Not Closed…Just Moved

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-Ron

The V Day Gauntlet

Ken always scoffed at the idea of Valentine's Day. A Hallmark Holiday, he'd call it. But the truth is, he just didn't believe it should be relegated to one day a year. He was always presenting me or surprising me with beautiful cards he designed and filled with sweet nothings. I have collected some of them, but haven't had the wherewithal to centralize all of them. A task for 'someday'.

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:

A Book in a Day

"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.

Quick Hit: A Favorite Thing

I haven't had a chance to sit down and blog this past week, though--as always--I have continued making notes on things that strike my fancy, and that I think would make for a good blog. Until I have time to sit down and write something more substantial (the wheels are already turning), I wanted to share this photo. I was on my way out the other day and happened to check to the mail as passed. I pulled out an official-looking envelope that was addressed to Ken, and looked like tax information. A bummer on both counts. Getting "official" mail for Ken can be painful; somehow a heartless reminder. My heart fell as I got mired in my loss, then after my hand fished around in the mailbox a little more, it came up with this:



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.

Reflections on Two Years Ago...

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.

When the waiting area attendant told me there was a phone call for me, I got nervous. No one else had received a phone call in all the hours I'd been sitting there. When she pointed to the phone on the wall on the far side of the room, it was like in the movies when they do the trick with the lens that makes an object move further away. I felt like it took forever to get to that phone. I could hear the sound of my blood pumping--and pretty much nothing else. The surgery was over, and Ken had come through it expertly. I could start breathing again. As much as I appreciated that phone call, I really wished someone would have come in person like they had for everyone else. Never underestimate my ability to question why something is done differently than the norm, and interpret only the worst possible meanings.

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.

For better or for worse on that day life truly became all about the journey.

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.

Keeping My Head Low @ CVS (and Other Lessons Learned)

I have the good fortune and good genes to not be sick very often. This week I got sick. Just a cold. But a bad one for a big baby who who hasn't been sick since before Ken was rediagnosed with cancer in 2009. I wonder if maybe I have been this sick, but it was all relative and because I had so many responsibilities, it didn't matter. I had a purpose bigger than myself. I was a part of something bigger and more important.

But this week I was just sick. No bigger purpose. No one else to distract me or to take care of. And, for the first time in ten years, no one to take care of me. I don't know how it works for most people, but when I get sick I get horribly depressed and my world view becomes very grim. Aside from hacking up phlegm globbers (GROSS! I know, I say it every time), I am compelled to ponder the grandest of questions until I shut down and have no choice but to lose myself in reality TV--well, that was before I reduced my cable package--now it's losing myself in "The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret." Thank you, IFC and iTunes!

I couldn't help but think the last time I was this sick was a time when I had a fluffy Quantum to snuggle with and a very awesome and loving Ken who would arrive at home around 5:30, soothing me with his velvety voice, a quirky song and a gentle touch. He was the only person I have ever trusted to take care of me. And experiencing this "first" in a normal frame of mind would have been difficult enough, let alone in an altered- world-view-frame-of-mind was at times almost unbearable. I spent a lot of time this week in my bed--our bed--wishing beyond reality that he'd be arriving home that evening and that I could melt into his embrace. In so many ways I felt like I was starting from scratch in the mourning process.

Dragging my hacking ass to Jewel on a 50-degree Thursday to get supplies and meds for Friday's ensuing snow storm, some of my sickness was hurled at a moronic CVS worker who kept scanning a key card for my over-the-counter cold meds that repeatedly didn't work. Over and over and over. Not even looking at me and talking with a coworker about how her key card didn't work. Choking on mucus and bitterness I verbally crucified for "subpar" customer service and enlightening her on the clinical definition of insanity (repeating the same behavior and expecting a different result each time). Yeah, not my best work, but I still don't feel guilty about it. I'm sure she'll get me back on my next visit. "Price check on the hemorrhoid cream for the smart-mouthed, phlegmy older gentleman."

On Friday morning I could actually feel the optimism returning to my soul, replacing the gallons of sputum I'd chased away with Dayquil, Zicam, vitamins, and water. The harsh HD magnifying glass of my cold was shattering and giving way to a less grim world view. In many ways, it was another good bye; to physical--never emotional--aspects of my old life. Old life. It hardly seems right to say it like that. But in all the journaling I've done this week, I think the key in living my "now" life involves putting my "then" life (yeah, that feels better) into perspective and figuring out how to let it go--not forget it. Never forget it. I wouldn't--couldn't--do that. But I guess being focused on the "now" is what's important.

There is a place for my "then" life in my "now" life. Figuring it out isn't a destination, it's…(shocker)…part of my journey. I'm not 100% over my cold yet, but I'm getting there. This sucky experience of being sick was a "first" I could never have anticipated being so layered with challenges and feelings and angst. But, such is life. Now that I'm on the mend and getting back on track, I'm still planning to spank 2012 like a foul-mouthed brat.

The daunting question at hand: when is it safe to return to CVS?

The Writing is on the Wall

I really enjoyed writing last week's blog. And it came at just the right time. I began the new year with a grand cleaning and organizing project around the apartment. I'd gone through every room, touched practically everything and pulled out and donated miscellaneous and sundry things. After I'd finished up I sat down in my organized office to work on the book I've started about Ken, sharing stories from our life together and the lessons he taught and the joys he brought. Turns out, I was being too ambitious. I fell into a funk for the first few days of 2012 and it took me a while to figure out I'd done it to myself. It had been too much and I paid a very sad price for it--but have learned from it.

I stumbled around for a day or two until I was sitting in front of my computer and looking at ideas I had for the blog. I'd started writing the piece from last week in October, but I'd put it away and forgot about it. Just reading through it made me giggle--not from my writing, but from reliving the experiences in my head. I was drawn to work on it and after being so glum for the past few days, I took pauses during my work session to notice how happy I felt--even smiling. I felt it as I was writing. I was doing something that was moving me in the right direction. And it felt so good…and productive in a very important way.

Friday night I came across a DVD of some shows I was in while training at Second City back in the late 90s. That was another time in my life where I can definitely say I was doing the exact right thing in the right place at the right time. I met lifelong friends there and the shared experience of attending classes at the venerable Second City Conservatory was a mind blowing and unforgettable one. Watching the performances and recalling the fearlessness of the era filled me with improvisor's euphoria. I was IM'ing with another alum Tina about how hard we rocked it (wether we did or not). Still relishing the euphoria, I asked if she wanted to go to our favorite Boystown bar and throw back a few before finding someplace to dance. And indeed we did. We partied like it was 1998 and it was very fitting. I haven't been out on the town until 2 am for a very long time. It was a great battery recharge and reminder that--again--I was in the right place doing the right thing.

As the days pass I feel writing's importance in my life growing even greater than it has been since I was 13 and started writing my first stories. I got out of the house for a bit yesterday and walked to a coffee shop nearby in Lincoln Square to work on my essay class assignment and to fulfill my non-work socialization for the week. It was so lovely. I can usually talk myself out of leaving the house to write when I can do it at home, but I knew it would be good time and didn't stop to talk myself out of it. While sitting in the front window, my friend Beth and her little boy Ian passed by and we talked for a moment or two on either side of the window. That never happens to me, and was an awesome surprise. I love the "neighborhoodiness" of Chicago.

And I like feeling that I'm in the right place and moving in the right direction.

If You Build It, They Will Come (like it or not)

I grew up in the church--or rather I grew up in a church. No, my parents weren't a pair evangelical ministers--they were a pair of…other "colorful" nicknames throughout the years. I grew up in a church because my dad stumbled upon one for sale in rural town he'd driven through on his travels working for the state of Indiana. Unlike a normal person who would have just started a secret second family in this ideal isolated hamlet, he actually relocated my mom, two sisters and me to live there--after a bit of weekend remodeling.

I barely remember our previous house as little more than blurry snapshots in my head, taken by a one-year-old with a penchant for sneaking sips of grandma's beer. But I do remember going to the new house on weekends to "assist" my dad and grandfather, and to marvel at the open space of the house and yard. Having been a church, the house was wide open with few internal walls. My folks worked with my grandfather, a carpenter (like Jesus Christ - coincidence?) on creating a blueprint for the new house which cut the house up into the usual rooms you'd expect.

My parents didn't love my two older sisters enough to build them separate bedrooms. But they loved me enough to give me not only my own room, but a sort of custom upper bunk bed situation where my bed was attached to the wall and rested on my dresser, leaving a secret passage way behind it. A wide ladder was the way up to my loft bed, and thick rope with huge knot hung just at the end near the ladder. It was fun to swing on until pendulous gravity began helping it burrow up my bum. But it looked cool as hell and was the envy of any friend I had who ever saw it--all two of them (one was imaginary, but that still counts.)

Some weekends the renovation was a true family affair. In addition to my dad and Grandpa (his dad), my Pap (mom's dad) would come down to help. I remember him digging a huge hole on the side of the house--for plumbing or something. When it was done he asked me if I wanted to get into the freshly dug hole and play. As soon as I was deep into the wet earth he told me he was doing to fill the hole back in. I couldn't prove it in court, but the bury-me-alive part was heavily implied. When some adult finally came to the aid of my cries for help I was retrieved from the cavern and placed safely above ground. I'll never forget how hard he laughed while I was terrorized, thinking he was going to let me die in that hole. (I'm sure the hole wasn't as big as I remember; hopefully neither was my Pap's bloodlust!)

Once we were settled into our new abode my sisters would seek constant revenge against me out of their jealousy. One of the rooms carefully designed was a huge walk-in closet in our entry way. It housed my dad's suits and served as general storage for miscellaneous junk--and me. When my existence was deemed "a problem"--as it was from time to time by my sisters (one in particular, but there's no need to name names), I was tied to a chair with fashionable belts from my mom's terry cloth closet and force-fed ketchup sandwiches. But the joke was on them: a) I had learned to crave adventure--and kidnapping--from a couple of bionic friends and three little girls who went to the police academy, b) I looked amazing in terry cloth, and c) I LOVED ketchup sandwiches!

Other times when they'd set up their shared bedroom as a general store and play "town", I was only invited at the very end--though I'd been begging to be included since set-up. "Ronnie, do you want to play?" they'd finally ask me enthusiastically. "Yes!" I'd eagerly reply, jumping to me feet ready to dig in knee deep into "town". "Ok. We're cleaning up the town." The joke was back on me. My role in "town" was never more than "streets and sanitation," and it only worked on me every single time.

Any city family who relocates to the country gets a puppy (who may or may not turn out to be a furry despot.) When it came to household status I wasn't even a close third compared to our family's beloved "wonder dog" Buster--who was without dispute lord and master when Dad was traveling as he did back then. In my father's absence, Buster ran our household with an anything-you-treasure-should-have-my-teeth-marks-in-it attitude. Not unlike like my sisters, Buster liked--needed--to be center of attention. If someone brought a baby into the house, he'd take something from the diaper bag out of jealousy and chew it to a nub in his dark lair under my parents bed.

Sometimes, he'd somehow take something off the counter--mostly Tupperware--and retreat to his bed-framed cavern to decimate it. A simple command from my father would have gotten him to relinquish whatever he'd taken, but in his absence if there was any chance of getting it back with minimal damage, speed and Kraft singles were the answer. A slice of American cheese could sometimes be used in a primitive bartering system the rest of us were reduced to practicing. There were times during the complicated negotiation between my sister and I and Buster when his monotonous and unending growl would increase in volume and ferocity, depending on how close our hands were to whatever treasure he held in his death grip. To add insult to injury (which was inevitable if Dad was out of town) Buster would sometimes throw his paw into the object just to hold it steadier, his brown eyes never leaving us. He had swagger, no doubt about it.

Sometimes after particularly long negotiations we'd get sloppy, and Buster might release the Tupperware only to replace it with my index finger--which would have been too close during the cheese-offering/goods exchange. Gulping the cheese wasn't enough for him. He liked bargaining chips. And my index finger played tightly gripped hostage more times than Flo told Mel to "kiss her grits." It was in situations like this when I'd yell "GO GET MORE CHEESE" that more times than not my sister slump back empty-handed. "We're out of cheese," she'd shrug. I logged almost more hours on my parents' cold tile floor than I ever did swaddled in terry cloth in the walk in closet. And it was a far second choice.

(Buster romping in the foreground completely ignoring my sisters and me. Oh, wait, I'm ignoring them too, so it's okay. I think I was about to throw gravel in the faces for pay back for my bit part in "town".)

And what the hell is going on with my wagon? Why aren't I in it and being pulled around like a little prince by his two older huskier sisters?

Turning the Shiny Page

Like any story worth investing in--the kind that can sweep you up into its enthralling grip--turning the page is the only way to find out where the story leads, taking with you the sum of the story thus far. My life is that story. Ken isn't a footnote in my story, he's the theme. That won't change. And as difficult and heartbreaking it is to face a new year without him, part of me--maybe a selfish part--can say with relief "this isn't a year where Ken is sick" and at the very least "this isn't the year Ken died."

I spent New Year's Eve alone intentionally--physically, not emotionally. I declined New Year's Eve gatherings given out of the truest and loveliest intentions. (I spoke to some folks and received texts from others.) But NYE this year held a lot of weigh for me. I've spent all of the previous ten NYE with Ken. Some of them were with friends, some with family, some with both, but all of them were with Ken and many were just he and I (and Quantum) at home--whether in LA or Chicago. And unlike so many other holidays, NYE doesn't have any implied obligations. So we were free to make our own plans--or make none. It seemed incumbent on me to reflect on the events in 2011. Yes, the sad ones, but more importantly the happy ones. The times--even brief moments or seconds--when Ken and I shared a laugh or smile or held hands. Connecting with him was certainly the brightest memories I have of the year, but many others spent with loved ones--laughing, crying, and all in between--were among some of the most important ones as well.

It hardly seems possible to me that it's been a year since last NYE. It's somehow so easy to blink past all the events that occurred in the interim--including his death. I can remember last NYE so vividly, with his parents staying with us for the Christmas holiday. We didn't officially know what we were facing then, and though he was getting radiation therapy to treat the tumors we knew about, he was uncomfortable and in pain--though you would never guess the magnitude because of his "ken do" disposition. I long for him and our times together, but never would I want him to be in the kind of pain he endured daily. My intellectualizing self can wish for it with impunity, because I know it can never be. Yet even when I've wished for it, I never fail to qualify it "without cancer or pain."

I feel very optimistic about 2012 and all the promise it holds. Moving forward is never about forgetting--though at times it can feel that way. It may be an arbitrary date based on an ancient calendar, but the newness and the "do-over" aspect of the first of the year is undeniable in me--particularly this year.

It's time to turn the page and find out what's next for me and my story, understanding Ken and memories of life together will always be tucked safely in my heart--treasured and visited open. It's not a dramatic proclamation. It's really nothing more than I've already been doing for the past seven months. But something about the New Year makes it feel…shinier.

(For New Year's Eve 2004, we decided to get fancied up and head out to dinner at The Eclectic Cafe, a nearby restaurant we always enjoyed. Of course, we were the only ones with 6 pm dinner reservations, but we did have a Quantum to get home to. Ken (right) so clearly eclipsed me with sheer dapperness and ridiculous handsomeness. It doesn't take Vidal Sassoon to see I was clearly dealing with a "hair situation.")

The Christmas Entry

(My parents living room looks like a Christmas card, right?)

I woke up early this morning--and breathed a sigh of relief. The emotional gauntlet of my first Christmas without Ken was over! I never imagined having to experience one without him after we met in 2001, and after he died in June I dreaded December and all the holidays that surrounded it. An internal clock counted down the days with deafening silence as the year drew to a close.

But it was okay. Christmas wasn't just bearable, but it had many moments of happiness, laughter and joy. For me it was both surprising and expected. I don't think I could have fallen in love with Ken without possessing (or learning to posses) the much mentioned "journey" mentality. And likewise, I have found the "fake it 'til you make it" mentality to be just as important. Learning what to focus on and what not to focus on have been my stock and trade since Ken's re-diagnosis in 2009.

Spending Christmas with my family was truly wonderful. Though there was no snow to be seen, the Christmas spirit was present and accounted for in my childhood home. My parents possess an equal measure of realism, optimism and hard-boiled family loyalty that was served up on a platter of love for me to dine on. It wasn't just my determination to endure the holiday and somehow enjoy it alone--it was the determination of those in my family--the "birth" family who I spent the holiday with as well as my "marital" family who I spent the day with emotionally, as well as my "chosen" family of friends who thought of me, emailed or called me or Facebooked me encouraging words of love and support.

A true "win" for me this Christmas was after returning home to Chicago on Christmas Day (my family's annual celebration is on Christmas Eve), I uncharacteristically accepted an invitation from my friend Beth to drop by in the afternoon for a Christmas cocktail and spend time with her, her son and family. Usually preferring to keep my own company--particularly during times of emotional tumult and the innate difficulty of being without Ken--after considering the kind invitation, Ken's unmistakable voice said "why not?" And had he been here and we were spending the day together, he would most certainly would have wanted to go and spend time with her and her posse. Doing something new and social was right up his alley.

She lives nearby so I opted to walk--all the while stupefied that I was actually doing it. I knew Ken would be proud of me, which made the decision more steadfast in my own mind. Watching her 3-year-old son's excitement about Christmas and Santa reminded me so much of Ken's my nephews Jack and Nathan and Ken's own childlike enthusiasm. I held her 10-month old nephew as he played with some of his cousin's building blocks. While conversations went on around me, it felt like I was the only in the room, holding Isiah and watching Ian play. It was an ethereal moment I'll never forget. Moments like that haven't been uncommon, and feel like I'm suspended mid-air between my past and my present.

My walk home was slow and full of memories--not just of the Christmas I'd just left, but of ALL of them. From childhood to the nine Christmases I spent with Ken, in particular. Decorating our tree. Our annual holiday party. Christmas Eve breakfasts on the beach in Malibu with his family when lived in or visited Los Angeles. It seemed like a LOOOONG walk, and at times I wanted it to be over with--just like part of me wanted Christmas to be over with. What was so striking was walking home through the neighborhood without seeing another single person--except Santa, of course.

But Christmas is over. And I got through it--enjoyed it, even--with a little help from my friends, and Ken's ever-present voice in my heart and in my head.

Merry belated-Christmas.

Holiday Baking

Today had been marked on my calendar for weeks. "Holiday Baking." It's tradition I'd grow up with and then that Ken and I shared during our life together. But this year, I decided not to make any of our classic treats. It needed to be a whole new menu to expedient with. I'd also decided a while ago that the benefactors of my holiday treats would be the wonderful staff at the Creticos Cancer Center, where Ken was so lovingly tended to. I'd learned from my Zen cooking master how relaxing and focusing cooking/baking can be. And it lived up to its promise. I hummed Christmas carols and did my best in my pursuit of the elusive holiday spirit.

I've experienced brief flashes of it, though. Today while driving home from errands first thing, my mind drifted away from trying to inject me with the Santa Serum, and in a brief moment of not really thinking about it--and no doubt looking forward to baking and delivering my goodies, I felt it. For a split second. It was almost like being tickled suddenly. Then it was gone. That's about the fourth time it's happened. I guess thems the breaks when you are practically dry humping Christmas, molesting it to make it feel the way it used to.

While in the middle of holiday baking, I got an unexplained desperate craving for deviled eggs. I'd never made them before, and only had them rarely at get-togethers. But still I wanted them. And I all the fixings for them. After a quick clean up, I switched gears and prepped my eggs, excitedly getting out a piping back and tip to use to fill the eggs. They were tasty and I devoured each and every one of them. Then went back to baking.

The fruits of my labor:

Left to Right: Pumpkin Fudge, Turtle Bars, Toffee-Pretzel Peanut Butter Cookies, Eggnog Fudge

I couldn't help but think of Ken and his pride in my new-found kitchen affection, and it makes me happy to know I'm going to deliver the bulk of it to a group of people who were instrumental in taking such great care of him. I'd like to think of it as a way of honoring him, and spreading some Christmas spirit even if I'm not finding it myself.

I won't stop trying to capture the spirit of the holiday, but even if it doesn't happen, it doesn't change my excitement about seeing my family, and beginning to look forward to 2012.

An Anniversary Thank You

This week marks the one-year anniversary of the my first blog. During the intervening year--as I promised myself--I've written at least one blog per week. It's an accomplishment that fills my writer's heart with more than a little pride. When I began blogging in December, 2010 I told myself it was mainly to gain some exposure on the blogosphere and to begin building a public voice as a writer. But early on I knew I was fooling myself. Ken's illness and subsequent death has been a difficult journey. Were it not for my need to journal, to document, to express and share our journey together--and now mine alone--I would have been left far more damaged.

I admit without pride or glee I knew from the beginning of the bleak diagnoses there was something within me--maybe strength; maybe selfishness; maybe some measure of both--that wouldn't allow losing Ken to leave me used up and ground down. Of course Ken's eternal optimism and courage played a key role to that end. And my need alone to write this blog and to document my feelings on this journey was only part of the formula that kept me buoyant in such heavy water over the past couple of years. There have been so many people in our life together who showed unwavering kindness, grace and selfless beauty, and who played weighty roles in helping us deal with Ken's illness, and helping me cope with his death.

I couldn't think of a more appropriate anniversary gift than showing my gratitude. This is for you...

You celebrated with me during times of ground-swelling triumph, and you mourned with me during times of earth-swallowing sorrow. And you "let me be" during times of both--and all in between--because you know that's how I sometimes need to both celebrate and cope. My "apartness" is no stranger to you, yet you understand it--or at least accept it.

You wept with me during times of overwhelming despair during the last year, and you also found a way--when I was ready--to make me laugh until I cried with lung-wheezing abandon, sometimes at your own expense. You left me voicemails and understood I wasn't in the mood to talk. But you kept calling. Kept checking on me. Continued to send me love without reserve. You thought of me, and sent me strength. In spite of the hopelessness of the situation, you never stopped digging deep and finding hope and love to give to me.

You knew you couldn't experience what I was experiencing--though you begged to the heavens for the contrary to be true. You wished you could soar across space and time to get to me; to change events; to take away the pain. You selflessly turned down the volume of your own feelings in order to better hear mine. You comforted me with food; with words; with love and tenderness--sometimes without ever knowing me very well--or at all. But it never mitigated the love and compassion you drenched me with.

You picked up the slack at work--in addition to an already full workload--to assist during my FMLA absences, and to allowed me to focus on caring for my beloved, and sent me encouraging words and gifts, and instant messages of kindness and strength.

You helped me deal with a loss the likes of which I could never prepare for. You wept with me. You helped me. You loved me. You reminded me that death doesn't mean "the end" of everything. You supported me in blissful moments when I understood that, and in hopelessly lost ones when I didn't.

You texted, you Facebooked, you emailed. You sent cards, notes and care packages. You never failed to let me know that I had your support; that I wasn't alone; that I could reach out to you at any time of the day or night; that you would be there for me. And you were.

Though you tried with all that is you to understand the emptiness I feel and the hole left in my heart, you know that each grief is unique and unmatched. You never had to pretend to understand the complexity of my mourning. Because yours is just as complex.

You loved me in way that was both unique and universal in all the ways that is possible. You ignored your busy life in order to make multiple trips to spend time with Ken and to support me. You shook the martinis and manned the kitchen. You understood and valued the true meaning of fellowship and living in the moment.

Whether I have been able to tell you or not, you helped me on the journey I'm on to better understand what I've lost, but--more importantly--what I haven't, and there are good things yet to come. It isn't lost on me that Ken lovingly taught my destination-oriented psyche to embrace the journey. Like all journeys, this one comes with the bitter as well as the sweet. But it's being on the journey that counts. As I move forward into 2012, I know some important and exciting things await me. You are part of that goodness.

No one could have been so lucky as Ken and I were to have been surrounded by such loving and caring people. "Thank you" doesn't seem meaningful enough to let you know how grateful I am to you, but it's the only way I know how to do this; to thank such an elite and loving group for helping in ways that were kind, loving, and everlasting.

Thank you for your courage, love and support. I'll never forget it.

Tonight PadLo and I will have a toast to Ken's unyielding spirit, to the unmatched support and love of our friends and family, and to the first anniversary of TXD.

Cheers, my friends. To honoring the past and to all the good things yet to come.

Oh, PadLo!

Still Searching

Picasso watches over...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:N La Salle St,Chicago,United States

Searching for Christmas

As much as my brain is so wanting to get into the Christmas spirit and feel all the wonder the season implies, my heart…just isn't. I have been working my ass off to continue with traditions that Ken and I shared. Every day together was special, but the holidays were even more so. Sharing them with him, and relying on his inexhaustible optimism leaves me feeling a bit…lost…again. I knew Christmas would present its challenges, but though I thought the "what if" in me had calculated all the permutations of potential sadness and had designed "work arounds" I knew I was fooling myself to some extent, but was prepared to be surprised.

Last weekend after I returned from California, I pulled out the three components of the pink, shimmery Christmas tree I bought for Ken in 2009 and assembled it, placing it in the spot it stood in last year. The Christmas spirit has been elusive this year--as anticipated. But I've kept trying to kick start it with favorite holiday movies and plans to do some baking other holiday-inspired activities. Also, in considering Ken's personality and spirit, I know he'd want me to do what I could to "feel" Christmas. I've kept telling myself, "I've lost Ken. I can't lose Christmas too." And I think that's what fuels my rampant need to get into the spirit--this year more than any other.

I yanked out all the boxes of Christmas decorations--boxes I'm certain Ken packed away as the more patient and far more effective packer. If they were sitting in the middle of the living room, I'd have no choice but to pull out the decorations. Not so much. They sat in the middle of the living room for a week. Apparently, my "work around" was to just not go into the living room.

But this weekend was "it." Like it or not, I was going to decorate that tree!!! I had a plan. And a new tradition to start: ordering a ton of Chinese food, watching a few of my favorite Christmas movies and decorating the tree on Saturday night. To help along my Christmas spirit I got a surprise text from my sister and brother-in-law who were not only visiting Chicago for the weekend, but were seeing a play just four block from my place. I was delighted to hear they were so close and met them for drinks after the show ended. We had a great time, and laughed a lot--as usual--and anticipated the hijinx of our family's Christmas together.

Later that night, food ordered, my decorating plans were put on hold due to a defective string of lights. A fruitless trip to CVS, put my plans on hold until today when I was able to go out--first thing--and pick up some strands of blue lights. After heating up a plateful of Chinese deliciousness, I set out to accomplish my tree decorating task. Bittersweet and even a little haunting, I went through the boxes and pulled out the decorations for the tree. Time stopped as I held the very first ornament in my hand. It was a difficult moment. Memories of decorating with Ken flooded back--particularly last year. It's like when people say their life flashes in front of them. My life of Christmas memories with Ken deluged my brain. Knowing I didn't have a choice--and as experience has taught me--I surrendered to the feelings and sat down by the tree head-in-hands and sobbed until my skull ached. Acknowledging my grief and expressing it are important--as is decorating my tree.

Once my "grief burst" passed, I set to the task of placing the ornaments. And has been the case for the past two Christmases, I can't look at that pink, shimmery tree without smiling. It's whimsical, bright and unconventional--like Ken. As "Love, Actually" played in the background I lost myself in the art and mathematics of placing ornaments (which include the special one pictured below). It wasn't as joyful as it was comforting and somehow satisfying. Honoring tradition.

Once I was done, I ventured up to Lincoln Square to the Christkidl Market. How's that for some holiday cheer? My determination to force Christmas down my own throat has pushed me beyond my own comfort zone limits. Well, almost. When I got there and realized--unlike the Christkindl Market downtown--this one was one was under a giant, hot, sweaty, tent stuffed with people (and strollers). I made my donation and one round then immediately exited. But I managed to do a little shopping at the quaint shops in the Square, listening to my Christmas playlist on my iPhone. Like my quick trip to Ribfest this summer--and, really, like venturing out and doing anything I wouldn't normally do, I gave myself an "A" for effort then headed home.

Besides, it's about the journey, not the destination.

My tree…

Things I Know After the First Big Holiday

I spent thanksgiving in Southern California with my in-law family. As much as I was looking forward to the trip, part of me was dreading it--the "unknown" part of it. I didn't ever want to have to celebrate a holiday without Ken. I wasn't sure how it would go. And that was scary.

As much as I would have liked to avoid it, the holiday--as did my trip to Cali--loomed closer every day. But the closer it came the more excited I got. Not necessarily about the holiday, but to see family and friends. It was an important trip. Weighty. And in my eyes would set the tone of future trips--of which I would expect there to be many. But denying my underlying "what if" methodology I took the trip day-by-day, and sometimes moment-by-moment.

The last time I'd been to Los Angeles was with Ken for Xmas of 2009--just after we learned his cancer had returned and a hemipelvectomy was our greatest, best hope. We knew we wouldn't be traveling for quite some time. (Though Ken shattered expectations--and probably records--in his recovery and flew out six months later to surprise his dad for his 70th birthday.) It was a weighty trip as well. Punctuated by an early flight home to tend to our ailing 16-year-old Chow Chow who died shortly after our return. Hurried and scarring in ways we didn't have time to address at the time.

But on this trip spending time with my friends and the family--particularly my nephews--was a powerful and positive reminder that life continues, and joys and laughter abound in some of the most unremarkable moments. I learned perspective is a powerful thing. To lose it, devastating. To have it, extraordinary. And we must experience both at times in our lives. I learned still can party until 2 AM (though the price paid the next day is greater than I recall it being.)

I was reminded that family bonds don't change and, in fact, strengthen in the wake of loss, and that I will always have a home in LA. I learned that we are all resilient because it's who we are and as much as who we have to be. I was reminded that in spite of what I may have lost this year, I'm the luckiest man in the world and have more to be thankful for than I could ever express in words.

This trip also reminded me of some things that used to be so normal--visiting family--but haven't been normal in the past year or so. I'm grateful for every moment spent with Ken and that so many friends and family made it a priority to do so as well. But it feels good to spend time with the family...just because. Without the vice grip of some impending darkness. A return to a normality that isn't really normal at all…yet.

On the flight home, looking at photos I'd taken on the trip, something occurred to me: PadLo was a unique creation on his own, but became something special and worthy once Ken loved him. The same can be said for how Ken's love changed my life incalculably. And seeing PadLo hanging out with other unique creations made sense to me. Ken will forever be the reason I came into his family--now, my family. And the members of that family all experienced loving and being loved by him. They are all special and worthy, too.

The Stuff of Dreams

(PadLo is ready to hit it!)

I've only had a handful of dreams about Ken since he died--and against all my hopes, they didn't start until the last couple of months. I suspect my subconscious knew I wasn't ready. My remembrances of the few dreams have been non-specific. Sometimes when I crawl into my flannel sheets at night I whisper to the empty spot on his side of the bed "I hope I dream of you tonight."

This was the case the other night. Right before bed I'd been thinking about our (it feels weird to write "my") annual Christmas card. Up until last year, we created the cards ourselves from concept to post office. We'd sip martinis in our back yard on balmy nights in June or July and begin brainstorming ideas. Though I toyed with the idea of creating a card for this Christmas, I knew it was wiser to purchase them, taking some unnecessary pressure off what I knew would already be a challenging holiday season. I went through photos of Christmases past. Of course it was tinged with a little sadness, but it also bathed me in some wonderful memories.

After I'd gone to bed and expressed my hope, I turned over--my back against his side of his bed. As I was drifting off I felt a gentle tap on my side. Nothing alarming. I didn't even flinch. I don't know what it really was. Did I do it? Or did he? Whatever the case, it was comforting and I continued on my journey to sleep. Though that had never happened before, I had experienced smelling his scent once as well as Q's one day in the car. Some things aren't worth questioning.

The next morning when my alarm went off I snoozed it as usual a couple of times. It was drifing in and out of dream state when I heard Ken's melodious voice calling to me from the living room. Again, it wasn't alarming, but it was surprising. I knew it was impossible, but I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. When I walked out into our dream living room I dragged the quilt from the bed behind me. Ken was lying on the couch. I asked him if he'd been cold sleeping on the couch. His face was angelic and sweet. He didn't open his eyes as he shook his head--that he hadn't been cold--he grinned knowingly and opened his arms for me cozy up next to him. I nestled in next to him, pulling the quilt over us.

Then the alarm went off again--yanking me away from him. I woke up heartbroken. It HAD to be one of those dreams that I remembered in technicolor detail. The joy of dreaming of him and seeing him was eclipsed by the illusion of it all--that was waking up without him and without my head buried in the between his shoulder and cheek. I was "off" for several days following and just today felt I should share the story with miring myself down in sadness. I put my work aside for a while and thought about what had happened and acknowledged the complex cocktail of emotions.

I'm grateful for such a vivid dream, but on the eve of the holiday season--when emotional volumes are turned up normally--it serves as a cautionary tale that grief won't take a holiday. I'll continue to navigate the gauntlet while working and pursuing my goals and entertaining welcome distractions and dealing with my emotions while trying to regain equilibrium. It's like learning to juggle while maintaining balance on a seesaw.

As difficult as the holidays will prove to be I'm still looking forward to them as much as it's a part of who I m and who Ken and I were together. Learning to celebrate what knowing him and loving him has given me rather then celebrating with him in the flesh isn't an impossible task, but one that will take some time and some skill to achieve. On the brighter side, I spent last weekend with my family celebrating my parents' 50th wedding anniversary and head off soon to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with Ken's family (just as much "my" family, and differentiated only for the reader's understanding), as well as get in some quality time with a couple of close friends.

With my best "ken-do" attitude, I'll take it one day at a time, and try to focus on spending time with those I love--and be grateful for it.

You'll be the first to know if it goes in a "different" direction.

Towels, Trips & the Hope Diamond

It's hard to remember a time I didn't live in Chicago. The city feels as much like a treasured friend as the corporeal ones I've made since moving here twenty years ago. It offers a comfort and a feeling of "home" like no other place I've lived. I consider it a city that hasn't gotten so big for its britches. It's colorful, accessible and livable.

When I was growing up in rural Indiana I always anticipated living in Chicago. And though I made one or two trips here up through high school, my first introduction to "a big city" was a pre-college trip my dad took on the weekend before I started at Purdue University. Somewhat of a reward and a definite adventure for us to experience together.

I was doing some spring cleaning/purging recently and I found myself--of all things--staring at a stack of bath towels. I needed to go through them and get rid of the older ones. It was while going through the stack of older towels I ran across a couple of striped ones that weren't as threadbare as I would have expected for their age.

The day before I was to leave on my weekend adventure with Dad, my sister presented the eight towel set to me along with a long-gone brown plastic laundry basket. I don't know why the memory is so vivid for me. Maybe because I thought by having my own set of towels I was really an adult. I was going away to college on my own where I'd be responsible for laundry, grocery shopping, cooking and all the other mundane aspects of adulthood. I looked at the towels, trying to fathom how they stuck with me--or rather I stuck with them--over countless apartment moves, including two cross-country ones. These towels were twenty-five years old and as not much of a pack rat I hadn't been able to part with them. But in thinking about the memories surrounding them my mind was flooded with images of pre-Chicago and pre-who-I-have-become me; before I'd met most (though not all) of the amazing friends I have or the experiences I've had since then; before I'd met Ken and realized a life and a love that most people only dream of. A very different me in most respects.

Going to DC was not only a thrill in itself, but it was the very first time I'd ever flown. I remember my dad not being so thrilled with the concept though he'd flown many times before, but when the engines revved and we were all pressed back into our seats during acceleration I felt a rush of excitement--like this feeling was what my life had in store. It was a rush I've never forgotten and can still give me goosebumps upon reflection.

While in the nation's capital we spent an entire feet-aching day exploring the Smithsonian. My brand new zero-support brown leather deck shoes did me no favors that day. But my dad was adamant that we see every single thing we could while we were there. Imagine my "delight" when I realized the famous national museum wasn't just one large building, but a freaking campus of many! But they were indeed chock full of important things--like Archie Bunker's chair from "All in the Family". The biggest treasure (literally) I laid my eyes on was the Hope Diamond. I had been mesmerized by a TV movie a few years earlier detailing (and perhaps dramatizing) the history if its owners and the fates that befell each and every one of them. For months after seeing it I had fleeting thoughts that its curse may have rubbed off on me. "What if…" has been with me for a very, very long time.

One day we walked around the capital and White House and monuments. I saw a man lying on the sidewalk and looked over at my dad who didn't break his gate--like it wasn't unusual. We got closer and closer until I eventually had to step over the man. I said, "Did he have a heart attack or something? Should we help him?" I turned my head back to look at him as my dad answered. "No. He's homeless. Keep walking. We're almost there." I'd never remembered hearing the word "homeless" before. Everyone in my little home town had a home to go. I'd seen "Stone Pillow" but I didn't actually think it was "real". Plus, it starred Lucille Ball, so I figured it was just some kind of comedy I didn't understand. Seeing that man lying on the grating was so profoundly sad and so indelibly etched in my memory. It was a loss of innocence I couldn't possibly understand at the time. It was an introduction to the big city and a glimmer the world that was yet to come.

At the hotel my dad had befriended a man and his wife who were visiting from Verona, Italy. (Where Romeo and Juliet lived!) The husband didn't speak a word of English. Neither did his wife, but she did speak Spanish as well. I'd had four years of high school Spanish and our conversations were painful and filled with lots of nervous, time-filling laughter. But it did offer its moments brilliance when I realized I had gotten my point across to them. Over the course of the weekend my points became shorter and shorter. "How are you to day?" to "Good morning" to "Hi. We good. Bye." They were of course more patient and sublime than I would imagine an American being in their position. "Do you speak English? Does ANYONE HERE speak English?! UGH!"

Anyway, long story short…I kept the towels.

A Birthday Milestone

It wasn't until late last night while snuggled on the couch that it occurred to me that PadLo's birthday was sometime in October. I checked out ohpadlo.com and realized not only was I correct, but I was in the waning hours of his very birthday! Considering I was pushing the boundaries of my bedtime I promised we'd celebrate today--which we did: tacos and cupcakes all around!

PadLo came into our lives as gift to Ken from our family in California. (And created by a very talented friend of the family.) Ken and PadLo bonded immediately. It didn't take long for Ken to build the website, detailing his and PadLo's adventures. PadLo accompanied us to all of Ken's chemo and radiation appointments. Once after arriving at the Cancer Center, I followed Ken with our gear to a recliner in the Infusion Room where he'd receive his treatment. We passed another "regular" on the way who greeted Ken warmly (as they always did) and asked "where's your friend?" Without hesitating, Ken motioned to me and said "he's right there." "No," the man said, "not him." We immediately realized he was referring to PadLo--who had become a familiar plaid face around there. In my haste to pack up for a day there, he was the one thing that still sat on the counter, waiting to be picked up--and he was. As they set Ken up for infusion, I drove home as if I'd left a small child home alone in a room full of razor blades and loaded firearms. He meant so much to Ken and I wanted him to be snuggled tightly next to him as soon as humanly possible.

In many ways PadLo filled some of the gap that had been left after our Chow Chow Quantum died in late 2009. We imbued PadLo with many of the same mischievous traits that we inferred from Q's unique and intelligent personality. Ken had been Q's papa for the entire sixteen years of her life, and losing her was more than difficult. Last year PadLo was a welcome addition to our family, and a wonderful vessel for Ken's limitless imagination.

Likewise, PadLo symbolized Ken's spirit of heart, his bravery and his whimsy--which is what he continues to represent for me. I haven't yet worked up the gumption to create a "PadLo Adventure", but when I'm home he's usually never far from me. He sleeps with me on occasion and has accompanied me to my bereavement support group, several coffee shops and even a weekend spent at my folks. There are plenty more travels in PadLo's future.

He's a treasured friend, and sometimes I feel guilty because he doesn't get the kind of attention from me that he reveled in with Ken. But it's a perfect metaphor for how we learn to adapt and keep moving forward even though things are different--and remember to uphold family traditions (even if it is one day late!) No, I didn't make the cupcakes, but I did sing "Happy Birthday".

Whimsy still lives in my house.

Taking Down Summer

Today was another gift from Mother Nature. It was clear, sunny and warm--particularly for late October. I made a list of the tasks I wanted to complete today during the course of the week on the dry erase board hanging in the kitchen. Ken and I used it as a "vision board" of sorts to keep track of current creative projects and write down ideas for new ones. I still use it for that: blog ideas, reminders and to track the last book I read to encourage myself to read more. A small square I drew in the middle lists things I would like or think need to be accomplished.

One of the items on the board had been daunting me since I wrote it. And I suppose that's why I put it there. To keep it on my mind and to passively bully me into doing it. "Take down canopy frame." Since moving back to Chicago five years ago, it signified the end of summer and served as the harbinger of winter's approach. Unfailingly, Ken was the one who took the initiative in the spring and in autumn to set up or take down the canopy. Though the sun has been too low to hit the backyard for weeks now, I ignored the black aluminum frame as I walked through the backyard to and from the car.

But today was the day. I didn't know when it might rain again, so like pulling a bandaid off, I set out to do it quickly. But it just never works like that for me. Plus, the accordion action of bringing it down took longer than I would have hoped. As I moved from pylon to pylon in turn, pressing the release buttons, my nostalgic mind unavoidably drifted to the breezy day in May when I set up the canopy with the help of my sister-in-law Katie--and under Ken's supervision. She had come for a few days to visit--one of many she and my brother-in-law and nephews were able to make, knowing our time with Ken was going to be limited.

That day in May, I braved hamburgers on the grill (comfort in the kitchen doesn't translate to comfort with the grill for me) and the three of us sat around the table under the shade of the canopy, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other's company. It's a memory that is emblazoned in my memory in stingingly vibrant colors. It was such a lovely day. It was as special a day in May when I erected it, as it was a reverent one when I took it down today.

(Ken was so impressed with the burgers and so expert at being in the moment, he snapped a picture of his.)

Our backyard has been a place of so many happy times--far more in quantity than the sadness that eclipsed everything this summer--and almost every single one of them included Ken. I haven't spent much time back there in the past few months. It's just not the same. Nothing is the same--including me. Time and healing on the journey are showing me that change is just that: change; and it sometimes defies being measured as "good" or "bad". In spite of what I may want, change is inevitable, and something I'm working to embrace--or at least despise less.

There are other kinds of change in the air, as well. I attended a writers' meet up last week at a coffee shop a couple neighborhoods away. It was really very exciting to me--just going and doing something new on my own--a feat that usually causes a great amount of anxiety. It involved mostly just heads-down writing on your own project, but ends with a really informal social component where all of us attendees just sit around and talk. In spite of my initial fears, it was the part I enjoyed the most. It felt like a pay-off for my bravery. I gladly accepted it, and am looking forward to the next one.

As for the back yard, next on the dry erase board list: "clean up garden", another dreaded nail in summer's coffin. More change. More time. More healing.

Dinner with a Friend

I received an email last week from Kathy Buckley. She is a stand-up comedienne and motivational speaker, and she was someone Ken loved very much. They met in 2004 when we lived in Los Angeles at a Disability Showcase for CBS, and in my recollection it was love at first sight. I remember him telling me about their first meeting and her brazenly honest approach to life. She was somewhat of a mirror to Ken--neither of them looking at their disabilities as inabilities. Anyway, her email indicated she'd be in town and wanted to know if we could get together for dinner. It was really excited to hear from her, and even more so to be able to visit with her.

I remember all through Ken's illness I received a phone call every so often from Kathy--calling not to check on Ken (because they communicated regularly)--she was calling to check on me. I had never actually connected with her, but would try to send her an email to thank her for the call and update her on how I was doing. In March when Ken was in the hospital before being released to come home for hospice, she had called me. I was stressed and emotionally stretched to my limits. I had left Ken at the hospital with visiting friends to come home to coordinate the removal of a really unsatisfying massage chair I'd bought for him and the delivery of his hospital bed, oxygen concentrator, and all the accoutrements of hospice. Kathy's call came while they were putting together the hospital bed. I felt so bad that I'd never been able to talk with her live, so I answered, thinking it would do me good to talk with her. I think I got out, "Hi, Kathy" before I completely broke down--unable to utter another single word. After a few moments of my complete inability to get out one single discernible word, she told me she very sweetly told me she loved me and that maybe it would be better we spoke another time. I did my best to reply in agreement before hanging up and stumbling to our bedroom where I curled up on the bed and let myself completely unravel for a few brief minutes, but picking myself up, washing my face and heading back to the hospital.

Ah, memories!

I'd had a couple of "dark" days before I met Kathy for dinner. I'm certain part of it was anxiety about seeing her and just not knowing what to expect. Could I comfort her if she needed to express her feelings about Ken's death? Would be both be messes? Or would I just not know what to say to her? In trying to figure out why I was feeling so uncertain, I thought a lot about Ken's journey-oriented attitude--one I'm trying to adopt when possible--and considered that sometimes my feelings can be too complex to be "figured out". In those cases, it's been more "fake it 'til you make it."

When I arrived at the hotel and walked through the slowly turning automatic door, I could see her face, smiling from her perch on a table in the middle of the lobby. We hugged hard and long. She engenders such love, light and peace, I felt like I could have just melted away in her embrace. I haven't physically seen Kathy since April 28, 2006, when Ken and I had a small "going away" gathering at our apartment in the San Fernando Valley before we moved back to Chicago. She and Ken had kept in regular touch with each other, and he'd been able to see her on a trip or two back to LA since we moved. They'd had regular phone conversations up until shortly before his death.

Kathy is a unique combination that is sublime and so full of light and love mixed with bawdy and audacious humor. My time with her didn't lack anything. It's a strange thing to find yourself friends with people who were Ken's friends. They were mine too--by proxy, but I was never the main caretaker of those relationships. That's another facet of loss that I'm learning to deal with. So many people reached out and supported us during the past two years, and I'd like to be able to connect with each of them--whether in person, email or snail mail card--but it doesn't always occur to me to do so, and doesn't always seem possible. I guess it's just daunting. Or maybe I'm doing enough or as much as I can. Regardless, my visit with Kathy was as colorful as Kathy herself is.

In anticipating our visit, I felt more like I was going to visit with a friend of Ken's, but as I lost track of my multiple neuroses, I knew I was sitting and talking with a good friend of mine. I was happy she brought up Ken and we were able to talk about him, lovingly and harassingly. I told her (and she agreed) that he would be so happy to see us sitting together, talking, harassing and loving each other. It felt so right.