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.

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?

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!

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.

As The Birthday Approaches

It's impossible to no think of Ken…period. But as his September 21 birthday approaches, he's on my mind more and more. It's not all sad, in fact, thinking about this weekend one year ago brings nothing but a smile to my face. I'd arranged for a couple of surprises. We were both working full days at home at the time because he was receiving daily radiation treatments. As 5 pm loomed closer, I became more and more excited. After work, we always headed out to the backyard for cocktails (for me) and mocktails (for him since we were under the impression he couldn't partake. I went out first with our drinks and sat them down on the table, but just around corner of the back of the house two Californians were eagerly awaiting to perpetrate the surprise. Ken was an expert at pulling surprises. They were alway magnificent and multi-layered. Pulling them off on him I'd learned over the years was almost impossible. But I think we had him.

I went back in to wheel him up the ramp. He was undoubtedly dealing with pain in spite of the narcotics. At this point he was just happy to be spending the evening with me. But as I moved him to the table and his head lifted to look at the yard, his gaze was drawn to the back corner of the yard where his brother Craig and sister-in-law Katie jumped out and yelled the proverbial "SURPRISE.' I wish I'd had the presence of mind to take a photo of his reaction. It was beyond shock, yet the corners of his mouth began lifting. We had done it! He couldn't believe they were here, and even more, he loved it that they were here, and probably even more excited that I'd collaborated with them to pull this one over on him. I remember how moved he felt, and how grateful. He hugged them both for a very long time. It's a moment I can relive on demand. It was so special and full of so many meanings. It's treasured.



We sat around outside and talked and laughed A LOT. I made chili and cornbread that we ate al fresco as we continued our fun fest. It was an amazing day. I don't think he could have been any happier if he tried.

Knowing Mr. Body in Motion, the question was posed as to what he wanted to do for his birthday. So the next day we set off for the Lincoln Park Zoo and its neighbor the Lincoln Park Conservatory (which has always been a preferred destination for him.)



We spent the entire afternoon there there, exploring and observing the animals before heading over to the Conservatory to check out the fauna. It was a perfect day for him. We all too great care of him. I remember feeling how nice and safe it felt to be out traveling with him with Craig and Katie serious back up. The four of us have a very strong, loving, and humorous bond.

The rest of their visit we just hung out and cooked and fed our faces and talked and laughed. Our time together is always easy and always filled with laughter.

The one last surprise I had to present to him was a book I'd been putting together for months called "the ken-do dictionary" as an homage to his body-in-motion attitude. I'd solicited words from friends and family that could be used to describe him. And no one disappointed.

Click the graphic to see the book.

Nostalgic by nature, I've been thinking a lot about that weekend on this anniversary. I'm so grateful that Craig and Katie were able to come. Ken (and I) had a wonderful time with them (as usual). It was a weekend I'll never forget and will probably think about a lot. I'm not sure how I'll feel on Wednesday, but I have taken the day off and am hoping to mimic some of the activities we did last year.

Going Home

PadLo was up and ready for an adventure! So after securing him into the back seat, we set off for my small hometown in Indiana for a weekend visit.

There was a time when my dramatic storyline-driven teen self regarded my hometown as Alcatraz Island, my house as the actual prison, and my parents as tyrannical co-wardens. I was the wrongfully imprisoned character. But those days and feelings waned long ago. As I matured (and I use that term loosely), I grew to realize how lucky I was to be raised in that little rural town and even luckier by those two over-worked and under rewarded people. I never dreamed I'd so look forward to going there to visit. Driving into town is like running into the embrace of an old friend.

I’d been talking about getting out of Chicago for a while, and finally took the opportunity to plan a weekend getaway to my home town to spend some “down” time and relax with my family. There is something strong and protected about the house I grew up in. I knew I couldn’t completely escape pangs of sadness, but I was definitely in a place--physically and emotionally--where it couldn't get the best of me.

It was the first time ever, as I left Chicago that I didn’t feel a little morsel of regret. My connection to Chicago is immutable. It’s where I “became”, and leaving it usually incites even the tiniest bit of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. But not so on this trip. I was all smiles as I slugged back my home brewed coffee and belted out the vocal stylings of whomever was playing on my iTunes play list. PadLo joined in on the verses he knew.

When I arrived early on a beautiful August afternoon, I grabbed my overnight bag and PadLo then headed inside. I was a little surprised no one greeted me outside since I arrived pretty much right on schedule. I put my things down inside and still didn’t encounter anyone. I walked to the back of the house and saw my parents and one of my sisters sitting on the deck, talking. I felt such a sense of peace and comfort that I actually stopped and watched them for a few minutes. I loved seeing them gesturing and laughing with each other. It was one of the memories that I took the time to etch into my brain.

Dinner was ready by the time my other sister arrived. One of my favorite parts of the day was sidling up to the raised bar in the kitchen where we sat and ate like we did growing up. It was the first time in recent memory that it was just the “Original Five” of us, and it was a really special. Lots of harassment and laughter shared over the table were just as delicious as the steak and farm fresh corn on the cob.

Going back to Remington was meaningful in more than just seeing my family. There is a happiness that existed within me that pre-dated Ken--well, it predated most every other part of my life since I lived there since I was two. It was important for me--and it felt really good--to connect with it.

I’ve always been nostalgic, and taken great comfort in warm memories of the past. Over the past weeks I’ve tried to connect with happy times before I met Ken--not to ignore or deny him, but more to illustrate and remind my sometimes fragile psyche that my life is full of many different kinds of happiness, and in working through my grief, there will be more happiness to come.

After my sisters left, my mom drove me around to town to show me the sights that I don’t think I’d seen for more than twenty years. In the intervening time, I’d arrive at my folks and never get out to see anything else, so I was really eager to see what other parts of town looked like. We drove past the old town park with the same curly-Q slide I used to play on as a child; the new elementary school that was demolished and rebuilt as soon as I left it (coincidence?); and of course we drove down Ohio Street (the main drag) and passed the dime store of broken dreams (pictured, now an antique store, but with the same black and white marble running under the display windows).



On this visit I spent a lot of time floating aimlessly around the pool with my mom and sisters as Dad looked on from deck. My mom and I engage in friendly oneupmanship while my sisters act as sometimes-willing targets. Mom told the stories we’ve heard over the years of how she and my dad bought what used to be a Baptist Church and converted into a home that housed five people, two dogs and innumerable visitors and gatherings. More comforting and happy memories while making new ones.

I spent a lot of time not feeling sorrow--and it felt good. The dynamic of my immediate family is undeniably funny, good-natured and ever supportive. They all take my harassment and quick wit in stride. But when the five us are together, there is something that feels so comforting and loving about it. I felt protected and cared for. And I felt free to experience whatever emotions I had, though fun and laughter easily dominated.

Everyone should be so lucky to have such a wonderful family--and one that gave and continues to give me such unbelievable fodder for blogs!

Ojai, How Are Ya?

Like most small town kids, I had a 25" console television in my bedroom when I was growing up. I was a shy, introvert who spent hours alone, entertaining myself. But no matter what I was doing, the boob tube was on, beckoning me into one zany adventure after another. I made many friends in the land of make believe. At the top of my list are two people: Steve Austin and Jaime Sommers.

Jaime (yes, that's how she spelled it) was one of my closest childhood friends. Steve Austin and I were tight too, but Jaime embodied much more of a fun contrast for me. Cute. Sweet. Funny. And could kick some Fembot or Bigfoot ass when called upon to do so. She could also chop vegetables faster than a Cuisinart and when faced with no can opener, could use her bionic fingernail to get at those baked beans. She was the whole bionic package. She, Steve and I shared many bionic adventures together. As a lazy kid, it was fortunate that in order to play "bionic", I just had to move in slow motion. This kid wasn't going to break a sweat!

I was giddy to discover Season 2 of the "Bionic Woman" was available on DVD in May, and I snatched it up as soon as it went on sale. Ken was sleeping more then, so after the house was quiet and kitchen was clean, I sat in front of my computer and watched a couple of episodes. It was like an emotional orgasm of childhood, bringing back the wonderment and security of childhood. In spite of the wonderful distraction it provided, something told me to put them away; and that they would better serve me later. Soon after he died and I found myself alone and never in great need of a distraction of bionic proportions, I pulled out those DVDs. And they served me well.

My obsession with Jaime made for a couple of my very favorite outings when we lived in LA. Always up for a day trip, Ken asked me one weekend where we should go. I didn't really know how far away it was, but I suggested Ojai, where Jaime Sommers lived in rustic apartment above the horse barn of Steve Austin's mother and step-father. (GEEK ALERT: They had also become her legal guardians when she was a minor because her parents died.) After the couple-hour drive, we explored the quaint town and had lunch. We took a drive out of town into the Ojai Valley and passed some beautiful olive farms. We drove through some tunnels that had been blasted through the mountains, and stopped to admire this subtle and beautiful waterfall.



Further down the same road we happened across a state camp ground. I'd never been a camper before I met Ken, and he'd taught me to love it. So we made plans to return later in the month for a long weekend. Little did I suspect that he'd hatched a plan to bring Kathy, one of my Chicago besties as a surprise. It's one of my favorite memories. My bionic obsession was well-known to Kathy. She revealed to me late in our friendship that while on a trip to Universal Studios in the late 70s, that she had been chosen from a tour group to be "Jaime Sommers" in a tug of war with several large burly men. In true Hollywood fashion--sound effects and all--she yanked the rope and dropped all the would-be assailants to the ground like potato sacks. It was extra special to share an evening under the stars with her in my beloved Ojai. It's funny to think of all that as I watched those episodes and felt the comfort of those few nights by the camp fire with Kathy, Ken and Q. It gives me just as much comfort now.

However, was it completely coincidental that I fell in love with a handsome hottie with a bionic leg?

The bionic theme continued at Ken's soiree--which took me completely by surprise--and only enhanced the experience in a very special way for me. During the prep for the event, my friend Terry presented me with a gift bag. Along with pushy Kathy, they both insisted I open the gift in front of them. Opening gifts in front of people is an IBS-inspiring moment for me. As an improv teacher once told me, I'm just not that good of an actor, and contrary to popular opinion amongst the rapscallions I run with, I don't (always) enjoy seeing people cry in disappointment. But this surprise made my heart leap.

In true 70's "women's lib" fashion, it's the Bionic Woman's Bionic Beauty Salon. No, of course, it couldn't be Jaime Sommers Covert Ops Training Center! Who the hell would buy that? Oh, wait…me. Of course, I would have begged for it if it were The Bionic Day Care Center (bionic pooping babies sold separately). But I think the point is Jaime had choices--a pink house coat or her tennis whites…hmmm…life is full of difficult decisions, no? And of course, a photo of pseudo-boyfriend Steve Austin is displayed prominently to remind Jaime why she has to be beautiful. And finally, in spite of the geek-known fact that bionic skin doesn't tan, there is a huge nuclear-powered sun lamp center stage at the salon. From the brilliant, in-touch minds of Kenner!

Make no mistake, I love my Bionic Beauty Salon. Watching the show recently--like watching it when I was a kid--enveloped me in a world where people could do things that were surprising, if not superhuman. It was a message that resonated with me--and still does. I'm no former-tennis-pro-turned-undercover-8th-grade-bionic-teacher-who-saves-the-world-on-a-weekly-basis-and-looks-vintage-doing-it, but my life--like everyone's--has been faced us with situations and people that we found overwhelming, yet somehow found a (perhaps surprising) way to overcome it. Hence, we are a little bit bionic. Watching Jaime kick some bootie reminded me that she was in a sense (as I imaginarily inserted my character of her younger brother Brody into all story lines), and as i watched them a few weeks ago, she was doing the same thing: protecting me--this time, emotionally. Focusing my mind on something so magical and fun and fraught with good memories made me feel so good and it placed a short moratorium on sadness. It's a weird connection to the kind of naive strength and ambition a kid can have--before society beats it out of him.

Now I have a little bit of Ojai sitting in my living room--as well as a huge target on my forehead for mocking by aforementioned rapscallions. Mock away. I have to brush Jaime's hair. Steve just called and said he was running over--at 60 mph no less. Ugh.

Soirée of a Lifetime

Yesterday was the Memorial soirée for Ken--my partner, husband and friend of 10 years. The day and the event can only be described as "perfect." It went off exactly as it was supposed to and was exactly what I expected, hoped for and needed in order to feel a sense of closure and to gain some perspective to figure out what my life's road map will start to look like.

I was honored to have so many close friends and family attend, and even more honored to have so many dear ones step up to share words about what Ken meant to each of them--from family to friends and even our doctor who not only came to the soirée, but told a beautiful and funny story about Ken, proclaiming him without a doubt his favorite patient. (Hey, wait! I'm still his patient. Oh well, he is definitely hard act to follow.)

The day started off on a good note. I managed to get myself to the gym for my training appointment--after pushing it back a couple of hours. I was constantly surprised about how good I felt the day would go, and little I was stressing over the details that I'd painstakingly planned for weeks. It was a day for Ken, and a day for those of us who loved him to gather, share and love each other (whether in person or in spirit.) I had a house full of Andersons, and one of my favorite memories of the day was the five us standing around the peninsula in the kitchen having breakfast, talking and goofing. It was a gentle moment that was the harbinger of a gentle, loving day.

The folks at the Annoyance Theater was so accommodating, friendly, and helpful. Once we were at the venue I felt even more secure that the day would be perfect. And it was. In every way. It's a testament to good friends and family when little details are picked up by others. I didn't have to sweat any of it. I could feel it. My "what if?" was put into stasis while "why not?" was freed up to get some leg room.

The photo below is a view of the theater space where the soirée took place. My dad is center, observing the setup, and Rebecca, a wonderful friend and the mistress of ceremonies, is to the right, prepping for the shindig. Once it began, this show played to a packed audience.



After I'd put out the call for people to speak, I outlined a theme that is most closely identified with Ken. "Why not?" And each of them--a dozen perhaps--all stood up in front of this loving crowd and shared stories that were all different variations on that theme. Each speaker was more compelling and passionate and funny than the last. It truly was a celebration of someone who touched all of us in a deep and profound way. Each was moving and heartfelt and heartbreaking all at the same time. It was a tribute worthy of Ken, and he would have been proud of everyone who braved "stage fright" to stand up and share their words. In one of the final deliveries of the event, his almost-90-year-old grandmother stood up. "I've got something to say!" she proclaimed when Rebecca was making the last call for sharing. She stood up in the second row, holding Mama Jo's (my mother-in-law) hand and said a string of the most beautiful and touching words anyone could ever hope to hear. Her courage wasn't surprising. She's rife with it. But to stand up and share thoughts about Ken and his and my relationship was mind-blowing and tear-inducing. She called us "the perfect couple." Her words, along with so many others will stand out in my memory as part of one of the happiest days of my life. And definitely a hallmark to Ken and the love we shared.

This day was a platform for me. It was a solid foundation on which to securely plant my heart--and my feet--in order to figure out my life and my future--without Ken as a daily physical presence. Securely entrenched in my heart, he'll never be far away from my life or thoughts. But this soirée was freeing. To his memory. To me. And to all of us who loved him. He won't be forgotten. That's an obvious impossibility. He's left indelible impressions on all of us--even people he never met in person. As I talked to people afterward, that notion became clearer and clearer. It's a shared loss, but more than that, knowing him was a shared experience that I know we will all take with us as we move forward.

There is something special that happens when you gather loving, creative, giving people with a common purpose. There is no discernible formula, but the result is nothing short of magic. My endless love and gratitude to everyone who has loved and supported us during the last year and a half--and always. The soirée yesterday wasn't just a tribute to Ken, but to those of us he loved and who loved him as we came together and celebrated him...and just celebrated. He would have loved seeing that.

At the conclusion of the soirée, I put together a slide show with some musical assistance from my Katie and my Craig (sister-in-law and brother-in-law seem too sterile for the relationship we share), and my dear friend Mindy. Click the link below to watch it. I know I will.

Soirée Slideshow

A Better Day

Good days should be acknowledged. And today was one of those days. No tears came today--not that that would have been a bad thing. But for the time being appears i've reached my quota of saline production. I made the conscious choice to not work on the memorial soiree, though my "to do" lists are aching for some attention. I spoke to my friend Katie (who also happens to be my sister-in-law) for a good long while last night. She was the cherry--or rather the chocolate covered strawberry of my day.

Earlier in the afternoon I'd received a box of said chocolatey delights as well as a beautiful orchid plant, rife with blooms about to pop. Ken would have gone ape shit over such a gorgeous piece of flora. After marveling at its beauty for an hour, I said to myself, "Now how am I going to keep it alive until she gets here!?" Not good with the "green" (money or plants), my history with such things involves midnight trashcan burials and buying identical replacements more than reaping any long term enjoyment. But as my mom pointed out in an earlier conversation when I was telling her about the thoughtful gifts, I didn't used to be very good a cooking either, and managed to pick up that talent to a degree, so perhaps next on my self-improvement agenda will be to not kill plants.

I'll keep you updated.



This plant really is the metaphor for all the love and support I continue to receive from a family so full of love. I couldn't be more grateful if the plant were plastic.

Happy times lie ahead. Difficult ones too. But for today, I understand how "happy" will fit into my world again.

Words of My Own

I have struggled with words (among many other things) this week since the loss of my husband, lover, and best friend Ken. As someone who is accustomed to documenting my feelings, it's been uncomfortable to be unable to access my "writing voice." Clearly, I'm bereft. And aside from a loss of words at a loss in every way possible--except in that I've been bathed in love and support from the Three Families: my Birth Family, my Married Family, and my Chosen Family.

But as I was talking to my sister-in-law (Married Family)--who if I'd met under different circumstances would have been a friend (Chosen Family)--I talked about the disconnection I felt from my writing voice, but remembered the one line I'd written in my diary yesterday:

"My life won't ever be the same--not because I'm without you, but because I loved you."

And that sums it up. I know I have a long road of healing and grief ahead of me, but Ken was a role model for me in so many ways, he would have been happy that I wrote just one sentence that I felt was meaningful. He would have been happy that I talked with our Katie. He would love that all of our friends and family have surrounded me with love; that his mother, brother and best friend were there with me to witness his completion of this journey and the beginning of the next, and to love and comfort each other.

The pragmatic part of me knows I'm not the first person to lose his husband, but I know I'm the first one who has lost Ken. That makes me lucky in one respect, and cursed in another.

I love you, baby. And I'll never stop missing you.

Blog Day Afternoon

(Ken booked ended by my folks on the left, and his folks on the right.)

It's a funny thing to be gay and fall in love in one's early thirties. Your personality is pretty much fully "baked". You know who you are for the most part, and have an established group of friends. This was the case when I met kenan. We both lived in Chicago, away from our families (coincidentally) so it took quite a while for me to meet all the members of his immediate family, and likewise for him to meet mine. What's even odder, that after almost ten years our sets of parents had never met each other--due mostly to geographical complications.

We'd talked for years about how well our folks would get along, and hoped that it would happen at some point--presumably our wedding or some kind of celebration. Their first meeting occurred in January 2010, and was under less-than-ideal circumstances. Both parents were present at the hospital during kenan's hemipelvecotomy surgery which was the big event that kicked off the most recent occurrence of cancer. On the one hand, it was so wonderful to have the families come together to easily to support us through such a serious situation. On the other hand, kenan wasn't able to witness their meeting or ensuing conversations, and I'm not sure I even remember much of it since I was preoccupied with worry about how he was doing, and wondering how many Xanax I could take without passing out or technically be considered an addict. I recounted the story to kenan as he recovered as best I could. It made him so happy to know I was being looked after by both our parents while he was undergoing surgery.

With his most recent diagnosis and coming home for in-home hospice, we've had the benefit of an incredibly strong support network. Our friends and family have stepped up behind any expectation to help us and support us. Ken's folks came immediately after he got home to stay with us in order to help out and spend time with us. When I speak with my mom she is a rock of support and knows when to discuss the matter at hand, and when to distract me with her razor-sharp humor and ridiculous and humiliating memories from my childhood. I am instrument she plays beautifully.

So it happened that while his folks were in town, mine were also coming to visit! I wish I'd had the time and wherewithal to be excited for days in advance. I did get excited the day of the gathering. I'd carefully crafted a meal (with some help from Costco) of chicken alfredo and spinach salad. The weather wasn't being as cooperative as I would have liked, but it was sunny for the most part. Unfortunately, it was only going to hit the mid-50s. That didn't keep us from getting outside though. When my parents called and said they had arrived, I scurried to collect Ken and get him outside to greet them. The last time they'd seen him was the day we came home from the hospital. He was not very coherent, and I was freaked out beyond measure. I was glad they would get to see the kenan they knew and loved. A short while later my in-laws arrived, and as soon as they entered the living room, both sets of parents got along famously. I would sneak sideways looks at ken as we both enjoyed watching the four of them getting on so famously--especially considering how painfully aware we were of each and every one of their flaws, faults and idiosyncrasies. But it was a great day, and a memory I will always treasure.