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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

A Generous and Welcome Gift

As I've written before since Ken died, "firsts" are difficult--both figuratively and literally. It was June 1st when Ken left us. Today marks the three month anniversary of losing a man who brought a texture, depth, dimension and a sense of play to my life that will forever be unmatched. My head knows those things didn't leave with him, but my heart has very different and stubborn opinions about that. I couldn't help but think of him today--and thinking about the day when I lost him. All the emotions and some of the pain surged back; however, today was also one of those days I was able to mitigate it and not let it take me over. Solemn, but not parlayzingly sad.

I think part of the reason I had the control I had is because of a wonderful experience I had yesterday. Something unexpected, but welcome happened. I went to a luncheon yesterday for my group at work. I had misgivings about going at first because I was afraid that--though well-intentioned--I would feel overwhelmed by well-wishers who knew of Ken's illness over the past year. But a I sat at my desk, he spoke to me in a way. "Why not?" echoed in my head, and I somehow felt empowered and decided to go. It was late enough in the timeframe when I arrived that it wasn't very crowded, but the few people I saw were so sweet and kind, talking with me and asking about how I was doing. It wasn't upsetting in the least. It was reassuring…and just lovely.

When I finally sat down to eat my lunch, a co-worker came over and asked very politely if he could sit down with me. "Of course," I said. I didn't know him well or work with him directly, but whenever I saw him we always exchanged pleasantries and smiles. He asked how I was doing and expressed his sympathies for me and my loss of Ken. He told me we'd both been in his prayers and that I continue to be. Then, the conversation took a turn I never would have expected. He shared with me that several years ago, he'd also lost his partner. It had been more sudden than my situation with Ken, but as we talked I'll never forget how I began to feel--in a "good" way. For the first time ever since losing Ken, I was talking with someone who knew EXACTLY how and what I was feeling. And it meant a great deal to me. It was a mixture of sanity and depth of understanding I'd never felt before.

I'm lucky to have the friends and family that I have to lean on and grieve with, but what I found stunning was that someone--with no emotional stake in me--would be so brave and so generous to share such a life-altering loss with me. It didn't necessarily surprise me, but because I didn't know him that well, I found it utterly kind and courageous. He spoke from a perspective that I have only seen glimmering mili-seconds of, but I found it comforting and reassuring nonetheless. I hadn't been having a bad day, but this experience turned my day into something exceptional! My mood for the rest of the day was light and positive and encouraged. In spite of the fact this is a blog, it's difficult to explain all the nuances in words.

In addition to all the people in my life--at home and at work--his act of selflessness in discussing something that I know I couldn't possibly talk about now with any level of comprehensibility, sort of…how do we say…"restored my faith in humanity." When someone who doesn't know you that well goes out of their way to share something so private and potentially painful in order to help you deal with your own personal hell, it swells one's spirt. It goes back to "connecting". Our loss connected us on a level that isn't something you ever aspire to, but it offers a comfort that is unparalleled.

I think what is remarkable--not coincidental--is that I was in a place where I could receive that kind of generosity and know what to do with it. I hope I am that kind of person someday. To be able to reflect on and discuss this heart-wrenching loss with kindness and compassion in order to help someone--whoever it is--deal with it or see it just a little differently. To help them heal. To give hope.

It's hope we all feed on and what we all need.

Belonging

It's not often I'm able to get together with four of my closest friends--at the same time. The last time all five us were together was at my birthday a couple of years ago, where Ken orchestrated two of them who came the furthest (St. Louis and Los Angeles) as surprises. Alan, Kathy, Retta, Tina and I comprised "the A-List"--what we named ourselves when we met while studying at Second City--and they have been constants in my life ever since. We share the "wrongest" pleasure in harassment of each other as much as we are fiercely protective of one another. Having grown up the outsider in many ways, and the one who found "apartness" so appealing, the A-List was the first group I ever felt like a belonged to. It was my tribe…finally and effortlessly.

I've been in contact with all of them in one way or another always, and in particular, since Ken's cancer returned last year. I was checked upon and double-checked upon; I have called, texted and emailed while I vented or cried or ranted. I can imagine there may have been communications among the four of them I'm not even aware of. So, it was with great relish that I looked forward to the four of them converging on my apartment this weekend for a long-anticipated and much-needed reunion. There have been few times in recent months where sorrow isn't something that I have to actively combat. The time spent with the A-list is one of them. I remember noticing that in between laughter and conversations and jabs; that I felt transported and "normal" and loved. During the time I spent with them I didn't feel empty or missing anything. I was whole--complete in every way I needed to be--and loving every single second of it.

There is a power and an energy that is purely magical when the five us are together. And though the anticipation sets the bar high, the actual time together always exceeds expectations--and boundaries. There are certain things that can be counted upon in such cases: ripping on each other mercilessly, mad laughter as a result thereof, and the same reminiscences about "the good ol' days". Old stories shimmer like new with long-forgotten nuances, uncovered and embellished.

I was excited to have company so I could get busy in the kitchen and try out some recipes I've had ear-marked for quite a while. Feeding these people I love so much, and hearing their voices and laughter fill my back yard all afternoon and evening--then my apartment as we moved indoors later in the evening--filled me with a sense of peace and security that was both familiar and foreign. Knowing I have these people in my life with their non-stop love and unfailing support of me is great source of strength.

In spite of the fun of the weekend, Ken was never far from my mind--as always. He loved the A-List--perhaps an acquired taste for spouses to manage--and he appreciated what I had with them; and what they gave me. When it came to having company, Ken was the master chef, getting creative and delighting in serving tasty morsels to our guests. I'm sure that's at least part of the reason why I did too. Doing things he loved makes me feel connected him. Honoring him in even the smallest of ways makes me happy. He loved our friends and he would have loved seeing all the goodies I made: Lemon Blueberry Buckle, Blue Cheese and Walnut Crackers, and Goat Cheese and Sun Dried Tomato Profiteroles.

I wish I could feel the way I did this weekend every day--especially in light of an impending Monday. It's impossible to come off such a high without wishing he were here to end the weekend with, talking about all the verbal debauchery, reliving it and laughing at it. Regardless, it was undeniable that Ken was here this weekend; inspiring me to get excited and creative in the kitchen (not to mention to sweep the patio--something he did without prompting every time we had company). He was also here in another very special way. Our friend Bruce competed in the Chicago Triathlon today in memory of his sister-in-law and Ken. It was a beautiful gesture that is so fitting of Ken.

He was definitely here this weekend--just not in the way I wish he were.

Connecting

I have to admit while I was walking up Lincoln Avenue to the Tiny Lounge last evening I had butterflies in my stomach and was filled with a medley of feelings that ran the gamut. I was excited to see Claire--like "date" kind of excited, perhaps not knowing what to fully expect or maybe expecting too much. But the grin on my face and the fast pace of my step reminded me to let everything else go and love the anticipation of seeing a good friend.

I first met Claire Bidwell Smith on March 31--the very heady week after Ken came home from the hospital for hospice care. Luckily for us at the time she the grief therapist with Advocate. She and Ken connected instantaneously on her first visit. It wasn't only because of their connection that I felt a connection with her as well. Watching, seeing, and feeling the energy in our house when she was here could inspire nothing less than the most sublime confidence--something I couldn't help but lack. At a time when I was frayed, exhausted and sometimes actively ignoring despair, Claire's visits offered a satisfaction and a security that--at the time--was rare for me. Ken loved spending time with her. And the three of us spoke more than once that had we met under different circumstances we would have become good friends. Yet the three of us knew, in spite of the circumstances--not because of them--we did became friends. Some connections are undeniable.

Claire visited with us weekly during Ken's home hospice days until she left her role as grief counselor to move to LA with her husband and daughter. I'll never forget the last time she was here--to say goodbye to me--and even more impossibly--to say goodbye to Ken. He understood she was leaving and was excited for her, but of course, he was having a difficult time with saying goodbye to someone he loved, knowing he wouldn't live to see her again. I'll never forget that day: May 26, 2011, a week before he died.

I always remember answering the door when Claire came over. My day was muddled with household tasks caring for Ken, and living only for the next moment, but always when I saw her, there were milliseconds that went in slow motion in my mind's eye where the tension in my shoulders eased and the comfort I felt in knowing how much Ken loved her and loved spending time with her assuaged my fatigue and gave me joy. If I left them alone in the front room, I inevitably heard exuberant laughter following shortly afterward. It was like the sound of brightness.

Not having seen her since that day in May made me wonder if I'd burst into tears and cry hysterically--or intermittently--when I met up with her. My "what if" had to wonder: would it be more painful than blissful? Did I see something that wasn't really there in my pre-grief? Would our only connection be loving and losing Ken? Not surprisingly, the answer is a complete, resounding and vehement "NO!" My affection for Claire is the real deal, and when I came upon her at the outdoor seating area where met I couldn't wait to get to her and squeeze her hard. And I did.

The next time I actually thought about my emotions about seeing her, I was sitting with a close friend, talking seriously, joking bawdily and smiling unabashedly. As my old "what if" habits watched me connecting with Claire as I would with any of my close-knit circle of friends, we both talked about how much we loved and admired Ken, and how there was no way he wasn't someone watching us together and loving it. Claire is a writer--an amazing writer. Aside from being an avid reader of her blog, a personal memoir about her journey with grief after losing both of her parents comes out on February 2, 2012. Her fearlessness and honestly in sharing parts of this journey has inspired me since she told us about on one her visits with us this past spring. There is a subtly in her wisdom that I value and greatly admire.

Over a glass of Chardonnay and appetizers, Claire recalled the last time she'd seen Ken on May 26, and shared a private moment with him. She knew it was the last time she'd see him, yet in her role as care giver and friend, she asked him if there was anything he wanted me to know when he was gone. She typed what he said verbatim on her iPhone and saved it in her email to wait for the right time to share with me. Last night was the night. She forwarded me the email as we talked. And as much as I was curious and almost desperate to connect with Ken via this message, I've only recently learned to "dose" my mourning in order to spend my time in the present--with my friend Claire.

After I hugged and kissed her twice, and told her how much I love her, I walked back down Lincoln like I was in a race. I couldn't stop thinking that when I got home, I was going to be able to connect with my husband with words he spoke to Claire on the day etched in my memory. It was exhilarating and terrifying. But for me emotional fear is hardly the terrorist it used to be. I purposely slowed my pace about half-way home and enjoyed the beautiful warm night air, the starry skies above, and the memories I'd made with Claire--with thoughts of many more to come.

Once home, I poured myself a glass of merlot and sat in the back yard, surrounded by memories and the garden he once so passionately tended.

Deep breaths.

Eyes welling.

Chin quivering.

And I read aloud these words Ken wanted me to hear, to give me comfort after he was gone:

I still am.

Together we still be. We're still here. We still exist together.

My heart surged and re-broke a thousand times as I repeated the words over and over, as if chanting them to conjure him physically or spiritually. My vision blurred until I couldn't read the email anymore, though by then I knew it by heart. My voice fell silent. I was dumbstruck by these words, Ken's beautiful intentions, and the loving messenger who had delivered them to me when I was ready to hear them. I surrendered to my emotions and utter blithering, and slumped in the chair, head tilted to the stars. I felt the weight, love and honor in his words to me. It was a solemn moment and ineffable moment.

Then the river of tears eased. These words embodied what I have never stopped believing. It was another affirmation that we had been of the same mind. It was a connection to Ken that I knew was always there, but hearing these words--spoken back on that day when he was so sad about so many things--I could love hearing them (or at least be able to hear them) as I continue to love and honor him and our life together. Understanding what we were together, and what we continue to be together is a cornerstone of the journey I've set out upon. No, it's not the same. It can't ever be. And it will be a long time before I'm okay with that. But this experience--just like loving him--was something extraordinary. And something not to be ignored.

Sometimes you can wake up on Tuesday morning and muddle through the day, all the while aching for something that's lost to you. And sometimes you can go to bed that very night, knowing things you never imagined you'd have the privilege to know.

Ken was always giving me little gifts, and that hasn't changed.

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.

Finding a New "Normal"

Today felt like the beginning...of something. With Ken's Memorial Soiree a jumble of fond memories and feelings, today the remnants of my out-of-state family left to return to their lives in California. There was nothing standing between me and my future. It was a good day overall. Cleaning, laundry and prepping for heading back to work per a traditional work schedule tomorrow. But it was also a bit...paralyzing. I've learned to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. If it weren't for losing Ken, today would have been the day things went back to normal. But, now, what is normal? My new normal.

I know I'll figure it out as I go, but as a planner, it's a bit unnerving to have to erase a planned future and begin re-imagining it from the ground up. It wasn't that I didn't have my own goals when Ken was alive, but he played an integral part in all of them--particularly in being the foundation on which I could achieve them.

Today is Independence Day. What an ironic holiday. In many ways it's just the third one I've had to endure...along with my birthday and the second anniversary of our getting married in Iowa. This one might just be the most difficult. It was this weekend last year, that Ken had healed in nothing less than a miraculous fashion from his hemipelvectomy surgery in January and had come through a "preventative" and devastating round of chemo a few months later with flying colors, a positive attidude, and some dear friends at the Creticos Cancer Center--our home away from home during treatments. Tonight as I hear the neighborhood fireworks crackling, and flaring in the sky, I'm reminded of a night like where he and I grilled outside and enjoyed many martinis while talking, planning, laughing and loving each other. We'd been through a war, and by all accounts at the time, we'd won. Now THAT was an Independece Day if ever there was one (okay, aside from the original one).

I remember he wheeled around the neighbor like Speedy Gonzales as we moved to get better vantage points of the night's temporary stars that abounded. The feelings and memories of that night are emblazoned in my mind. It was truly one of the best days we'd had post-surgery. He was in charge of the grill, and I was in charge the martini shaker. Like then, lightening bugs sublimely lit up all around us. And we marveled at them--as he always had. I mean, c'mon, a bug whose but lights up? High couldn't have been easy for any of them.

After dinner, we went for another wheel around the neighborhood. Ken was feeling strong and powerful--and he certainly looked the part--so he propelled himself forward like a hummingbird darting from flower to flower along the craggy sidewalks. I highly discouraged "drunk" driving, but he insisted he would be fine. The state of the art wheelchair came with more fails safe's than Fort Knox. So off we went on a gorgeous July night around the neighborhood. And it was on this trip, we had quite an adventure. Part scary and part hilarious.

Click this link to veiw.

In typical Ken fashion, he dusted himself off, get back in the chair and we continued on for another 40 minutes. He gently reminded me to please make sure the anti-tippers I removed were put back on his chair. He was remarkable in that respect--and in so many others. "Why not?" he said, to which I had no argument. The next day in spite of the tire burns on his arms, he wanted to go to Halsted Street and go to a couple of bars. And we did so. I video taped a lot of that journey, and I watch them with such great pride--for both of us. The video is a testament to how Ken's mind worked. His tolerance for pain was higher than most, and all he wanted to do was take a walk around the neighborhood with his husband to checkout fireworks you can only see in Chicago. Doing any of that with me was possible for him--but meaningless.

He's still teaching my lessons, and I'll be a start student. He left me with much more than he took. And that's just something I need to keep reminding myself about. You can feel free to remind me as well.

Before I sign off, I wanted to recommend a new blog for your reading pleasure, started by a good friend of mine. Check it out and make some comments. I have no doubt she'll give us a lot to think about: http://mycornermidwest.blogspot.com/

Make tomorrow an amazing day.

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.