Monday, February 20, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
I have to say my subconscious did a superb job and constantly making me forget it was the Day of Lovers. When I got to work this morning, I held the elevator for a stranger I saw rounding the corner. When I exited the elevator on my floor she said, "Happy Valentine's Day." It was sort of puzzling to me (maybe it was a better hair day than I thought?), but as the day wore on and I received Valentine's greetings from people I actually knew I realized today was a recognized day of love--ideally and selfishly not from the one person I'd love it be from--and there was no denying it.
It seems when you love or have loved as much as I have, there is a wake of sorts that washes up on you--sometimes when you're not expecting it or even wanting it. Of course, not wanting love is ludicrous. We all want it. We're not always ready for it. I'm becoming an expert at not being ready for feelings I'm not ready for. As I left the office this afternoon, it was like a replay of leaving work the first day I returned to work after Ken died. The elevator ride and walk to the car was a shocking realization that my emotions were about to explode. After they did the ride home was quiet. I realized it on Lake Shore Drive. No music. No talking (I talk to myself a lot--or, really, I do "scenes"). Nothing. Quiet. Solemn.
When I got home I went to my computer and pulled last year's blog from Valentine's Day. It was dedicated to him, and it's the only comment he ever made on my blog, though he was a reader of it as long as he was able. It's as special as it is difficult to have words he wrote frozen in time and accessible whenever I feel the urge to connect with him or punish myself. His words are so present and sweet. So very him.
Love comes at you. You can't always predict from where or when it will happen. And it won't always be from a desired source. But if you're as lucky as I am, it comes from all around. Friends and loved ones reaching out and loving me. And that reminder was confirmed when I opened my front door and found a box of chocolate covered strawberries, courtesy of my LA family, with a sweet note.
The box of goodies came with explicit instructions--which I followed to the letter:
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
"The Rules of Inheritance" was released on February 2. I woke up that morning to an email from Amazon.com, letting me know the book had been delivered to my Kindle. Up and out of bed with the excitement of a toddler on Christmas morning, I grabbed my iPad and curled up in a chair in the living room and devoured the first section while sipping the day's first cup of coffee. But it didn't stop there. It couldn't. I was riveted; compelled to keep reading. I couldn't put it down. My friend--the author--Claire Bidwell Smith's first book was a first book for me too: it was the first book read from cover to cover in one sitting. It consumed me.
I knew some of the stories from meeting Claire, when she was our hospice grief counselor who made weekly visits to north side apartment as part of the hospice services afforded to my partner Ken, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer. On her visits, during many of our talks we asked her about where the book was in terms of getting published. It was exciting and terribly impressive--particularly to aspiring writers like Ken and I. He was as thrilled for her as I was. In fact, the whole family really got into the act.
The book itself is a sensual read about her experience of having both parents diagnosed with cancer within months each other when she was fourteen. Her mother died when she 18 and her father when she was 25. A lot of loss for an only child to deal with. Her easy writing style in the book is unconventional--more like reading a personal diary in some ways than anything else. And most importantly, I felt like she was talking to me. I could hear her gentle serene voice reading the words aloud in my head.
So much has happened since those visits last spring. She and her family relocated to LA just a week or so before Ken died. And through the darkness that ensued, Claire and I remained in touch, even having the opportunity to meet for drinks later in the summer--to check in with each other. Emails and texts followed. And as a faithful reader of her blog, I was kept in constant touch with what was going on in her exciting pre-publication life.
Within the framework of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance), Bidwell Smith weaves a lattice of vignettes from her life, not chronologically but by these stages that serve to envelope you and take on this journey with her. With no shroud or subterfuge, Claire tells her story poetically in some parts, and with stark honesty in others. It was a true emotional roller coaster. There were parts where I openly wept for her and what she was going through, other times I wept selfishly without abandon for myself, what I've lost because she was saying rings that I'd said or felt during my husband's illness. And other times, I didn't know who I was weeping for.
I don't know if I ever would have heard of Claire's book had I never known her or experienced loss and subsequent grief as I did, but that's how life works, I suppose. When someone special like Claire comes into your life, you know your better for it. I know I am. Her book helped me to release some feelings I wasn't sure I still had, and I'm so grateful for that.
If you have ever experienced loss and grief, I strongly encourage you to pick up a copy of this book. Yes, I'm a little jaded because we're friends, but that didn't mitigate what a well-written memoir it is.
I encourage Chicagoans to go to her book signing event at Women and Children First Books on March 1. You can see her other events on her website, or check out my review (and several others) on amazon.com.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Just the words "Uncle Ron" handwritten on the envelope set my chin quivering--if only for a few seconds. It had chased away the sullen feelings the first piece of mail had brought on--and then some! It made my day and, since then, my week. It has occurred to me every day, and I love it--and the sender! (Coincidentally, today is his twelfth birthday.) I did send a card, though a day late, I'm afraid.
Sending handwritten cards is a practice I used to do more often, and this sweet note is a reminder I need to pick up the pace again. There is nothing like getting a surprise note from someone you love. Nothing.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
I couldn't believe when I looked at the calendar this week and realized I'd completely missed the anniversary of Ken's hemipelvectomy surgery. And more than that, I can't believe it was two years ago--and somehow--and not just last year. It seems I've lost a year somewhere along the way. I remember we didn't commemorate it last year either. It slipped past us silently--like a ninja.
That surgery was our greatest hope--to rid him of the cancer that had returned--and our greatest fear--what would life look like for him--and for me--without a pelvis and one complete leg. But either way, it was full steam ahead. Ultimately, it was his decision and I knew he would decide to proceed with surgery after we heard the limited array of options. And he had my complete support--always.
The events of that day--surgery day--are as clear me to me now as they were that day--maybe clearer, I wasn't getting much sleep then. "Daunting" doesn't begin to describe it. But in 2010 we were all so optimistic, and had every right to be. But more importantly, there was no room for pessimism for such a complex, invasive and life-altering procedure. (There was never room for pessimism in Ken's life…period.) I was surrounded by family and friends in the waiting room that morning, but in truth I'd never felt so alone. Ken was my main support pylon in every respect and despite their best efforts no one could come close to making me feel as reassured as he did.We didn't realize the surgery hadn't started on time. In fact, it started several hours later than planned. So as the clock in the waiting room spun at a snail's pace, mocking me, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin--and into someone else's life. As the morning passed, members of surgical teams who had been so appointed came to collect the family of a patient, or at least to give the latest information. Each time someone in scrubs approached the waiting area, I clinched my jaw, hoping it would be about Ken. Each time, it wasn't.
Ken recovered so quickly that week in the hospital. Too quickly, I think, for his own good. He was freaked out when he found out early Friday morning he'd be released later that day--after undergoing the surgery on Monday. I was surprised, but not as freaked out. (Only one of us could be freaked out at a time and he had "dibs".) He was terrified, actually, about coming home. Who could blame him? No 24/7 professional medical care. So many unknowns. It was a watershed time for me because this wasn't something we could sit down and discuss together. Decisions couldn't be made by committee during that time. It was up to me. He needed to be taken care of--physically, but more importantly, I think--emotionally. I learned in some small measure to handle things as he would have before the surgery--and ultimately after it as well. Things would be fine. Bumpy at times, yes. But we'd figure it out. And we did. We weren't as prepared at home as we thought we were, but it didn't take long for a visiting nurse to get us set up properly. Add one pushy Russian physical therapist to an already determined spirit, and what you get is hope, and a recovery for the record books.
By early spring Ken was moving freely around the apartment with a walker, pushing himself to blissful exhaustion--"sneaking" up behind me as did dishes or made dinner, and enjoying scaring the bejeezus out of me. I wasn't used to him being up and around. It was the best kind of scared I've ever been.
I don't have much of a written record in my journal of the events of that day or what followed that week because I was too…busy, distracted, scared. But I went back through my emails from that week and read them. I was sending updates to a vast distribution list of Ken-lovers with any significant developments. And they responded with the most beautiful messages of love.
Though brief, this post will be my way of celebrating such a momentous anniversary in my life. When I look back on this very solemn day I feel many things: frazzled, worried, exhausted, but mostly relieved and grateful; that Ken handled it so well and that we were both surrounded by such an amazing and loving group of people--who continue to support and love me.
A couple of days after surgery, I noticed this valentine down the street from the hospital. It was made from snow and died pink. It was like a piece of love art. It always makes me happy to think about it. It's an artistic, grand gesture worthy of Ken.