trying to actually make a buck. It’s fine. I also want to make a buck. I’d like to make a lot of bucks, in fact. And I want to do the right thing, but admit I don’t always know what the right thing even is. Often it is a very gray middle. I don’t support the banning of books. I also don’t support influencing young children to think pop culture romance is where it’s at.

In the end, we get to create, and they get to publish. It doesn’t matter if you or I like it or not.

But that’s just my opinion.

My youngest son texted me a few days ago about something in our shared past. “I know you have been in dark places,” he wrote. And he’s right. I’ve maybe been the most candid with him about my mental health struggles because he, too, suffers from them. That’s not to say my other two kids don’t ever struggle, but he’s the most open about it. Because of that, I’ve tried to match that openness with the hope that he might understand himself more within the context of me as his mother, the choices I’ve made over fifty years, and how we grow throughout a life. Not all in one shot, as we might wish. Although considering how painful the gradual process is, I can’t even imagine that.

I’m not in one of those dark places now; I’m in some strange new dimension. One where I have no idea what the next step is past getting the mail, washing the dishes, or clocking in to my job. This is unusual for me. In the past, I have always been plotting. An escape, an adventure, a novel. Now, between swings, I find myself stuck–dangling over the ravine–more often than not. It sounds perilous, but only in metaphor. I’m not afraid of death, or falling, simply of the unknown between swings.

But one of the agonizing parts of the in-between is the constant “shoulding” myself to death. I should get up earlier. I should be writing. I should have taken the dogs to the park. I should have hugged Joe more. I shouldn’t be so concerned about what people think. I shouldn’t talk about him too much. I should talk more. I should plant more flowers, plan a trip, or maybe just hide under my covers for the rest of the year.

I am insufferable to myself. I’m proud that I’ve moved into full-time work and have not been completely incompetent even when I don’t feel like being competent. I’m disappointed that my novel has fallen by the wayside when writing is typically my greatest joy. I’m enjoying completing home projects that are way past due. Yet, I’m sometimes so antsy I doom-scroll Zillow for properties all over the country. Should I stay or should I go, in a loop in my mind. Not necessarily as literal as moving, but for every single decision I hold in my now trembling hands.

My car died a week ago. Yes, that brand-new-to-me one that I had to buy when my last car decided it had been through enough. I don’t blame that one. That little SUV was the cancer car, an amateur ambulance. Over the course of three years, it sustained thousands of mountainous miles of temporary moves between three states and hospital stays and doctor appointments. It safely brought me and my dogs to Florida, and then decided to retire there. My “should” brain said at the time–don’t skimp; get a much newer car, a better, more reliable brand so that you don’t get stranded now that you have no one to call in such a situation. I didn’t have the full-time job yet, but I took the risk anyway with the understanding that I must find a way to afford this dependable car. Maybe putting a little extra pressure on myself because I already knew I must find a way to afford my home, my entire life. Something I’ve never had to do alone before. Should I have purchased that car?

What I thought was a sure-fire decision became yet another challenge only months later as a widow in the woods who has never made friends with the neighbors. One rescued me anyway, but in the end the car needs a bit of an electrical overhaul and now sits an hour and a half away at the dealer waiting for a heart transplant.

I’d like a heart transplant.

I say that, but I really don’t. Because if I lost the fatigue, the mania, the should/should nots, the just-before-sleep crying jags, the bittersweet laughter at memories, the inexplicable need to paint walls, it’s like skipping over all the love. I don’t want to be going through any of this, and there are times I still plead, “Why can’t you just walk in the door and end this charade?” But at my core, I accept that this is part of the huge love we had, and so when I’m dangling over the ravine, with no idea what’s down there, or beyond the hills, I accept this is what death feels like.

Because this is what life feels like.

It’s part of the process. I’m beginning to realize that adding another pressure on top–I should stop shoulding myself–is pointless. Although there are certainly times I need to shut my brain off, some of it is what processing anything is about. It’s how our hearts work through the heaviness, the questions, and the unknown of what comes next, especially after part of you has disappeared.

When I am waffling all over the place, it’s because I’m learning how to make decisions in new ways. I’m really asking myself one question: Who am I now?

Whether I should stay or go, whether I should have bought that car or not, whether I will ever feel like a whole person again remains to be seen. I’m in my should era; of course, it comes with a lot of questioning, a lot of considering, a lot of internal workarounds.

I believe the challenge is to make sure the questioning doesn’t drive me crazy–only drives me onward. Especially since my car can’t.

Writing a Memoir Readers Will Love: May 17th, 11-3 pm EDT

Do you have a story only you can tell? In this conference, you’ll learn how to find your voice, shape your life story into a narrative, and write a memoir readers will love. Through three practical sessions, you’ll discover the ins and outs of memoir writing — with a focus on key skills like finding your central theme and captivating your target audience. You’ll also get to hear from published memoirists about their processes, and how to navigate deeply personal stories with a balance of deftness and honesty.

Whether you are writing a memoir primarily for your loved ones or looking to pursue a publishing deal and commercial success, you’ll leave with a practical roadmap for writing a memoir that will capture readers’ hearts. This one-day conference includes three live masterclasses from seasoned memoir editors, as well as a panel discussion and Q&A with published memoirists.

You’ll leave with a copy of Reedsy’s exclusive memoir outline template so you can apply what you’ve learned during the day. Finally, you’ll get post-event guidance on working with an editor (or ghostwriter, cover designer, or marketer) on the Reedsy Marketplace.

Plus, $25 credit towards your next collaboration!

There’s even a live Q&A after each session—often one of my favorite parts of these events.

You can read more about it HERE.

And if you use the code JESSICA10 you’ll receive 10% off!

How to Write a Memoir That Reads Like a Novel

Memoirs and novels have more in common than you might think. In this practical guide to planning and structuring your memoir, author Rebecca van Laer will introduce you to the key features of a memoir and techniques for plotting it like a novel. You’ll learn how to shape anecdotes into a narrative arc, ways to build and resolve conflict, and where to begin and end your story. You’ll leave with an understanding of how to turn a personal narrative into a page-turning memoir.

Sophie Strand & Allegra Huston on Writing and Healing

We’re joined by Sophie Strand (The Body is a Doorway) and Allegra Huston (Love Child: A Memoir of Family Lost and Found) to discuss turning hardship into a powerful story of healing. As memoirists, these authors have explored deeply personal wounds of loss, family secrets, and chronic illness with an openness that has resonated with thousands of readers. During this author panel, they will share insights learned from years in the industry. There will also be an opportunity to ask questions during a live Q&A.

How to Write & Pitch a Personal Essay

(This is the one I’m SUPER excited about!)

The personal essay is a short, creative nonfiction piece that can be a great entry point to writing about your own life experiences and beliefs. In this session, editor Victoria Zackheim will introduce you to the format and show you how to use craft techniques such as voice, pacing, and character development when writing creative nonfiction. You’ll also learn how to identify suitable online magazines and other writing outlets, as well as best practices for pitching your work.

Building Drama and Suspense in Your Memoir

When the ending is known from the beginning, how do you create suspense in your narrative? While memoirs naturally come with spoilers of some degree (you overcame enough hurdles to write the book), it is still possible to build – and undercut – tension. In this session, Holly Welker will show you how to infuse your story with drama and unpredictability on a sentence, paragraph, chapter, and manuscript level to create a memoir that is both surprising and engaging.

I hope you’ll join me in learning from these talented writers. I’m always thinking: one of these days I’m returning to my long-form memoir, and I know these sessions are going to help kick me in the butt to do so.

If you sign up and send me a screenshot and your address by messaging me privately through Substack or my website contact form HERE, and I’ll send you a book!

Sometimes I don’t bother trying.

I have no less than five books started and left splayed open on flat surfaces. Twice as many half-listened to. On Sunday mornings, I spend hours in bed before I feel like I can do the day. I’m not sleeping; I’m reading headlines, meditating over my coffee and Wordle, sometimes writing like today, and overall just taking my damn time getting dressed and straightening up.

Throughout the week, the house turns into a giant, messy closet. Flannels and sweaters draped on the chair, a pair of socks hastily discarded during a hot flash under the coffee table, a measuring tape left on the bench, gardening gloves on the wood stove, dog toys literally everywhere. Oh my god, the stack of mail. When you’re alone, you realize very quickly just how bad you are at putting things away. And why is it harder to keep up with dishes when they are only your dishes?

My threshold for community is growing, though. In the first few months after Joe left this world for the stars, I was exhausted after ten minutes of conversation. My ability to focus was astonishingly bad, although I did weirdly complete many puzzles–little microcosms of control, I suppose. But it was hard for me to care about what anyone else was saying. And in those early weeks, people checked in with me non-stop. It was both overwhelming and comforting. These days, I don’t hear from people much anymore. Most of the time, I’m fine with that. I don’t need constant check-ins. Even my father eventually returned to his hobby of screaming at me for things my mother did when I was a child. Some things/people never change. I even find a strange comfort in that, comfort in the fact I can still get pissed at him, and that I still have the power to shut him out when he’s out of control. Messed up, maybe. But true.

But sometimes I wonder where everyone has gone, what they are doing with their time. They’re going back to their lives, I suppose, just like me. Only I’m not really going back, I’m going forward into a new one. No one else has to do that in quite the same way.

On Easter Sunday, I wanted Joe to resurrect. You have odd, impossible wishes when your loved one leaves–strange, slightly unhinged thoughts that seem completely plausible. In these small moments, vast chasms between worlds, it doesn’t seem ridiculous because I feel his molecules around me. He’s in the air, the drywall, birdsong, frogs chirping in the pond, trees creaking and swaying on the hill. He’s waiting for me in the car, and he’s laughing at me when I can’t find my AirPods, and he’s waving at me from the end of the driveway as he cuts the grass.

He’s no longer here, and he is everywhere.

I long to be back in the mind-space where possibilities are exciting again. Sometimes I’m very afraid that will never return. But I’m back to work now, in a full-time role with a great team, and forcing myself to connect. I’m back to chipping away at my novel, which I wrote about last year, and then got sidelined once more. Spring has given me a literal breath of fresh air–the flowers, the hummingbirds, the mulch. Yes, I love it all, even the mulch. People have asked me what my plans are, as though expecting me to pick up and skip out of the West Virginia forest as fast as possible, but if I didn’t have this right now, every morning would look a bit too much like Sunday morning. Rest is good, and I give myself ample opportunity for it. But the sunshine is necessary too. The time in my gardens, my hands in soil, the physical strength it requires, the little surprises of buds and toads and tiny blue butterflies, and even just sitting outside on the deck to work, is the real gift.

Two things that have tethered me in the last six months–making things (whether it’s puzzles or collages or goofy social media posts) and caring for what I already have. Being home alone is absolutely lonely sometimes, no question, and sometimes I drown a little in photos and memories, but nurturing both the creation of whatever is on my mind that day and tending to those creations is lifesaving.

Sometimes knowing that, feeling that so deeply, is all I need to move through the week.

And so, with that, it’s time to throw back the covers, get dressed, and go take care of it.

But I still wanted to leave this special news here.

It’s very conflicting.

But one of the things that has been rising above the void is that when I come home…I feel home. It’s the first time I’ve felt like my house is my home, the first time I’ve been viscerally thankful I have a building to exist in. (and I’ve been displaced and homeless, albeit briefly, 3 times) I’ve never been more grateful for a roof over my head, a place to be. A place that is now all mine. Never in a million years did I actually think I’d have my own home. Keeping it is another story, but I think I will. Or I’ll figure out how to be in a new space.

I want to take you back to a day I oddly still remember. The day I was baptized–February 2, 1986. I was ten.

My grandfather, Poppy, was an Episcopalian minister, something I’ve always been inexplicably proud of, even though for most of my life I’ve been agnostic. These days, I lean more toward atheism. But I refuse to claim absolutes. I learned this early–words like “always” and “never” are used by addicts, not people who are open-minded and extend grace. And I don’t know the truth, so I don’t even try to pretend. I am interested in learning about just about everything, but I am not a person of faith. Unless it’s simply faith that the sun will rise tomorrow. That the redbuds will bloom in March even if it’s only 40 degrees. That the birds will find the feeder within ten minutes of me filling it. That life will continue blooming and dying long after me.

Poppy gave me a beautiful leather Bible on that day in 1986. I’ve had a lot of Bibles over the years. For a long time, despite my agnosticism, I was deeply immersed in the evangelical world, and Bibles were like those underwear with the days of the week printed on them. One for every audience you could imagine. Thinking about that now makes me cringe, but when I was young, it did teach me that God could meet a person at any level, any background, any language. I still believe that is true, even though I don’t believe in a god. I do, however, believe in trying to understand all people’s perspectives.

The bible is still important to me, even though I now reject the literal interpretation the fundamental church tried to convince me of. The historical, cultural, and artistic value, as well as the ethics Jesus taught (whether he actually taught them or not), still resonate. And on the day I was baptized, what I remember the most is that Poppy taught me that the church is people. Wherever people gather, so does God. I consider that metaphorically, but it’s beautiful and valuable nonetheless.

But I’ve also been thinking about the concept a lot lately because, for me, home has always been the people, not the building.

In fifty years, I’ve lived in five states and over fifteen different buildings, but I have never lived by myself. I’ve never been my own home. But now, 143 days since my love died, I am learning how to become that. (Not going to lie, calculating 143 days is a big shock)

I’ve always been good by myself, which is bizarre considering I’ve been partnered since I was fifteen years old. But I am not built to be a lonely person. In large groups, crowded spaces, social mingling situations–forget it. That’s where I feel the least seen, the least cared about, the most over-stimulated. Alone, I am the most me.

That said, losing the person who anchors you, mirrors you, challenges you, laughs with you, cries with you, writes with you, parents with you, and makes life happen with you is a disorienting experience. Joe was my family. Our twelve years together were kind of insane, considering all of the things that happened in the world, and to us, but we bounced back again and again because we had each other. We had our home.

For the first time, I’m faced with home simply being a building. And me.

It’s already stretched me in ways I wasn’t expecting. I feel protective, proud, grateful, and determined to take care of this building, our home. When I drove up the driveway, returning from Florida, I said out loud to Joe: I’m home, baby. I feel like I’m nesting, like I did in the joys and throes of my pregnancies. And that thought has met me every single morning, and every single evening, even on the days I’m feeling broken or overwhelmed. Even when I cry myself to sleep: I am home.

And that feels sort of miraculous. The family is not gathering, but I am still home. Home is in me.

It makes me wonder if Poppy ever felt like he had a home. Or if he knew God was in him.

• My husband’s car died.

• My husband died.

• My car died.

• I bought a new car.

• My guest cottage pipes burst and flooded the entire building, requiring insurance and a water mitigation company’s involvement. (currently in progress)

• My main house pipes burst, requiring a complete overhaul of all plumbing throughout the house. (half finished)

• I got sick for the first time in 5 years. I haven’t had so much as a cold since covid 2021, so maybe it’s 5 years’ worth of germs caught up to me, because that’s about how great I feel.

I’m heading home tomorrow, with my two pups, my new car, and a very stuffed nose/head/face to navigate the rest of the plumbing/insurance nightmare.

And I am happy.

Am I happy that my husband is not here to help me figure all this shit out and make me tea? No. That part makes me extremely sad and sometimes pitifully so. Last night, I had to remind myself not to use his Superman T-shirt as my hanky.

But I am so happy to be heading home, to our home, where, after the first six years of our roller coaster life, we settled into the hillside of a gorgeous Appalachian community to live out the next six roller coaster years. We made a home there, a cozy one, a creative one, a hard-working one. A lot of people thought we were crazy moving to West Virginia, and maybe we were, but we loved it. I still love it.

When I get back, I will have to haul wood and kindling and get a fire going immediately, and I am bizarrely excited about this. I’ll have to inspect the dogs’ fence to make sure no branches wiped any of it out. Fix it if they did. I’ll have to get the water back on and make sure the hot water tank refills. Though I won’t have a shower for god knows how long because apparently plumbers don’t open up walls? What is this mystery of home ownership that I was unaware of?

I’ll have to check on the internet because that is currently out–I only know because my security cameras are offline. I’m hoping the crew just unplugged it to do their work, but at this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if the fiber optics froze from the street to my house. Hell, the winter was so cold up there, the internet itself might have frozen in the air. I know the internet is not in the air, but it seems like it should be, doesn’t it? And if it were in the air, it definitely would have frozen this year.

I’ll have to make lots of calls to keep the insurance company on task, contractors to fix everything, HVAC to fix the heating system in my main house (the ONE thing that I had already planned on doing), and another plumber to replace my hose fixture outside, which inexplicably also died in October, along with the hot tub. Sadly, that one will probably be a permanent casualty.

What a mess. But it’s my mess. And I’m looking forward to cleaning it all up because, along with that mess, there is a gorgeous pending West Virginia spring (I see 70’s in my 10-day forecast in the first week of March), there are thousands of songbirds, seeds to start, shelves of books and games and art supplies, my coveted down comforter, a routine at the gym to reclaim (also probably where I will be showering for the foreseeable future) visits from the kids to pick out some precious belongings from their dad, a little independent bookstore and good friends to meet up with, a riverside park where I walk my dogs, and emerging daffodils I planted last fall just for the occasion of my return home.

My head is full of snot, I have two days of driving ahead of me, and everyone keeps asking me tentatively, gently: How are you feeling about getting back?

Good, my dear friends. Really, really good. I have been in the warm embrace of Florida family for three months, and I have a home full of love to return to. When I left in November, I felt like I was leaving Joe behind. Now, in a tiny way, I get to go back to him. It won’t look like it used to look, it won’t be what it used to be. I know it will be sad and difficult in a new way. But it’s still good. It’s still my home.

I’m 50 years old, about to live on my own for the first time, and there is a small part of me that is strangely, optimistically curious about what this is going to be like. Sometimes you don’t get what you want or expect out of life–actually, most of the time you don’t, or at least I don’t–but what a remarkable gift to realize that you love your life regardless. That’s where I’m at. Yes, a lot of it freaking sucks. But I still love my life, and I want to return to it. Feeling that, writing it down, saying it out loud, gives me so much hope that I will be okay.

(Though, maybe check in again after I have to shower at the gym for three weeks…)

That was good, at the time, because nothing else in my life was fine. And this car was our only transportation to the many appointments, emergency room visits, and every other errand because Joe’s car was in even worse shape. It, in fact, died a mere three weeks before he did.

If I’d realized the ticking in my engine was like the crocodile coming for my Hyundai, I’d have been more persistent. But plausible deniability worked for me. Joe was my main concern. And then, after he passed, making it to Florida. If the mechanic had told me then what the issue was, I’d never have risked the drive. It worked out in my favor–only the engine light finally came on, but I wasn’t stranded. I could keep putting this off.

Then last week, I took the car to a trusted family mechanic for another oil change and check-up before my upcoming drive home. The look on his face said You’re not driving this home. “Timing chains and manifold,” he added. “Seems a little early for that diagnosis. Were you good about oil changes?”

I’m no stranger to early diagnoses. “Yeah,” I said. “I was, actually.” How do I explain to this kind old stranger the number of miles I put on this poor vehicle in just three years? Three moves between three states, three years of treatments, appointments, and several little road trips in between, so that we could try to feel as normal as possible. “But I drove her into the ground this past year.”

He just nodded. I appreciate the lack of trying to get me to fix it and pay them the thousands they would have made. When I left to go out to the lot to bring my dying car home, the same exact model of Joe’s old car was parked right next to mine. “I guess the cars are choosing to go with you, baby,” I said.

While I’m here in Florida, I try to take time most weekends to go explore something, whether I’ve been there before or not, just to get out of the house, be around people, and soak up the sunshine. Quite lucky I am that the car has not dumped me somewhere yet, I figured I’d better just start looking for something new. Last fall, I wouldn’t have been able to replace this car, but now I can, and so I just had to dive in to the daunting task.

I walked into the Subaru dealership knowing exactly what I wanted, what I could pay for it, and wondering how much patience I’d have for a salesperson. Mustering up conversations with strangers is especially taxing right now. It’s been hard enough with people I love. I’m getting better with it, but this would be the test of all tests. I ended up being assigned the most talkative young man I think I’ve ever met. He was around the same age as my kids, with two little ones of his own.

As we spent the better half of a day together, we shared each other’s lives. I know, on some level, it’s an act of his. But it was on mine too. I didn’t want to be there, ultimately, but I was going to make the most of it. I encouraged him not to get a puppy while he has two babies. Just wait a little while, for his wife’s sake. He told me stories about his grandma raising him in rural Florida and the tight ship she ran. I told him my husband had died, and so that’s why I was here, buying a car out of state. He told me he never went to college because he struggled so hard in high school with ADHD. And he was happy that he’d had his kids so young because when he was older, he’d still have so much of a life to live. I used to feel that way, too. I just nodded. Hopefully, sweetheart.

We needed each other that afternoon. A sales transaction, yes. But also a human one.

On the test drive, he had me pull over for a moment. We switched seats, and he took me off-road into this huge grass field, with very steep and rocky hills, to show me what an Outback can really do. I assured him afterwards that this car would never do that again.

Because I was going to buy it.

In the early days after Joe passed, folks checked in with me on a near-constant basis. Everyone knows this is the experience of a widow: incessant checks and then suddenly everyone vanishes. I knew it was going to be the likely course, but it still strikes me. In those first 6-8 weeks, especially, I was deep in shock and recovery still. I couldn’t have a conversation if I wanted to; there were no answers to anyone’s questions, and even their encouragements sometimes burned because part of me was still thinking: This can’t actually be happening.

That early support was both lifesaving and impossible for me to actually take full advantage of, but it allowed me to keep breathing.

Now, though it’s still rather early in this process, I’ve gained some strength back–both physical and emotional. I mostly enjoy conversations with my good friends; it’s not exhausting me or leaving me without words like it was in the beginning. A week ago, I met friends at the beach for the weekend and had a lot of fun. Despite the empty fourth chair at every meal, which is a rough reminder of who’s missing, I was mostly thankful for my friends, the time we spent, and the fact that we could all still talk about Joe and toast to his beautiful life.

I cry after every good time like this, though. I’m so grateful that happy, lighter moments, even days, are returning, but once they are over, sadness always follows. Because I want that fourth chair to have a certain pirate’s ass in it. When I explore, I want my hiking partner getting his muddy boots on the new floor mat. When I come home, I want to tell him about what I did that day, the little armadillo I saw, or the manatees, or some crazy old people on golf carts when I have to shop in the Villages.

I cried when I emptied out the Hyundai, tiny remnants of a thousand road trips, into a trash bag. I patted that car as I turned away from it. “You did good. Thank you for getting us through the most difficult thing we had to do.”

I got into the Outback, breathed in that new-to-me car smell, which will only last about 30 seconds once my dogs make themselves at home, and I drove away from the last reminder of the last three grueling years. Tears of gratitude and goodbyes. Tears for some sort of new life on the horizon. Tears, hoping Joe will always be in my passenger seat, saying, “It’s okay. You did good.”

I walked before I was 12 months old.

Reading at 3.

Cut the apron strings by 13.

Attached myself elsewhere at 15.

By 20, I was married.

And had my first baby at 22.

Second at 24.

Third by 28.

Rushing to 30, I realized the speed at which I was living my life was unsustainable.

But I plowed through anyway.

Until I was divorced at 39.

This stopped the runaway engine inside my body, but it didn’t stop Life from throwing detours at me.

At 42, I was remarried.

I was finally a published author.

We lost everything in a house fire.

But I was used to starting over again. So we did.

Then, at 48, I became a caregiver to my husband.

Now, at 50, I am a widow.

My body feels like it’s lived like a century of life in half the time.

I’ve never been in the same stage of life as my peers. This has never rung clearer than it does now, when I look back on a whole life, one rich with family and friends and so many experiences between the milestones, that I am once again in a lonely train car.

I know there are others; I know I’m not truly alone. It will take patience and effort to find them. But whether by choice or by fate, it seems I’m destined to live at least ten years ahead of my time. To experience things at ages that many women do not. To be the first in line. To be a buffer for others who move more slowly down the track.

If Life experiments on me first, you can glean from it. I’ve done a lot of that my entire 50 years by surrounding myself with friends who are older than me. There’s comfort in their experience. There’s relief when someone tells you this is okay, this is normal, this sucks, but you can make it through. I can be your big sister because other women have been that for me.

But damn, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want Life to put on the brakes. Not permanently, just for a layover. Let me think a minute. Let me rest. Let me be right. Let me act my age. Let me live my age.

Let me know which track to take before I take it.

Let me know, let me know, let me know, the train’s wheels rattle on.

Recently, I had a conversation with a good friend about “how we feel”, meaning the different ways humans take on and express emotion. Some people feel current events, both personal and cultural, on their skin all the time. The highly sensitive types can’t escape the onslaught of emotion, but they typically cry freely, hug freely, and seemingly trust and love openly. I have several friends in this category, that is to say, I tend to surround myself with sensitive people, even though I am not one of them. At least not in the same manifestation.

Joe, my late husband, was a highly sensitive person. My youngest son is, as well. My best friend, also. And a very large handful more. So many writers fall into this category, and writers are my main circle. The tenderness these beloved people in my life have is both inspirational and sometimes anxiety-provoking. I am a fixer. A problem solver. A calm-in-the-storm type. I feel deeply as well, but I infrequently show it to others. My emotions go into my writing, primarily, so that the rest of the day I can function without feeling too much. I’m able to shut off the onslaught, albeit temporarily.

I recently read a NYT essay on grief, which wasn’t terribly enlightening overall, personally, but there was one line that has stuck with me: “We are all in a constant state of grief, even though we don’t always admit it. Grief comes with any change. Our friends, our lovers, our jobs, our health: nothing is ever as it was the year, or the moment, before.” (Brian Keith Jackson).

Other than that line, the comments after the article were the more intriguing part to me. Some people felt utterly seen. Some decided to rail against our current administration. A couple said the writer was completely out of touch because they don’t feel grief every day, and the writer shouldn’t infer that humans do. That interested me the most because I wondered: How in the world is not feeling grief every day even possible? Even before my husband was diagnosed with cancer, before our country turned so volatile, before social media stole our attention spans, before many of the bigger losses I’ve had in my adult life, I have always felt grief. Sometimes I think I was born with it, this undercurrent of melancholy, and in every decision, joy, and trial I’ve experienced, grief has basically been my co-pilot.

Then I started thinking about all the different language variations of grief: sadness, melancholy, depression, blues, heartache, sorrow, etc, which I won’t continue to list here, but how fascinating. You should definitely look up a list. It’s astounding, the number of words we have to describe an emotion we all feel, an emotion that stems from the same cause, however many varieties of that cause. Loss.

Loss is the great equalizer.

I find some comfort in that. I find some comfort in Jackson’s quote. Simply knowing that what I am going through, what I feel, is a shared emotion, makes it more endurable. I still sometimes hate the depth of it. I don’t like having no one to come home to and talk about these things. I don’t like begging the universe to send my husband back to me. I hate that I’m trying to figure out how to cook for one. And that I need a new emergency contact. I didn’t ask for any of this, for any of the crazy-ass things that have happened in my life.

I don’t like how bleak the future sometimes looks on both a personal level and a collective scope. I don’t even like the fact that we have to feel sadness at all, because, dammit, it’s not fun. I understand why the commenter wanted to dissent from the essayist’s perspective–that we all live in a state of grief–because admitting that can be really scary, especially if you don’t have a support system that also understands the nuance of grief. Especially if you can’t function with the sadness, if you can’t wipe your face and continue on. It’s really hard. Sometimes we need help to do so, and that can be hard to accept also. But whether you wear it on your skin or write it in your words, we are all feeling the effects of loss.

People continue to ask how I’m doing. I usually reply with a shrug. I have no idea how I’m doing; I have nothing to compare this to. But I think I’m doing okay. I cry heartily, but I also still laugh and work, and it feels good to be able to make plans again, something I couldn’t do for several years between the pandemic and my husband’s illness.

There is light in the darkness, always.

There were eras of my life when I didn’t believe that. Darkness nearly swallowed me a couple times, so I understand if you don’t agree with me. My husband is the one who helped me see this was not true, and so to him I kind of owe my life. No exaggeration. It’s not fair that he doesn’t get to live his anymore. But I am eternally grateful for the many gifts he gave me, and the rest of our little world of family and friends, and even strangers.

If I can embrace all of this, accept that loss and grief are what ultimately connect us all, I hope to continue to grow and understand people. Even those who believe very different things from me. Even those who do hurtful things to me or others. I have to believe there is at least some common ground that we can stand on. Even if I ultimately walk away from that person, I think it’s good to remember that common ground exists. Otherwise, we lose our humanity, and we have seen–we are seeing–what happens when that happens.

I took a few different zoomed in screenshots of your face so I can stare at you like we used to when I lie down for the night.

I’ve only gone through your phone a little bit because it feels too sacred to invade your privacy.

I have not had the heart to go into your computer files.

I cry myself to sleep most nights.

Your IP is now under my care, which brings me incredible honor and sadness. There has to be a word for that strange combination. But I don’t have language for this emotion I have never experienced before.

Owls have become a thing and I’m not the kind of person who has things.

Thinking about the future is difficult, because it’s not going to be the future I envisioned—of us growing old together, possibly becoming grandparents, taking care of each other. But sometimes there’s a spark of curiosity too. There’s still mystery and there’s still a life to live that I am very grateful for. Because of that I can’t possibly be sad all the time. You gave me that gift.

I brought photos of you to Florida so I could have you next to my bed, stuck to the kitchen cabinets, resting on shelves– placed all around this house we never lived in together, so as I’m going about my day, I see your face in every room. You’re still with me.

Sometimes I scroll through our old text messages, but I hate seeing our conversations from times we were arguing, or frustrated with each other, or when you were really sick, because all of that seems so far away or pointless. But our last text conversation was about the Eagles game when I was rushing home so I could watch the end with you and your family. Your last game.

Five days later you passed. I haven’t seen a single minute of football since. We’ll see who gets to the Superbowl. If they do, I promise to watch. But I’m not making that disgusting buffalo chicken dish. I have my limits.

I long for a piece of your clothing that smells like you, but you were sick for so long that your scent changed and so your clothes just smell like clothes.

So sometimes I put your patchouli on that Superman t-shirt.

Death is complicated. But maybe less so than living.

It was a dark, clear and crisp morning when I left our home in West Virginia for the drive to my family’s in Florida. The kind of cold that wakes you up, makes you breathe deeper, makes your eyes water, but feels refreshing. At least temporarily. I was leaving for the Sunshine State, after all. I’d already packed the car the day before, and so only had to load the last of my belongings, my two dogs, gas up and go. I went out to warm up the car and it was silent but for a single owl hooting in the woods. I think a great horned–a few short “hoo-hoos” followed by a longer one–an eerie but magical call. I said thank you to my husband for sending it to send me off.

That night when I arrived at my half-way stop in South Carolina, I read that owls sometimes represent the threshold between life and death. Some tribes believe they are messengers of death or that death is near. Seemingly a bad omen, though not necessarily. Death was near that morning. Death feels near all day, every day, now that Joe is gone, and it might sound strange, but I embrace that now. If that owl had a message for me from the spirit world, I know exactly who it came from and I am grateful.

I’ve been in Florida for about a week and a half now and I’ve heard owls on three nights. They are prolific here, in the Ocala National Forest, and once many years ago, my Mema even had a whole family of barn owls in a huge cavity of her live oak tree. The little white owlets’ heads all turned in synchrony to watch me as I stood beneath their tree, no doubt wondering what the heck I was. Too big to eat, too close for comfort, maybe fearing death was near.

I’m trying to get my feet underneath me again while hoping to see Joe in a dream. I’m back to work, but since my work is remote I’m hardly back to any normal routine and find myself completing tasks at the oddest of times. I’m not a mess, though. Sometimes I am in moments, but not all day or anything. People ask me how I’m doing and mostly I’m just doing. There’s that old chart of the stages of grief that runs through my head and I think, there are no stages. It just is. All of it, none of it, randomly some of it. I let it cycle in and out as it wants, but most of the time there is just this heavy feeling in my body. I have not experienced such a weighty sadness before. The gravity rests on my shoulders, in my stomach. I am carrying Joe.

One benefit of being alone right now–I’m free to do and feel whatever I want. I have my doggies to take care of, which I love, but I don’t have to worry about looking presentable for the office or getting a kid to school on time or cooking full meals three times a day. But I do wonder what my new normal will look like ultimately. I know what I hope for; I hope to get there. There is a lot to get back to, but I’m also aware I’m coming back to it a changed person because when Joe left this world, part of me went with him. What will my writing and relationships and pathways look like now that I am who I am? I’ll think about that unknown future for a minute and then get back to just being. There’s no rush to figure anything out. It’s been a long time since I felt the calm of nothing to figure out.

I accept little victories right now. I texted a friend the other day that I am back to taking my vitamins and hormones, and that’s at least something. And at least it’s warm here. At least there are owls.

In addition to my somber blogging, I wanted to share some fun news. Because there are still fun things! While Joe was going through three years of grueling treatment, he kept writing. And since cancer forced him to go on disability early on, he ended up having more time to create then he ever had before. I wonder if he fully recognized the uptick in his output; we never talked about it outright. For me it was the exact opposite except for about six months at the beginning of this year. Caregiving took it all out of me, but by accepting that role, it allowed Joe to do more. I won’t paint myself a saint—it was hard on me. And between the pandemic and cancer, my writing “career” felt all but over. So, admittedly, there were times when I resented my situation, but ultimately I knew it was temporary—another complicated thing to wrestle with.

Anyway, Joe was on fire. And one of the results was a brand new graphic chapter book series—a new format his publisher asked if he’d write for. Of course he said yes! That series launches next May, and the frontlist title just received the Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Seal. In the children’s book world, this is a wonderful honor and start for a new book.

You can pre-order Sherlock Roach at our independent bookstore’s Bookshop page and Wordplay will donate a copy to a local school for every five pre-orders.

I’m sad he didn’t get to see this recognition and he won’t be able to launch this book. But it’s kind of amazing that Joe will live on in his stories for a long, long time. Maybe longer than our lifetimes. And all his readers will carry a tiny piece of him also—his magic, his quirky creativity, and most of all his huge heart.

I won’t talk about death forever. Or maybe I will. I have not explored death nearly enough in my life, and so I’m finding new meaning, new footing, and new words every day about this typically avoided topic. But this was one last rambling I really wanted to share before I return to writing about—whatever. I honestly have no idea. I wanted you to know that a haunted house is a beautiful miracle, whether you believe in ghosts or not. And I don’t. But maybe now I sort of want to.

In one of my late (so weird to be writing that word) husband’s journals he wrote: Originally, I thought of passing in our house–but then that’s kind of morbid. Jess would have to be reminded of me being dead in our house…But in a facility? We’d both hate the idea of us not being together all of the time, but again, dying in the house? I’ll have to ask her.

We talked about it briefly–how I would feel about him dying in our home, or our bed. I didn’t have an answer for him because I had no idea how I would feel about it. It’s sort of like asking someone how they might feel about the political climate in the year 2050. I had inklings, but there was no real way to know until I’d be there, experiencing it. But I agreed we couldn’t be apart–I wouldn’t let that happen unless there was no physical way for me to care for him. Thankfully, I had a ton of help, and while the final three days were especially challenging both emotionally and physically for me–and considering the previous several months of emergencies had already worn me out–it was only three days. Already, only a few weeks after, those three days feel like they were too short. But when I was in the thick of that 72 hour period I didn’t know how I was going to bear one more minute.

I recently listened to a podcast with Anderson Cooper and Megan Falley–Poet Laureate Andrea Gibson’s widow–and she talked about her and Andrea’s final days together. In those waning hours, Andrea kept trying to get out of bed despite not having the mental acuity to know where they were going or why. I experienced the same with Joe. On the first of those last three days, we had a hospital bed and bedside commode delivered because I was afraid Joe would fall trying to get to the bathroom. Fortunately that never happened, but without the hospital bed rails, those few days would have been even more of a challenge than they were.

When he first got into the bed, he was okay with it, but within hours he wanted to get up and go– somewhere. When we wouldn’t let him, because he was way too unsteady on his feet, he remarked; “Everyone’s acting like I’m dying.”

I’m not sure if it was a joke or confusion–perhaps a bit of both, but it was one of the last things he spoke. For his remaining hours, he was hardly able to communicate other than to gesture for water, and his body seemed to constantly move without his full permission, until he was so sedated there was no more motion except the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Until that, too, ceased.

Like Megan mentions in the podcast, I think I also expected there to be some final moment of a precious goodbye between us, but there weren’t any words. There was only a moment in which he struggled to ask me to find this little coin I’d given him maybe a decade ago. It was meant to be a token for him to keep close to always feel my presence. He wanted it in his pocket, and so I obliged, and when they took his body away the coin went with him.

Soon, I will head south, a temporary move. I’ve always wanted to be a snowbird to escape the dark, cold grip of winter, though I never intended to migrate alone. But I’m not leaving because I can’t be in our home, where he died. I have found that I don’t mind at all, and in fact, I love that he was home and not in some sterile hospital room. These past few weeks of cleaning, packing, and organizing, Joe has been right by my side in that weird, out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye kind of way. It wasn’t at all morbid, his passing in our home, it was beautiful and sad and hard. It was what we wanted, and with family and friends and some fantastic hospice nurses throughout the final weeks, we were the village that helped him go.

But Joe is still here in our home. And in a way it feels like I’m leaving him behind. I’ve asked him to follow me but I won’t blame him if he doesn’t. Florida is a weird state. My family has lived there for a very long time, so I know the area, I love the southern gothic feel of the rural, central part of the state–the enormous live oaks and copious amounts of Spanish moss draped everywhere, the oppressive humidity that softens my skin, the looks I’ll continue to get that say you’re not from here, are you?

In Joe’s last hour, I laid side-by-side with him and watched him leave. There’s a common tradition in many cultures of cracking a window when someone dies so their soul can escape, but I was the only person in the room at that moment and I wasn’t going to participate in superstitious or supernatural rituals, because I’m stubborn that way. (Nor was it even a thought in my head at that time.) But now I wonder, did part of his soul become the air I breathed? Maybe I can carry him with me wherever I go, for as long as I live, and then when my day comes, the parts of our souls that were so connected will depart together.

I think I can believe in that.

Joe has now been gone for ten days and I am not sure what I feel, frankly. Grief is too obvious and too small a word. Hollow is more appropriate, but not complex enough. I move around the house like a ghost, cleaning shelves and cabinets and closets that had been neglected all summer as we fought through the throes of what would become the final battle. As I clear out the dust and cobwebs, I wonder if I might see an iridescent Joe peek out from behind a doorway or feel a slight brush of his freezing cold feet on my body under the covers. It feels good to complete tasks I had to ignore for so long, but I wonder what I will do with myself when everything is clean. Joe will still not be here. I will still be a ghost.

Today I wanted to look at my novel. So I did. I opened the laptop, and the document, and looked. Yep. It exists. The revisions are not finished but the words are still there. And then I pushed it aside and went to the grocery store. I really needed eggs. And orange juice. And a smaller coffee pot. I’m downsizing an entire life in half. Although I’m leaving every evidence of Joe exactly as it is for now. His clothes, his games, his books, his boots by the door. I love having the proof of our creative, loving, and full life all around me. When I’m in the studio–the room where most of Joe’s games and figures and notebooks are kept–it’s like being inside his brain. It’s a mess, but it’s a beautiful mess. The acrylics and colored pencils, the odd pieces of styrofoam or plastic he collected to turn into terrain, the tiny figures he painstakingly painted, the writing craft books, maps, dice, chess sets, stickers, and an insanely ridiculous number of pens. His laptop. His journals.

The other day, I picked up one of those journals. He was always leaving notebooks around the house, we both did. We both journaled and scribbled notes for story ideas, plotting and brainstorming, and he also had game designs and strategies he was constantly working on. We never looked at each other’s notebooks–I trusted him, he trusted me, and I don’t think that the other person’s notes were all that interesting to either of us anyway. We talked about everything we were doing or dreaming or fearing; there was never a need to snoop. But this one has a dragon on the cover. And I’d seen him writing in it during the last few days he was able to write. So I opened it.

Although he started this at the beginning of our cancer journey, he was not as prolific a journalist when it came to personal thoughts and opinions, as I am. I wish he’d left me hundreds and hundreds of pages of his beautiful handwriting for me to soak in as these lonely days begin to pile up. But his words to me are a gift nonetheless, even the entries in which he was documenting my cranky days. (Thanks for keeping me humble, love.)

Ten days before he died, he wrote this:

I wish I could tell him thank you for making sure I knew that I was loved. Although I never doubted him, he knew how badly I struggled with that, generally speaking. He understood the source and power of the long-running mixtape of misbelief in my head and he left me his dragon journal to remind me to shut that loop off. As this summer wound down, and the inevitable became clear, the one thing I wanted was for everyone to know how much I loved him. Maybe if everyone knew that could save him somehow? Love is supposed to win, dammit.

We should have had so much more time, but I am also grateful for every day—and every word—we did have. And in that way, I suppose love did win.

Now to get through the next ten days…and if anyone needs a pen, I’ve got you covered. Or rather, Joe does.

He wants us to have beer and music, tears and laughter, at his funeral, which I’m now dubbing “Joe’s After Party”. It reminds me of that sappy, 90’s, romantic-tragedy-comedy PS: I Love You. I once cried and fantasized over that movie because I wanted a love that could make me as sad as the protagonist. They have a party for her departed at a bar and share stories of his life while The Pogues play in the background. I found that part of the movie–the grief–a more truthful love than the hot Irish rebound that happens shortly after. Movies have a way of making it all look so simple. But I did get the love I wanted, and ironically will have the same loss. Money’s out on the hot Irish rebound.

We found out last week that the cancer has taken over. I knew it would eventually win, (exactly why I didn’t want to call this a battle) and so I have had a lot of time to think and feel my way through the point we are at now: looking at hospice. But I think Joe spent more time staying focused on getting well each time there was a set-back, so he wasn’t processing–or at least communicating to me–about how he felt about the future. How he felt about dying. In his mind, he was getting well. And for him, and all of us, that was the right perspective. Joe’s optimism about life in general, something that’s always been authentic to who he is, kept me alive too.

I’ve let him lead us through this process as far as conversations with doctors and family and even between us, because I felt like this had to move at his speed–even if my heart and mind were processing several steps ahead. For the last couple years this has made me feel like we are on parallel tracks instead of the same track as we had been for over a decade. The resulting distance that put between us was really hard for me to manage at times, especially while navigating some major emergencies that forced me to be nothing but an ambulance driver. I’m sure Joe felt the distance too.

But now we are on the same track again. When we got the results of the scans, Joe asked the hard, hard questions. It was a courageous thing, but as he said, “I have to know the reality.” And it’s at the point where there is no denying or fighting against the reality. For a while, you can go forward expecting good results, and get them. And it feels like a win each time–because it is. In that way, I suppose I understand the battle mentality. But many, many people, specifically with esophageal cancer, don’t get as many wins as we got. Many don’t survive a single skirmish. Are they not warriors?

From the beginning, I knew Joe was a warrior whether he survived the very first round of treatment or not. It had nothing to do with winning or losing, really. He has the heart of one regardless of what cancer would do to him or how fast.

My husband is dying. Now we can both say it. Try to prepare ourselves for it. Nothing will ever be the same again. But as soon as I met Joe, I knew that was the case. My heart was altered with our love, and in that way, I’d already accepted any fate we might share.

Over the last few weeks I’ve noticed this shift inside my body. It’s typical for me to start to feel a sort of winding down in fall, this whole-body, whole-heart pulling in. Perhaps it’s my soul preparing for the cold, dark nights of winter, and the holidays, which have always made me melancholy. It’s time for rest, after the summer, and I think I would have made a good chipmunk or groundhog, burrowing down, curling up and ignoring the world for a few months. God, that sounds incredible, doesn’t it?

Although we humans aren’t afforded a true hibernation, I think a lot of us introverts especially feel this during the fall. And this particular season the desire to turn inside myself is stronger than it’s ever been. As my husband’s health teeters, my fortitude against the world grows thin and sheer. I care about very little other than what is going on inside our home and hearts, and my energy to interact, which has always been rather low to begin with, has faded to paranormal levels. I was out at a book event the other night, something I usually enjoy doing because generally the crowd is at least connected by the book or the author or writing, so there’s an easy way into every conversation. But I slipped out the back door without saying goodbye.

Pretending you care about your job when your life is in a perpetual crisis is next to impossible. I’m able to do what needs to be done because the paycheck motivates me, and sometimes it is a good distraction, but that’s about it. And I hate that. I care deeply about caring deeply. And when I don’t, everything is just off. It’s impossible to be proud of the work you do when you don’t care about it.

My agent sent back notes for a next round of revisions, something that usually fires me up, (I’m the weirdo who loves the red pen). Instead, I stared at the notes trying to make myself care about a single sentence. Actually trying to retain a single sentence. I gave up, closed the email and haven’t looked since. This, in particular, really worries me. This book (feels like) my last shot and I have zero space in my brain for it right now.

That’s really why I bought the bulbs. Digging in the dirt for a couple hours occupies my mind, gives me a job I like, and a purpose, however small, that will yield future results to look forward to. Often, like taking a long, brisk walk, physical tasks help to loosen the knots in my brain. Gardening and caring for the property have always been rejuvenating for me.

It’s very difficult to look into the future, or plan, or dream, or create, when your life requires you to stay present and just survive. I thought, if I plant new flowers, I will have something to look forward to all winter. Some of you are going to think that’s really sad, or maybe kind of basic. Daffodils? Yeah, they’re pretty basic, but the bees sure appreciate those little yellow sanctuaries, sheltering them from the frost. And I can give them more housing options, a whole subdivision of the gardens I already have, and I’ll enjoy both the flowers and the bees next March. No matter how cold or snowy or dark the winter becomes, I can count on the sunny additions to my garden.

It’s not enough. But it’s something.

The secret: Ignoring housework, writing at odd hours, and sometimes (shhhhh) ignoring my day job.

As of this post, I will be finished with my first round of revisions, as well, and hopefully will have sent it off to my agent. Again, by applying the same method as above. I skip meals, I forgo getting my car washed, I ignore the fact the grass out front is, oh, inching toward a foot in height. I sadly haven’t been to the gym in months. Right now, self care means staying in my robe till noon as I write.

But sometimes, you must put your energy into the thing that is the most important to you, despite the cost to other things that are important to you, so that you can finish said thing. I’m almost positive my agent will want another round of revisions, but the bulk of the work is done. I am my worst critic, but I’m also my best motivator and this time especially I had to really push myself to keep going during some challenging circumstances. It feels good to be done with this particular stage.

A writer-friend recently posed a question to a group of us: How do you keep writing through grief? She was rightfully tired of the brute force method, which I can relate to all too much. It sucks when your creative flow is blocked by sadness, pain, or any other decidedly oppositional force. But, I thought, sometimes in order to finish, brute force is required. And in this case, it is the only reason my draft is done.

And once this tome is on its merry way, everything else will get done. Such is the life of many writers, squeezing in words wherever we can because we must. I wish someday it will be different for me, but I’ve gotten used to this method of a patchwork life, so for now it is what it is. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the book that breaks the pattern. Or maybe this book will just confirm what I already know: Writing, no matter how difficult and frustrating the puzzle becomes, is my soul’s purpose. Because when I solve the puzzle of the story, it’s the greatest reward. Even if no one else ever reads it.

So, friends, please send all your good vibes and prayers and thoughts into the universe for me. This book was born from a single question and has blossomed into a speculative labyrinth about grief and the power of dreams with a crazy twist at the end. This story got me into to my MFA program, led me to my husband, graduated with me as my thesis, and has kept me company over the years, between many other projects, as the one that just wouldn’t let go.

Hopefully you’ll see her on the shelf someday.

Words don’t fall out of my mouth the same way they spill from my hands. When I speak, I am a fool, when I write I’m a fool with a better vocabulary. I am trying to process too many things at once these days between three jobs–marketing, editing, authoring–a home to run, dogs to care for, and a sick husband. My jobs are all about words. My life is all about tasks. Between it all, my mind and body have become separated like oil and water; I have disconnected from all of it in self-preservation.

But is it self-preservation? Or is it denial?

I don’t know, so I write through it.

At 3am, anxiety dust bunnies fill my head. The very long impossible-to-do list. Bills.Debt.Taxes.Firewood.Lawn care.Laundry.Medical calls.Appointments.Schedule juggling.The dogs need their flea meds.I forgot to buy coffee.My car is due for oil.Joe’s prescription is ready.

What else can I do at 3am except list all of the things I cannot do at 3am?

I fall back to sleep and wake up later than intended. It’s shameful to sleep in, unproductive and wasteful. It doesn’t matter that I have nowhere to be other than inside my computer. There are words and tasks waiting. How can I be so lazy when there is so much still to be done? Now I must decide between work in which I’m paid and work in which I hope I’ll get paid.

Is that entitlement? Or is it persistence?

I don’t know, so I write through it.

I get angry at people who are “cancer free”. I get angry at people who are at the beach. I get angry at people who can make plans more than a week ahead. I get angry at people who get their haircut regularly. This is one of the stages, I’m told. This is normal. But anger has to be channelled. Grief compartmentalized. Comparisons squashed. In order to carry on the tasks, and write the words, and get up each morning, I remain oil and water.

Is this living? Or is it just survival?

It is both. So, I write through it.