I have forgotten how to do small talk. I find myself standing there, or sitting there and I hear what the people around me are discussing but I cannot for the life of me figure out how to respond. I normally enjoy the easy conversation with my hairdresser, but hearing her talk about her upcoming trip to Cancun tonight, and how she’s been at the tanner in preparation…all that runs through my head now is, “Cancer! Cancer!” And so I sit, in awkward silence, not knowing how to form shallow words of polite conversation.

People at work have heard the news now and stop to offer their love and support but I have trouble even standing there, trouble accepting the hugs, the sympathies, the sincere offers of help. I just want to run. I want to be alone. No, I just want to be with James.

In all fairness, I’ve never known what to say to someone in tragic situations. “I am so sorry,” has never had weight to me, and yet beyond that, I never knew what words could even do to help lighten a load during difficult times. I don’t begrudge anyone for their attempts to show concern or to offer support, I just honestly don’t know what to do with it. They get to hug me and say they are sorry and then they get to walk away and discuss it all over dinner or a glass of wine with the people they love who are not going through this at all. They get to be sad for a moment and then they get to get on with life.

“How is James feeling?” people ask. “Well, he’s been better,” I say.

“Well, yes, but I mean, how does he feel?” they will persist.

“Terrified,” I respond.

I’m sure there’s a better answer, and I’m sure people with better filters than me have those responses at the ready, but I applaud myself for not screaming, “How the hell do you think he is doing? He was fine a month ago and now he knows he has Stage 4 metastatic melanoma. It’s in his lungs, his spleen, his liver and his bones. How the hell would you be doing?” I mean, I don’t say that.

But I want to.

Two younger women walked into the salon. They had a six pack of White Claws and a $200 straightener that they wanted the other stylist to show them how to use. They sat and chatted about their lives while getting highlights and color, about lives far wilder than mine has ever been. “Ah, the freedoms that come with being kidless,” my stylist, a mother of four who keeps taking in foster children said. “Ah, twenty-somethings who haven’t had a difficult hand dealt to them just yet,” I thought.

I came home and James was already in bed. I curled up beside him and sobbed. He held me and understood far better than any that words can’t fix this. There wasn’t any small talk between us, just tears.

He didn’t want to send it as a text, but he knew a phone call would have been worse. Waiting until I got home might have made logical sense, but he knew I was waiting just as much as he had been.

I had already alerted my class as I don’t ever have my phone notifications on and I’m never glued to it like I was. I explained I was waiting on some news and I promised them it would be turned back off the moment I heard.

But when it came, as prepared as I thought I was and as vague and nonspecific as the results still remain, I couldn’t breathe. I read his words and stood frozen in my spot. More tests. Back to U of M. Concerns but without diagnosis. I turned around and stared out the window of my classroom at the playground and forced deep breaths in and deep breaths out, but it wasn’t helping. There’s too much history. Not just because this is almost a year ago exactly to when he discovered a sore in his ear that led to removal of the malignant melanoma a few months later, but because of my mom, his dad, his sister. It’s a well worn path of cancer diagnosis that doesn’t feel easier because of the familiarity but instead feels all that more terrifying – even though we don’t know for sure.

I thought about calling the office and asking someone to cover my room for a few minutes but I honestly didn’t think I could speak. I picked up my water bottle and walked out of the classroom, tears rolling down my face by the time I reached the door. I saw a colleague in the hall, but didn’t look up or speak and she didn’t stop to talk. I struggled just to walk to the refill station and fill my bottle back up. I just stood and tried to breathe, tried to calm myself, tried to push it all down. I wasn’t ready to return to my room so I stopped at the copier and let the rhythm of my copies lull me back into a more rational and less emotional state.

When I returned to my room, I dried my eyes before entering and did everything I could to smile and act normal. The kids were still working quietly, God bless them for that gift, as I had been gone longer than I ever am.

At lunch I called James and he explained exactly what had been said and exactly what tests were being ordered. A full-body PET scan, a head MRI and a lung biopsy at this point, but perhaps others to come. Concern over the lungs for sure, but also the thyroid. Orders for the tests were put in as asap, so the urgency wasn’t just something we felt but was a concern to the surgeon as well.

The rest of the day was a blur. I finished comments on report cards but I don’t know if I could tell you what I wrote. I updated my emergency sub plans and put together lessons for Thursday when I know we will be in Ann Arbor for at least one of the scheduled tests. A co-worker told me about something for one of my students and I stood and nodded but I struggled to have any interest in what she was saying.

At home, we spent the evening helping each other focus on the positives, but the ghosts are alive in our house. We both have more experience that we’d like with the processes and procedures that come with the diagnosis we don’t know for sure and so we didn’t say out loud.

For now, we need to breathe. Just breathe.

Only sometimes, it feels impossible to do even that.

My second mom recently shared an interview with me in which an author, Michelle Zauner described remembering her mother as, “colliding with a wall that won’t give.” The impenetrable sense of her grief is tangible to me, but the singularity of the metaphor, that you collide and then fall or break or heal or move in a different direction is not how my own experience goes.

Memories of my mother come in waves. Many times, I can feel their approach, as predictable as the phases of the moon, and the tides ebb and flow in ways I can manage regardless of circumstance. But there are still times, nearly thirty years after her passing that the waves come unexpectedly, a tsunami of emotion that I all but drown in.

I partially hosted a bridal shower yesterday for my niece. Memories of my mother were prevalent, many were in fact invited in -using her recipes, her dishes, even her wedding gown hanging on display – there was no avoiding her presence. Even in the unexpected moments of reminiscence – moments in the grocery store when I was overwhelmed by decisions and I wished for her guidance, or thinking ahead to the event and wishing she could have lived to not only meet her granddaughter but to see her get married – even in those moments, I was mostly prepared. These memories, these heartbreaks have familiar ruts in my heart, they have traversed these paths before and I can, with effort, manage their power.

But moments before the shower, idling waiting for the church doors to unlock, I absentmindedly reached for lotion in my purse. Sitting alone in my car it was only seconds before the wave hit. For thirty years I had avoided buying her brand of lotion. It was a scent far too familiar. She would put lotion on during church, inevitably or perhaps purposefully putting too much in her palm and so always sharing it with us girls by rubbing our hands in hers. And yet, here I was, having inadvertently purchased Jergens lotion, it was as if she were seated next to me. It took many long moments to rein in the tide and gather myself together.

These memories and even the emotions they trigger are not unique to me, but they affect me in different ways for every different moment. I held it together, did my part in hosting the shower and held the flood of emotions at bay.

But at 2am the dam broke. I woke in sobs, unable to stop the flood. All my walls had eroded away and the waves came crashing, crashing and I realize, maybe for the first time that it isn’t the memory of her that causes such intense emotion, it is the absolute, unchanging void of her – the absence of her is the jagged knife. And lying there, I miss my mother so deeply, so acutely that I cannot catch my breath. The pain of loss is tremendous and wretched and perhaps the most unavoidable consequence to a life well-lived, as it’s only by loving deeply that we grieve so deeply.

It’s easy to underestimate the power of memory and of grief. From the safety of shore, we can’t often see the size of the wave or the speed of the approach. But I know it can strip me bare in mere seconds. It can leave me gasping for air and flailing to stay afloat. All of my defenses are eroded away and when it finally does recede, I am bereft, shattered and broken.

I am not stronger because I weathered this storm once again. I am stronger only because the storm lives inside me all the time and I have yet to let it consume me.

Recently, I asked my dad if he would make me a writing desk. I have been blessed throughout my life with many, many things made with his woodworking talents and this request was made from far more than just my practical need for a place to type. The thought of sitting in a space crafted by his hands, using the talents he handed down to me to compose thoughts on figurative paper delights my soul in ways I cannot easily articulate.

In preparation for such, my beloved husband assembled a make-shift surface, mainly to help us determine ideal dimensions to pass along to Dad as he begins planning and building. I chose a spot in our bedroom at a window that looks out into our front yard.

On winter mornings such as this, the sun shines brightly through the bare, snow-laden trees, almost too brightly. Just now, I watched Delilah, in the pasture, amble up to the water trough for a drink and many birds have chosen to land in the shrubbery out front. If I crane my neck just a bit, I can even spy my flock of girls out in the coop, scratching and pecking away. In the summer, this will all be shady, and the songs of all the birds will be heard through the screens. The feeders and birdbaths will be busy and there will be critters of all varieties scampering across the wooded lawn. If I can keep myself from daydreaming, it’s the perfect spot for composing.

During my morning workout today, I chose to listen to a favorite podcast instead of my usual playlist. “A Way With Words” not only keeps my mind off my labored breathing, but discusses a subject of great interest to me – words. This morning, one of the callers brought up a concept that lead to the sharing of a German word, “waldeinsamkeit” which means a woodland solitude. It speaks viscerally to the notion of being alone in the woods, but never really being lonely because you are surrounded by nature. It was a word that spoke directly to my soul.

This spot, this place, this writing, this home, these moments shared between just me and a keyboard are some of my most content moments. Solitude, but not loneliness, in nature. Looking out as I write this, I cannot see a single living thing now, but the tracks across the snow tell me many have been here. I am alone, and yet, I am never really alone

I was blessed with two snow days in a row this week. They edged up against the weekend, making them even more of a treasure. January is a tough month for all, but snow days, especially caused by deep, steady snow like the lake-effect snow we received, make for a beautiful landscape and not a reason in the world to go out in it. In a moment I will take warm oatmeal to the chickies, and an apple or two to the cows. The dog will frolic in the snow – the only one in the house who is ever happy to see it fall – and the cat will continue to nap on the down comforter, basking in the gently moving ray of light streaming in through the panes. I will treasure the solitude. I will treasure the nature around me and I will allow the feeling of contentment to reverberate in my soul – waldeinsamkeit. A blessed thing indeed.

I had to marry him to get it, or at least that’s how I like to tell the story. I had always wanted a Wrangler and it had seemed like kismet when James was driving one when we started dating. It was years before the Jeep became “mine”. That was when my car became Jacob’s and James became the proud owner of a truck. That was a win-win-win situation, for sure! That was many years ago now, and I’ve driven it ever since. I have loved summer days with the top back and winter days of dropping it into four-wheel and safely getting to where I was going without a worry. I have mastered the wave, even learning to discern those silly Jeep trucks who, in my book, don’t technically get the honor of the Jeep wave. James and I have driven more country roads together in that vehicle as we have house-hunted, farm-hunted, Sunday-driven and just killed time together looking at other people’s landscaping, barnyards and lifestyles from a roadside view. The Jeep has been our steadfast vehicle, never once requiring major mechanical work that was out of the range of James’ expertise. Today, she was sold to a new family, and it sounds silly, but I might have cried just a little. She was there from the very first day with us and now our garage and our lives will be Jeep-less.

It’s the right time to sell it, I know. We were given a very sensible, low-mileage vehicle by James’ mom, and it’s the responsible thing to keep that one and sell the old high-mileage Jeep while the used market it so hot. It makes sense. It does. We have been extraordinarily blessed by both the Jeep and the gifted vehicle. Selling the one and keeping the other is the responsible choice. But.

I’d like to say I’ll for certain own another. I’d like to say that. It might make me feel better if I convince myself of that, but I couldn’t have predicted that I’d ever have driven that one for as long as I have, or that I’d be driving a “sensible sedan” now, so I guess I’ll leave the certainties to someone else. For now, I’ll pat myself on the back for making the responsible choice and I’ll appreciate the money in the bank. But one of these days, it’s going to be my day to pick my vehicle again. I just hope this time, I don’t have to sleep with someone to get it.

Last night, while James and I were out to eat, I noticed a spot on his lip and asked him about it. “I told you about that,” he said as he went on to tell me how he had even asked the ear surgeon about it at his last check-up as it was the same size and color of the spots that had been removed from his ear. “It’s just a little blood blister. I just have to keep an eye on it. We talked about this,” he assured me. I didn’t remember any conversation about it, not even him talking to the surgeon about it. But, it isn’t the first time I haven’t remembered something lately, though, so I didn’t think too much of it.

A little further into the meal, James commented on the chicken he has chosen as part of his entrée. He was quite impressed with it and urged me to try a bite. “I had that when we were here last year,” I reminded him. “Remember? We liked it so much we tried to copy it at home as well.” He assured me he didn’t remember any of that, but enjoyed the rest of the chicken none the less.

As we continued to eat and talk, I had to chuckle. Sometimes, I worry that as we age as a couple and as our years together stack up, we will eventually run out of things to talk about, especially during dinners out such as this. I worry that we will be this old couple, eating in silence, with nothing meaningful to discuss anymore. But as our conversation continued, I realized I had no reason to worry. James and I will always have things to talk about, even if it’s just repeating conversations one or the other of us has already forgotten and I expect we will both be blessed by these small moments of forgetfulness for years and years (and years!) to come!

I was drying my hair this morning when I remembered. I’m not sure why it struck me then, but those of you my age or older will nod your head in understanding and those younger will think you have years before it happens to you, but last night, after bringing in three eggs from the coop, I got distracted and never got them washed or put away. It happens. And why I remembered while drying my hair is beyond me, but that’s more nodding from some of you and more worry from others.

In any case, I set the hair dryer down and went to the kitchen where I found two eggs still on the counter. Two. No omelette pan on the stove indicating that James had eaten one for breakfast earlier. Just two eggs. I turned around and looked at Trudy and asked, “Where’s the other egg?” I opened the mud room door, giving her access to her dog door and she went running outside.

Burying is one of Trudy’s favorite things to do with precious items. Give her a new bone? It must be buried outside. If she steals James’ hat, it will be buried out back. If you happen to give her a bone and she can’t get outside, she will crybaby while pacing all around the house until you finally give in and just open the doggone door (pun intended, Dad!) I’m convinced our backyard is a treasure trove of lost socks, hats and other assorted items.

I washed the two remaining eggs, put them away and went back to drying my hair. Trudy returned, snout full of snow, tail just a-wagging, but no egg. I looked right at her and said again, “Trudy, where is the egg? Go get the egg!” much in the same way I tell her to go get her duck or moose toy when we play fetch. She ran off to the master bedroom.

I continued to dry my hair until I heard a thunk! and turned around just in time to see Trudy chasing after a rolling egg in the hallway!! I told her to leave it, and I picked up the egg from the floor. It had dog fur on it, but other than that, it was unbroken. I figure she must have “buried” it in her dog bed at some point last night.

The only thing I knew to do (besides put the egg in the compost bin) was to laugh and tell her what a good girl she is. The poodle in her wanted to steal the egg, but the Bernese in her was too guilty to keep her secret. Ahh, Trudy. Thank you for blessing my morning with heartfelt laughter!

It has been a very long time, but I did it. Again. National Novel Writing Month lasts for the thirty days of November and encourages all participants to write a very rough draft of a novel that is at least 50,000 words long. I think this may have been my sixth time completing the challenge, but I’m not entirely sure anymore. It feels like a lifetime ago thinking back to when I last made the attempt.

This time, I brought some of my students along for the ride. There’s a Young Writer’s version of the challenge and I had six students reach their word goals and ten or so make an attempt to get there. We spent many recesses together with Chromebooks in the hallway (social distancing) to help us get to our word count goals. They had a blast and so did I.

So, while it will probably never be published, I can yet again say, “I wrote a book.” It’s a children’s book and it’s in its infancy as a wretched first draft, but it’s a book in any case and for now, that’s definitely something.

And for now, while it just sits and waits for the major overhauling of the revision process, I am back to blogging. Which isn’t a major accomplishment, either, but still, in my world, its definitely something. I feel blessed by words in so many ways, big and small, and in this space or while working on a book, I feel a part of me soar. And that, is a huge blessing indeed.

For those who don’t know, it’s National Novel Writing Month, an event I have participated in at least five times previously, but it’s been quite a while since I last spent the month of November trying to write 50,000 words. But I am all about it this year.

I have about ten students who are participating in the NaNoWriMo Young Writer’s Program, including a group of 5 or 6 girls who have spent nearly ever recess with me so far this month, typing away on their Chromebooks. They aren’t trying to write 50,000 words, of course, they set their own word count goal, but they are learning about chapters and tables of contents and the difficult but necessary art of typing without editing.

As for me, I know it’s where my bliss lives. I know that. Every now and then I read these silly Cosmo-like articles that help you determine your life’s passions. The last one I read said, “What would your eight year-old self think you should be doing right now?” and “What do you do that your get so wrapped up in that you forget to eat, or sleep or pee?” Well, you need to know me for about a minute and a half to know the answer is “writing.” The best part of my day right now is the twenty minutes I get to type out part of my story while surrounded by ten year olds doing much the same thing. Truly.

So, I’m doing it. I’ve already written a really lousy children’s story years and years and a lifetime ago during NaNo, and I took two separate years to start and then finish a craptastic adult novel that will never ever be read by another human being it is so bad, but this year, I had a nugget of an idea for another children’s book and I’m trying to sort through it. My students, of course, are very eager to read it, and I am sure they will pile on the praise when they do, but it needs a LOT of work to be even categorized as “readable.”

All that said, and all excuses and self-deprecation aside, I’m having a blast. I wake up in the night with ideas about my characters. I type at the counter, during lunch and before and after school sometimes and I feel like I could type all day if only someone would pay me to. But what I love the most is when I am typing away and all of a sudden, something appears on the page – my characters say or do something that even I didn’t see coming – and I am as enthralled as any reader. I can’t explain it, but it’s magical. I have notes scratched on the back of six crossword puzzles and a file folder. I have notes in my phone and I have a husband who promises me he can completely erase his brain and re-read my story without any knowledge from the first three times he has read it.

So, I have 30,562 words so far and I am right on track to hitting 50,000 by the 30th. Report cards are due in a week and I brought home an absolute mountain of papers to grade, but the only thing I am focused on this weekend is moving my plot forward.

I don’t expect my story to ever exist outside of my classroom, but I look forward to handing it over to my students, my first line of adoring fans. Have no doubt, their criticisms will be as sharp as their praises, but it will be magical to see my kids reading my book. But, if that’s the case, then I’d better get busy!