Ken always scoffed at the idea of Valentine's Day. A Hallmark Holiday, he'd call it. But the truth is, he just didn't believe it should be relegated to one day a year. He was always presenting me or surprising me with beautiful cards he designed and filled with sweet nothings. I have collected some of them, but haven't had the wherewithal to centralize all of them. A task for 'someday'.
I have to say my subconscious did a superb job and constantly making me forget it was the Day of Lovers. When I got to work this morning, I held the elevator for a stranger I saw rounding the corner. When I exited the elevator on my floor she said, "Happy Valentine's Day." It was sort of puzzling to me (maybe it was a better hair day than I thought?), but as the day wore on and I received Valentine's greetings from people I actually knew I realized today was a recognized day of love--ideally and selfishly not from the one person I'd love it be from--and there was no denying it.
It seems when you love or have loved as much as I have, there is a wake of sorts that washes up on you--sometimes when you're not expecting it or even wanting it. Of course, not wanting love is ludicrous. We all want it. We're not always ready for it. I'm becoming an expert at not being ready for feelings I'm not ready for. As I left the office this afternoon, it was like a replay of leaving work the first day I returned to work after Ken died. The elevator ride and walk to the car was a shocking realization that my emotions were about to explode. After they did the ride home was quiet. I realized it on Lake Shore Drive. No music. No talking (I talk to myself a lot--or, really, I do "scenes"). Nothing. Quiet. Solemn.
When I got home I went to my computer and pulled last year's blog from Valentine's Day. It was dedicated to him, and it's the only comment he ever made on my blog, though he was a reader of it as long as he was able. It's as special as it is difficult to have words he wrote frozen in time and accessible whenever I feel the urge to connect with him or punish myself. His words are so present and sweet. So very him.
Love comes at you. You can't always predict from where or when it will happen. And it won't always be from a desired source. But if you're as lucky as I am, it comes from all around. Friends and loved ones reaching out and loving me. And that reminder was confirmed when I opened my front door and found a box of chocolate covered strawberries, courtesy of my LA family, with a sweet note.
The box of goodies came with explicit instructions--which I followed to the letter:
I really enjoyed writing last week's blog. And it came at just the right time. I began the new year with a grand cleaning and organizing project around the apartment. I'd gone through every room, touched practically everything and pulled out and donated miscellaneous and sundry things. After I'd finished up I sat down in my organized office to work on the book I've started about Ken, sharing stories from our life together and the lessons he taught and the joys he brought. Turns out, I was being too ambitious. I fell into a funk for the first few days of 2012 and it took me a while to figure out I'd done it to myself. It had been too much and I paid a very sad price for it--but have learned from it.
I stumbled around for a day or two until I was sitting in front of my computer and looking at ideas I had for the blog. I'd started writing the piece from last week in October, but I'd put it away and forgot about it. Just reading through it made me giggle--not from my writing, but from reliving the experiences in my head. I was drawn to work on it and after being so glum for the past few days, I took pauses during my work session to notice how happy I felt--even smiling. I felt it as I was writing. I was doing something that was moving me in the right direction. And it felt so good…and productive in a very important way.
Friday night I came across a DVD of some shows I was in while training at Second City back in the late 90s. That was another time in my life where I can definitely say I was doing the exact right thing in the right place at the right time. I met lifelong friends there and the shared experience of attending classes at the venerable Second City Conservatory was a mind blowing and unforgettable one. Watching the performances and recalling the fearlessness of the era filled me with improvisor's euphoria. I was IM'ing with another alum Tina about how hard we rocked it (wether we did or not). Still relishing the euphoria, I asked if she wanted to go to our favorite Boystown bar and throw back a few before finding someplace to dance. And indeed we did. We partied like it was 1998 and it was very fitting. I haven't been out on the town until 2 am for a very long time. It was a great battery recharge and reminder that--again--I was in the right place doing the right thing.
As the days pass I feel writing's importance in my life growing even greater than it has been since I was 13 and started writing my first stories. I got out of the house for a bit yesterday and walked to a coffee shop nearby in Lincoln Square to work on my essay class assignment and to fulfill my non-work socialization for the week. It was so lovely. I can usually talk myself out of leaving the house to write when I can do it at home, but I knew it would be good time and didn't stop to talk myself out of it. While sitting in the front window, my friend Beth and her little boy Ian passed by and we talked for a moment or two on either side of the window. That never happens to me, and was an awesome surprise. I love the "neighborhoodiness" of Chicago.
And I like feeling that I'm in the right place and moving in the right direction.
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?
I have always loved the idea of sitting at a coffee shop and clicking away on the keys of my Mac to some stunningly witty piece I was working on, but in truth sitting alone has never held much fascination for me. Alone at home is one thing. Alone in public has always been quite another. Same with restaurants and movies. I've still yet to see a movie alone, but is still something I hope to accomplish.
The lure of writing outside the house is just that--to get away from the same old distractions and finding new ones seems attractive! But today I knew I needed to get away. It had been a difficult day. I had Ken on the brain and couldn't stop punishing myself with photos, words and memories. "Dosing" myself seemed a bit out of my control. What set it off was getting a call from Costco that the old video tapes I'd dropped off in July had been converted to DVD and were ready to be picked up. I barely remember hanging up the phone and driving there, I was so entranced by the idea of seeing and hearing Ken. One tape in particular detailed our move to Los Angeles in 2002. We packed up our lives, our Chow and each other and drove for nine adventure-seeking days in our Geo Metro. It was the boldest thing I'd ever done.
As I watched the DVD, no tears. Just a unshakable grin on my face, hearing and seeing him and my beautiful puppy Quantum. I'd forgotten the nitty gritty details, but what I could see was we were clearly in love and obviously excited about the future. I so clearly remembered how secure and safe being with Ken made me feel--from the get-go. He just had a way of handling change--and always did. He could take the edge off of any new situation for me and make it okay. It's still hard not to feel that sadness when I think about that particular benefit of loving--and being loved by--Ken. Everyone wants to feel safe and loved. And I did in spades.
In spite of almost talking myself into writing at the patio table, after work I grabbed my Mac and some supplies and headed over to a coffee shop nearby that we'd always talked about trying out. And it's from there as cars glided by from the stop sign on the corner that I wrote this blog. I saw some beautiful pooches parading by, teasing me with their "shiny hineys". I watched two friends part company on the corner as I gathered one was moving far away. They both kept it "light" but it was clear they were both quelling a lot of emotion. It was an interesting exchange to watch--objectively. And I was happy to play no part in it. She had chunky glasses and purple hair. He had a close-trimmed beard, and by the way he flamboyantly called her "guuuurl" was pretty much gay. I imagined he'd finally saved up enough money to transfer to a Kinko's in San Francisco--the "mother land." Clearly, I have tools for keeping it "light" too. Damn my distraction-seeking imagination.
I spent about an hour going through our book--which I compiled in hard copy the other night from things we'd both written--and edited some parts I'd written a while go. I also tried to work on how it will be organized. It's exciting but daunting, and getting out of the house to begin tackling it was the right decision. I unwittingly became one of "those" people who sit outdoors at coffee shops and talk too loudly on the phone to compete with the traffic whisking by when my friend Beth called me to check in on me.
After two hours I was chilled sitting in the shade, and decided to pack it in to head home. I felt accomplished that I'd finally gotten away. It did make a difference in my ability to focus, and I'll do it again. Unfortunately as I walked home I realized I no longer had possession of my wallet--which I'd had when I bought my cup of coffee earlier. So I did an about face and headed back to the coffee shop. I'd called on the way, and she'd found it--on the ground under the table I'd occupied.
Clearly, I have some packing glitches to work out before I make my next coffee shop appearance, but taking a page from Ken's book, shit happens, but it's how you handle it that determines its weight in your life.
Last year after Ken had surgery and was recovering from 12 weeks of chemo, we were optimistic about the future. So much so, I decided to write a book, documenting everything he and I had gone through. As a chronic journaler who keeps a detailed calendar and diary, I had plenty to draw upon. I began pounding away at the keyboard in the evenings--sometimes in my office if he was sleeping--and sometimes sitting on the couch with him in the living room as we watched TV and talked. When I explained what I was doing, he said he wanted to write a book about it too. He'd already written a one-man show called "My Foot Left" that was well-received by audiences in Chicago and Los Angeles. I suggested we collaborate. It's something that we've always done well together. To get him started, I sent him what I'd written so we could figure out if I was going in the right direction or if we needed to make some tweaks.
As the summer wore on and August approached, bringing with it another diagnosis that ultimately had no curative measure, the book fell to the sidelines for both of us. I still journaled--a lot--but I thought I knew the ending to the book I was writing and went very much along the lines of "they lived happily ever after…" Endings in general were something I stopped thinking about it. We were both facing one that we didn't want to come.
In recent weeks I've looked over the draft I started because I was ready for it became important to me again. To tell our story…to tell Ken's extraordinary story. After meeting with Claire last week, and receiving so much encouragement from her to continue pursuing this, it has been in the forefront of my mind.
So, this evening, I pulled out the external hard drive that I'd recently pulled most of the documents from Ken's computer onto and sat on the couch going through them. Never really regarding himself as a writer, I was stunned by the prolific amounts of writings I found--many of which I'd never seen before. It stung a little bit at first, but mostly it was fascinating and made me so proud. That he'd knowingly or not, left so much of himself in these writings to help me tell our story. I could hear him read each and every word, and it made me smile.
I was overwhelmed trying to figure out how to organize all the potential pieces that would be included but I set up a system that will work for now. Once I have most of what was on his computer, I'll go back to structuring and seeing how it would best serve the story. Aside from that, I have old diaries of both of ours to go through which I'm kind of excited about in a very I-shouldn't-be-doing-this kind of way. But as a journal, I know there is gold in them there mines.
But my mood all evening was focused and happy as I worked to gather the pieces he'd written. It's exciting that I can still do this for him--for us, and share something that has to be shared. It's not so much I feel that I owe it to him, but that I owe it to myself in order to honor him and his extraordinary outlook and legacy. It will take a lot of time to put it together, but it's a project I'm really looking forward to tackling and doing it well.
Another way, I suppos, I can make sure he isn't forgotten--if that's even possible.
In an effort to gain more exposure as I writer, I joined a couple of blogger/writer-driven sites: technorati and blogcritics. Yesterday, I submitted a blog to blogcritics and I just received notification it was published today. It's not my strongest effort. In fact, I fully expected to get some feedback on edits that needed to be made. I'm really excited to see an article and my byline on a site that I'm not paying the fees for! Check it out!
Every so often I stumble across a neatly folded red t-shirt tucked way back in my closet when I'm organizing or looking for something. I'm always compelled to unfurl it, unfailingly get lost in memories. It's my two-thousand-dollar t-shirt. I've never worn it. I'm not even sure I've ever washed it, but I have considered having it framed because of the price.
In spite of the sage words of my grandma, I never liked to stand out, preferring a safe place huddled in the masses. It wasn't that I didn't know how to sparkle--intentionally or not--but that there was no expectation of it. I had developed a quick wit over time and by my mid-twenties knew when and--when not--to use it.
I began hearing "you should do stand up comedy" around that time. Though I didn't have anything against the idea, I had no concept of how to begin. Besides that, it looked terrifying. Alone. On stage. Dying. Being heckled. Scary stuff that I wasn't ready for.
But I had the benefit of living in the home of The Second City. And as I heard the "stand up" comment more and more, I began to understand that it was a misunderstood by many people to mean improv comedy. A couple of years later my bestie and I began to consider seriously signing up to take classes at the venerable improv comedy institution.
Once we decided it was time to pony up the two-hundred dollar fee, we reported to 1616 N. Wells on March 15, 1997 (and still it feels like only a couple of years ago). My nerves were atwitter and my IBS was went beyond teasing me to blatant torture. It was a sensation that never let up as class approached each week. It was terrifying--only in the way something that exciting can be.
It was during the two years of weekly three-hour classes that I learned--or perhaps--remembered to be fearless. Unlearning how to think on stage and rather than act, react; figuring out "the game" of the scene each time. I learned how to trust my stage partners and to heighten the scene in accordance with the rules set forth by the progenitors of the very stage on which I was standing. I had three different weekly sessions which took place on the hallowed Main Stage, where the likes of Belushi, Nichols and May, Carrell and Fey performed.
Attending classes at Second City was without a doubt one of the most special and defining experiences of my life. It was the scariest and smartest decision I'd ever made. It ever-so-slightly changed the direction of my life, and my perspective as well. What I experienced each week in class found its way into every aspect of my life. The teamwork I learned caused my performance at work to increase exponentially. I began to look at "problems" as "challenges", where the key lay with finding the game. Improv became a metaphor for life.
The satisfaction and intensity of being fearless on a weekly basis propelled my life forward at an accelerated rate. But I have to say, it wasn't the most valuable gift by any means. Aside from "graduating" Second City with a sense of accomplishment, I left with four of the closest friends I've ever had. As I look back on my tenure there, the rules I learned on stage give way to the long-lasting and harassing friendships that were formed while learning them. At the time in your life where most people aren't in the position to make new friends, I made some incredible ones. Another reward of fearlessness.
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.
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.
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/
I returned to work yesterday. It was a daunting feat, but a necessary one. I'd submerged myself in alone-time last week to ensure I could feel the full gamut of emotions I needed to feel. I gave them their due. I kept busy but allowed myself moments/hours to feel what I felt. But by Sunday I was ready to go back to work—or at least be “out and among.” To be busy and distracted and productive sounded like a wonderful idea. And it was. A couple of well-wishers stopped by my desk, and that was lovely, but for the most part I don’t think many people noticed I was back in the office. Many of them probably hadn’t noticed how long I’d been gone or why. The day went well, in fact I felt good to be back in the Aeron saddle again. The morning passed quickly. I ran across the street to Corner Bakery and indulged in a chopped salad. Delicious! The second I finished it, I had the impulse to call Ken and see what he had for lunch. Weird. I dipped my toes into a the sadness pool, but kept jumping in. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
I left about 4:30. I felt triumphant and even texted my sister-in-law with said confidence. "Day 1 down!" As I rode the elevator up in the parking garage I could feel my emotions rising as well. As soon as I got into the car the tears streamed down my face and my chin quivered uncontrollably. The dam burst, and there was no holding it back—even if I’d wanted to. I used to love coming home. And seeing my sweet man. I knew we'd hang out and commiserate or celebrate, depending on the kind of days we’d had, over cocktails. It's sad and disappointing not to have that anymore. It’s another familiar experience that seems so empty and pointless and dull without him. Our time together was usually full of fun and laughter, but it was sacred at the same time. We replenished each other as well as ourselves.
I think a deeper challenge that I hadn't yet considered is finding meaning in my life. Before…just being part of “us” carried so much meaning for me. It was the multi-faceted foundation that acted as a spring board for everything else. I still had a strong sense of self but my life was bigger than me. The sum of us was greater than either if us individually. Therein lies the new challenge: creating a foundation to keep me stable and support me as I figure out what my life will look like and how it can serve me best. And serve the lessons I learned alongside the most amazing man I have ever known. I know he'd want our love and our life together to be a building block for me, not a stumbling block.
The bar in finding meaning in what I do in my life has been raised to just out of reach, it seems. When Ken was here it didn't really matter what I did all day because I came home to him in the evenings, and that was the time we worked on planning and pursuing our dreams. Now that time is over, and it feels like since it can’t ever be re-created, that it has to be taken to the next level in order to do it justice. What is that? I’m not exactly sure, but I’ll know it when I see it.
Giving myself permission to be excited about the possibilities that lie ahead won’t an easy task. It would feel like I’m abandoning my old life, and Ken. But it’s not time for that yet. I have a lot more feeling--and intellectualizing--to do before I get there.
A friend recently likened dealing with kenan's terminal cancer diagnosis to a staircase. Each change in his condition defines the "new normal". But before this new normal is accepted there is shock, denial, pain, and then acceptance until the next "step" comes and the process is repeated. I thought it was simple and brilliant. It really described my experience. Sometimes these steps occur without any warning. It's more like stumbling down a staircase on roller skates then walking down one. Reaching out to family and friends is akin to grabbing the handrail to steady myself before placing my foot onto the next step.
I wasn't expecting the most recent step. I noticed over the past couple of weeks he was having moments of confusion and occasional hallucinations. As time passed, it seemed to be happening more and more frequently. I don't think it was as obvious to anyone else as it was to me. Not surprisingly, the performer in him pulls it together for company. But as we always want to put our best face on for guests, it's not surprising that the gifted entertainer and generous host in him follows that maxim.
But when it's just the two of us, I've found that he has one foot in my world and one in another--no easy feat for a guy with just one foot. For the most part, our days of intimate and deep conversations appear to be over. And for that, I'm profoundly sad. The loss of banter and in-jokes and non-verbal cues; subtle things that are integral to every relationship--and certainly to mine. It began a mourning process for me I hadn't really expected. And somehow made all of this very "real" for me. The "shock and awe" of seeing this change was difficult. It was like having the emotional carpet yanked out from beneath me; another linchpin in our intimate and uniquely beautiful relationship pulled out. It was destabilizing for me. I began to get my first pangs of "unfairness"--something I hadn't experienced before. I think up until this most recent step, I somehow felt I hadn't lost anything yet.
I still see glimmers of "my" kenny--which delights me to no end. It also hurts, knowing he used to be someone I saw all the time--up until recently. But when I sit next to him and touch his hand or cheek, it is my kenny. When I kiss him and tell him I love him, he says it back to me as he always has. It's still my kenny. When I watch him sleep, it's my kenny who is sawing logs.
(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.
The other day, I had a rare luxury. Ken was insistent upon taking his folks and aunt who was visiting for the afternoon for a trip to Michael's to pick up some craft supplies for one of his several current projects. Everyone seemed to be on board. I asked about my role in this adventure, and was kindly instructed that it was a gift for me...to give me time alone at home. The gesture was supremely sweet and so appreciated. "Alone time" is something I'd grown used to not getting much of--or rather, redefining it as early mornings while the house is still quiet.
I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, but first priority was sitting down and giving my essay "Bully for Me" a final read through before submitting it to the 80th Writer's Digest Competition. I'd begun work on it back in February, and worked it feverishly through the middle of March--until Ken's hospital stay put the brakes pretty much anything that wasn't about him. But most of the heavy lifting was done. It's a short and (perhaps?) humorous account of a bullying experience in high school that has stuck with me in many ways--for the better--to this day. It was a struggle to keep it under the 2,000 word maximum, finally coming in at 1,995. It was also real challenge to figure out how to tell the story, but one of the most enjoyable kinds. Were it not for a the deadline I could have spent months and months--perhaps years--kneading it, and stretching it, and re-rolling it.
I'd completely forgotten about the May 2 deadline with everything going on--until my trusty iCal alarm reminded me. It was later that afternoon, during my gifted "alone time" that I was able to give one final look-see and submit it. I have high hopes that it will be highly regarded, but no expectation of placing. I won't hear (or not hear) until October. And I'm still trying to figure out if I can publish it in my blog or if that is some kind of violation.
Regardless, another step in my writer's journey has been completed. Thanks to my hubby.
(We took a long walk the other day with Ken's folks. I was thrilled to see such a thriving oasis of springtime goodness!)
I think the journey with my husband kenan's cancer has been the most important one I've ever embarked on. Though not about me directly, it certainly has impacted my life and how I view the world. I've danced around the subject in previous blog entries, but wasn't sure if--or how much--I wanted to write about it "for public consumption." But after his week-long stay in the hospital a few weeks ago, and learning the cancer had reached a point where nothing can be done except to manage his pain, it's obviously become all-consuming, and rightly so. I've been compelled to write about it--as I don't most serious issues in my life, but mostly in my personal journal.
When I met him 10 years ago, he had a below-knee (BK) amputation from when he was first diagnosed at 15. His leg was amputated as a "curative" measure, and he wore a prosthetic. I remember noticing it the first night I met him at a little neighborhood bar. But I also remember how comfortable he was with it, and quickly I forgot about it. Being a person who tends to bet only on sure things, dating someone who had cancer wasn't something I ever imagined I'd do. But when you fall head over heels, details like that seem to fade into the ether pretty quickly.
I remember the first year or so, I lived with the specter of cancer returning for no other reason than I was/am a pre-worrier. I'm not sure when it started in my childhood, but I'd learned that if I worried about every possible negative outcome in a situation, none of them would happen. It was exhausting, but effective--or so a part of my psyche thought, and that's just the way it went. But our life together was rich and full. Our relationship naturally developed into the kind I'd always wanted. Yes, it was hard work on both of our parts, but we knew the other was up to the challenge. I was part of true team, and am still very proud of that. We learned a lot from each other and grew into our roles as partners. I moved across the country with him after a year and a half together--something that wasn't very "me" prior to this relationship. Even more, we didn't live together in Chicago, but when we moved to LA, we lived in 100 square foot guest house--without incident. It felt so natural to be with him.
When his cancer returned and he was diagnosed in late 2009, the only viable option that might be "curative" was a hemipelvectomy, removing the rest of his left leg where the tumor made its home. It was a challenge, but I knew I was up to it, and wouldn't let him down. Thanks to the support of our amazing families and friends, we worked through it and came out the other side stronger and more committed to the importance of our relationship. Less than a year later, we learned the caner had returned, and worked with our oncologist to combat the tumors with chemo and radiation. Though he told us there was no curative measure that could be taken, we trudged ahead, facing each challenge as it came, and facing them together.
Just a few weeks ago in late March 2011, I took him for a radiation appointment. After they took him in to get set up on the radiation machine, a nurse rushed out a few minutes later, telling me he wasn't able to catch his breath and the doctor on call had been paged. I went in to find him sitting in his wheelchair wearing an oxygen tube around his ears. He seemed a little off kilter, but I thought maybe he just wasn't feeling well. The doctor escorted us across the street to the hospital where after getting triaged we spent the better part of 12 hours by the end of which they admitted him to further investigate the cause of his malady.
It was during this hospital stay we learned the cancer had proliferated to an extent that far exceeded any treatment. What they could do was manage his pain and keep him comfortable. I'd heard the word hospice before, but it never had the kind of connotation that led me to want to know more about it. Yet, there I was, sitting at his bedside, listening to the oncologist tell us about the home hospice option. It was surreal. Though not naive about what the potential challenges ahead, I never imagined that morning when I woke up that things would have cascaded so quickly. That I was getting "the talk" from the doctor that was reminiscent of a movie scene that would have the audience in tears. (The kind of movie I would never see, by the way.)
kenan came home a week later for home hospice care. The hospice team provided everything we would need in order to get him set up comfortably at home. I remember dreading his homecoming in some respects only because I knew what it meant. It was another adjustment I needed to make in order to accommodate and survive "the new normal". I will say the hospice group has been amazing, and as soon as I got the hang of how they operated (i.e. working diligently to manage/minimize his pain and give us medical and emotional support) I found myself much more relaxed having him home than I was when he was in the hospital.
Coming to terms with death is heady stuff, and there aren't classes I know of that teach you the skills necessary in order to tackle such dynamic and multi-tiered subject matter. But I have developed tools that have even surprised me. Until a few days ago, I wasn't even able to use the word "death" or "die". But I'm on a journey too. And I think by writing this blog, I'm learning to get acquainted with acceptance. And from what I hear, that's only the beginning of this journey.
In a previous blog I lamented my iPad purchase, declaring it overhyped and underwhelming. So I happily returned it, thinking I was free from its touch-screen grip. However, it wasnt that simple. It never is with me. I am a lover of anything that "organizes." I had a Trapper Keeper in 1980. A DayRunner in 1990. A Handspring Visor Deluxe (Palm OS) in 2000. A Dell Axim (Windows Mobile OS) in 2003. A BlackBerry in 2006. An iPhone in 2008. My need for centralized organization is overwhelming. Something within me was determined to find a use for an iPad.
So after breaking up with it and realizing my feelings weren't fully reconciled, I wondered how we could give our relationship another chance. In the meantime iPad 2 had been introduced with no great "must have" features (in my opinion). Even better, I got an email from Apple letting me know the first gen devices were in "clearance". Ok. Reason número uno for a reconciliation.
I did a lot of research to find companion apps to desktop Mac programs I had. Syncing is very sexy, you know. And I found several. Reason number two! Let's see, I guess I should round out with a third. Did I mention it was discounted?
No doubt I wanted to want one more than I wanted one, but after spending a few days with her (yes, she's a girl...like a ship. A wonderful mini computer ship with a glossy touch screen) I began to understand how I'd use her. Reading newspapers, keeping myself organized and synced with my Mac, and even writing. Part of the deal was I told myself I'd have to use it for writing. That alone would make it worth it's weight in platinum. And it payed off. Like the know-it-all Genius at the Mac store said when I returned the first one, "You get used to typing on it. Just like you did your iPhone." Yeah. Yeah. It's actually not that bad, but does take some getting used to. This blog entry was typed wholly on my iPad.
Oh! Reason number three: paying less for the same thing you paid more for two weeks ago is also sexy. Very sexy.
Last week, after finishing the first draft of my novel, I started writing about a bullying experience with a kid from high school. (To be clear, I was the one being bullied...I know...shocker!) Tonight, I just finished the fifth version and sent it to a writer friend for her input. I was so excited to send it off and get her esteemed opinion. But as soon as I hit "send," I could feel my heart beating heavily. The knot in my stomach that evokes this experience--reserved now for job interviews and intimidating meetings with leadership at work--made an unwelcome return performance. My hands were cold and shaking. And the sounds of my world were drowned out with a ringing in my ears. It was I was back in high school again.
The idea to write about it hit me like a bolt of lightening last week and I began working on it feverishly as if to reach back in time and offer some help to my former self. I worked on it for hours for a week solid, finally getting to a draft--my fifth--that would be presentable to another reader's eyes. I have thought about this bullying story for years and even considered putting pen to paper to express it. I think I was too ashamed. Still after 25 years when putting myself back there, I get a little sad and sometimes a little weepy for that poor kid who shared my name and my life. The lesson learned was that truth is the basis for any well-told story and in telling the truth, revealing oneself is a must. It's not always easy to do, but something I'll get comfortable with.
It started out as a blog I planned to publish in keeping with the promise to myself of posting weekly. But as it poured out of me--an unintentional, but timely topic--I knew I wanted to get feedback on it. But that didn't make sense. My blog was an unedited, first draft of thoughts and experiences. Then it hit me to check the yearly deadline for the Writer's Digest Competition which I discovered with relief was May 3. I'd entered a piece in the essay/personal memoir category in 2006 and received honorable mention, placing 18th. It felt good to receive acknowledgment that I was't spinning my wheels and actually had a modicum of talent. The certificate I received hangs proudly in my office--where I do most of my writing--just under a personally typed letter I received from the hilarious and oh-so-idolized Mr. David Sedaris. I look at the certificate often, always tickled by the honor they are paying so formally to my piece titled "Cousin Fucker", which sit loudly in the middle of the certificate.
The very kind and talented Mr. Sedaris' reply to a letter I'd written him about "Me Talk Pretty One Day.
My profane certificate. I guess it makes me certifiable.
I guess I would remiss in writing a blog about writing to not pronounce the completion of the first (and very rough draft) of the novel I started writing as I accepted the challenge presented by National Novel Writing Month. Like my decision to commit to going to a personal trainer twice week beginning in October. I've written a couple of terrible novels in my life, beginning at 13, but this is the first time I went about it in a very different way: by picking subject matter at the very last minute, not giving myself time to second guess it. One of the tenets of NaNoWriMo is to write...simply for fun. So I took it to heart and dived passionately into a new world, full of characters I'd never met before. And they welcomed me. I also decided not to write it chronologically, rather jumping around to scenes that sounded interesting to write. Jumping around kept me on my toes and helped formulate a story that was dynamic and hopefully interesting to read. It needs a good, long edit before it's ready to be reviewed by those who have already volunteered, but I'm excited to get it to that point.
Stay tuned for more updates, my four loyal followers!
After saving the money, and waiting a year, I finally bought an iPad on Tuesday. And I returned it two days later. Although my Apple Store return experience was as easy--though less joyful--as purchasing something, I thought owning an iPad would be a transformative experience, but I just "didn't get it." Steve Jobs told me I needed an one! And no one wanted to believe him more than I did. I believed it when I converted to Mac. I believed it when I got my iPhone. But the iPad...I'm befuddled. There wasn't anything I could do on my phone or laptop that I could do any easier/better/faster/more magically on the iPad.
Maybe today's purchasing market is more mobile than I am. And for that reason I can understand having one. But my iPhone fits in my pocket, and in spite of the rumors it does make/receive calls. My MacBook Pro is brilliant for receiving all my writing projects--like this blog.
I'm glad I tried it. But unless the iPad vacuums or tells my fortune accurately (aside for losing ~$1k on hype) then I'm out.
Of course there is always iPad 2.0. I mean, you never know.
My parents owned a "variety store" when I was third grade--maybe after and possible before, but I know for certain I remember going there in third grade. After school my sister and I would walk from elementary school ten minutes to the block-long business district known to everyone then as "uptown" to spend time there until Mom closed up shop at five and took us home. Sometimes my friend Marie would offer me a ride on her banana-seated bike, in which case my nine-year-old laziness would force me to blow off my sister's accompaniment.
Our store was called Remington Variety. It sold all kinds of stuff from office supplies to toys (a personal favorite) to housewares, and paint. It was there where I got my big singing break--or took my opportunity, really. One Saturday afternoon while my father literally "minded the store" to give Mom a break to do fun things like clean the house, do laundry and grocery shopping. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to squeeze in a couple of shots of Jack or a nervous breakdown. It was a slow day (you could almost smell the bankruptcy), so I thought if I swung into action I could bring customers into the store and keep them there, enraptured by my vocal stylings and purchasing the wares we peddled at reasonable prices.
There was a little-known intercom system (except to me--even then all things electronic caught my interest) from the back office to the front of the store or showroom, as I called it. I didn't feel the need for rehearsal. I had put of on plenty of shows with my sisters for my grandma, though as a back-up singer (the youngest), not as the lead. This is what they called in showbiz as a "make or break moment." I hopped on the little stool by the intercom master control center (on/off switch), grabbed the CB-radio-shaped microphone and pressed the button before bursting into my rendition of "Delta Dawn" by Miss Helen Reddy. Over and over. Like a flawless track on a perpetual loop. It's moments like this I recall with great curiosity, fondness, and even pride. Somewhere along the line I stopped indulging the little voice inside and its whispers of encouragement and daring.
I was in the middle of my third repeat when I heard the unmistakable tap of my dad's hard-souled shoes, heading my way--FAST. He rushed into the office and said, "You know that thing is on?" I just stared at him blankly, hoping I wouldn't have to answer that question and that he'd leave so I could continue my in-store entertainment. But this show didn't go on. Apparently my talents were too esoteric for the likes of that hick town. A dream crushed. A true calling burned to the ground. Another boring afternoon sniffing the wares in the paint room (where one of my illegal stashes of Wacky Wafers and Marathon bars were kept.) I hadn't known so much humiliation since the day I nearly choked on root beer-flavored Wonka Bottle Cap during the Spring Fling Sale.
We lived on the opposite edge of town in the old Bible Baptist Church my folks had purchased and converted into a house. Our part of town was newer and didn't even have sidewalks. It was fun to be "uptown" (which at some point in the passing of time has changed to "downtown"); to be in the thick of the what little hustle and bustle a town the size of Mayberry could generate. Running across the street to the post office or going next door to the cafe for "a breaded tenderloin and a milkshake, please" or running to the drug store to get Mom and me little bottles of Coke, each costing "two dimes and a nickel."
It went out business after a couple of years. Not long ago at a family gathering I asked, "Do you think it was because of all the candy I stole?"
"Yes,” my mom replied. "I'm certain it is."
(Thar she blows! The green storefront back in the day wasn't green and was nestled between Brookings Shoe Store on the right and The Remington Cafe on the left.)
I rarely buy complete albums in this day of iTunes and digital music. But, I've been waiting YEARS for an album to be available via iTunes (and incredibly lazy for not just buying the CD that sat on my Amazon wish list since 2002). I got the cassette of "Amplified Heart" when I worked at the now-defunct music chain Coconuts in the mid/late 90's and fell in love with it from the second i pressed the little indented arrow on the play button. It quickly became the soundtrack of my life. I listened to it constantly. When I was happy, when I was sad, when I was bored, or when I was busy. I still have the cassette. I could never get rid of it. I hadn't checked iTunes intermittently and when I did so in late 2010 it was there! And based on the comments posted by fellow impatient fans, it had only recently landed on iTunes. I bought it immediately, listened to the album while I synced it to my iPhone.
Though I love all the songs--which is quite rare for me--one song in particular always resonated deeply with me. "We Walk the Same Line" is a song about love or friendship when one can't go on, the other one picks up the slack because their fates are one. I remember listening to the cassette on my Sony Walkman-knock off while on plane to Miami to see a close friend who had recently endured a lot of hardships. The song acted like a roadmap for me once I saw him. "If you lose your faith, babe, you have mine. And if you're lost I'm right behind cuz we walk the same line." Beautiful lyrics--and so meaningful to me. Of course--single at the time--I applied the psychology of the song to all my close friendships. It made happy, knowing if I were lost, I'd be found by Mark or Kathy or Tina or Retta. And likewise, I'd find them were they ever lost.
But as I recently listened to this beloved song when I purchased it digitally, it hit me like a ton of bricks how appropriate it is for my life now as my husband deals with a serious illness and do my best to care for him--physically and emotionally. "When it's dark, baby, there's a light I'll shine. If you're lost I'm right behind, cause we walk the same line." The lyrics now have morphed into the soundtrack of my life now...15 years later. And whenever I listen to it, it relaxes me and makes me happy, like it's telling the story of kenan and me, and a metaphorically detailed events and feelings we've both experienced over the last year and half. It sort of slipped on me like a favorite old glove you'd misplaced and finally found. And when you put it on it instantly reminded you of all the adventures you'd had while wearing it--good and bad. It wasn't just a glove. It was part of you, your history.
My favorite line has coincidently always been "And we can't run and we can't cheat, cause babe when we meet what we're afraid of, we find out what we're made of." I knew kenan had the "stuff" to handle his diagnosis because he'd dealt with it before as a child and more than that, it's just the kind of person he is. And though I really didn't think I was going to crumble, I had my doubts that I'd be able "shine that light" as brightly as I wanted or it needed. But in living an unreal life as we are, finding out what you're made of is par for the course and something to be celebrated. I'm happy to say overall I'm good with what I've made of. Sometimes I wonder if I have enough faith to give, but I guess that's only normal. It's not about quantity. Giving is giving. And usually, even when I think I've given it all, more magically appears for me to parse out.
So in honor the impending Valentine's Day, I'm going to play the song here and post the lyrics below. It's a beautiful song. My words can't speak volumes enough about these words. Or how I feel about my beloved, crazy handsome, and just crazy husband. I love you very much. Keep these lyrics in mind. I hope they give a little of the same comfort and reassurance they offer me.
It can't be left unsaid that many of you reading this walk the same line with us, shining plenty of light and giving faith. We know what you're made of, and we love you and appreciate it so!
Lyrics to "We Walk the Same Line" by Everything but the Girl
I can't say I was looking forward to the holidays ending, because of the doldrums that inevitably follow a fun and busy holiday season. But I figure once we burn through January then we have one less month for potential snow. I took the time today to walk outside and appreciate what was a beautiful snow fall. The snow falling can quiet the busiest street, neighborhood or city. It never ceases to amaze me how quiet Chicago is when I stand outside during a snow. It's a special kind of quiet, broken only by shovels, hacking away at sidewalks, streets and driveways. There is something unifying about it. I feel a kinship with my co-shovelers though I've never spoken to many and never even seen some of them.
As we grow up and our lives get complicated and rushed, we forget to appreciate the snow.
