the xanax diary

love, loss, healing and humor (in no particular order)

24 May 2012
1 Comment

Exit Ramp

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In preparation for my leave from work (my so-called Leap of Faith), I’ve been making lists and plans for all kinds of things. One of the lists is of things I wanted the property management company to fix around the apartment. I’ve let some things slide over the last year because I didn’t want to deal with it. Ken and I moved into our northside apartment on May 1, 2006 (after a three-day, cross-country race to beat our movers) and have been pretty ideal tenants the entire run of our stay–now–weirdly–my stay. As such, the management company has been pretty responsive to our requests. When Ken was going in for his surgery in January of 2010 I requested a ramp at our back door with a grab bar to be installed as well as grab bars in his bathroom. I’m not really sure if they were required to comply by law, but nonetheless it was all handled speedily, and ready for Ken when he was discharged from the hospital on that cold and frightening winter day.

I rarely use his bathroom unless it’s a 2 a.m. situation–since it’s right across the hall from the bedroom. But the ramp built into our back porch was so well done and sturdy it felt like it had always been there. Shortly after Ken died my brother-in-law Craig kindly offered (among all the other things he and my mother-in-law had already done) to remove the ramp. I remember my answer to him was immediate–in my mind, anyway. “No.” I didn’t want it to be gone. It served such a noble and important purpose. That ramp was my partner in getting Ken to doctor’s appointments or to treatments or simply to enjoy the sunshine and budding flowers in our back yard. After positioning him at the bottom of the ramp to get him outside, the initial push (which got easier) had to be Herculean to overcome inertia (I think that’s the right way to describe it.) He’d usually say, “Punch it Chewy,” and make fun sound effects as we were launched into the great outdoors.

When the maintenance man stopped by last week so I could point out what I wanted fixed, I surprised myself with a spontaneous request: remove the ramp. He surveyed the rooms and work, then left. I felt a little jittery in my stomach. Like I’d betrayed something sacred by asking for the ramp to be removed. I sat down after he left and sulked in the selfishness of my request–amplified no doubt by the time of year and the impending and daunting anniversary of Ken’s death. (It still doesn’t feel right to write that.)

Today as I returned from my lunchtime walk I found the maintenance man hovering around–presumably waiting for my arrival. He spackled and plastered as I ate my Subway lunch, not really paying attention. Before he left he told me what he’d accomplished and added, “I removed the ramp as you requested.” I thanked him and ushered him out the front door–then immediately ran to the back door. As I stood and stared at the steps, newly revealed after a two-and-a-half year absence, I felt my throat tighten up and my eyes well up–for reasons more than that it was just gone, but in remembering all those first years when there was no ramp. Better times, maybe. Easier times, for sure.

Change is inevitable, and I would hope it’s a lesson I’ve learned well by now. But letting go of the ramp–and anything that was “here” for my life with Ken are invaluable and precious–and so hard to part with. But this ramp isn’t Ken and it’s not my love for him either. It was a valuable tool that helped us live our life together–as it changed. I’ll miss it. But I will try not to dwell on it.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Grief, Ken, Memories, Moving Forward
19 May 2012
4 Comments

The Great PadLo Caper

A creature of nostalgia, I can’t help but call out today as another special anniversary in my mind and my heart. As mentioned in an earlier blog, last May the instant Ken saw Katie’s PadLo tattoo on her shoulder, he said, “I want one” with an impassioned tone. It was part demand, part plea, and completely undeniable. Though most of his pain was being well controlled by methadone and a host of other assisting drugs, I was terrified for him to go through any more physical trauma–and worried about all the possible mishaps that could occur along the way if we deviated from our normal routine. Sometimes I felt the tremendous weight of being the only thing between him and utter chaos and pain, and it paralyzed me at times–which is why I learned to not think about it too long.

His arm had grown so frail I worried applying a tattoo would hurt him. But he kept asking, and I kept saying no–that we needed our medical staff to sign off on it first. Truthfully, I hoped he’d forget about it. But as muddled as his mind was beginning to be, this is one topic that never left him. He was the proverbial dog with a bone. He even took it upon himself to call the overseeing physician (behind my back!) and eventually got approval, as long as we let the tattoo artist know his condition. I hadn’t seen him so giddy in a very long time. I think he enjoyed taking point to have all my concerns addressed. He was single-minded in needing to achieve this goal and wouldn’t settle for anything less than success.

Ken and Katie had previously met with Patrick, the tattoo artist at Speakeasy, on their Grand Day Out a week earlier while she visited. Though he was a highly coveted artist who had a six-month waiting period, they had managed to get an appointment for Ken just a week later. So on May 19, 2011 I packed up the car with all the accoutrement I thought we’d need–O2 tank, wheel chair, pain meds, and xanax (for me!) Then loaded everything–including Ken and (original) PadLo into the Prius for the short journey to the very artsy Flat Iron building in Wicker Park for our appointment.

His composure and peacefulness are way more apparent to me now than they were then. Hindsight is 20/20 for sure.

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It was like taking a little boy to see Santa, and I’ll never forget the “lightness” in the car–in spite of the waters in which we were steeped. He was so excited and I was so nervous–about everything–that I realized I had to hop on board this train and join in on the fun–or at least fake it expertly. He was in high spirits that day, though at this point he wasn’t alway making a lot of sense. He struggled for words to express himself–always hard to watch when I knew what a brilliant mind lay inside his head. Our drive there was filled with anticipation and relaxed conversation–like the old days before most all of our trips involved cancer or surgery or treatments.

Ken was soon comfortably situated in his wheelchair in Patrick’s work area as he began to go to town on drawing the tattoo. The artist was very personable and oozed a sense of ease and calm that I–for one–was particularly grateful for. Something about this experience returned a little of the “my” Ken, as he chatted away so naturally with Patrick and me. He’d gotten his infamous leg tattoo on his left shoulder there years before and always talked about what a great experience it was and how talented Patrick is. And since I’d know him he talked about returning to Patrick to get another tattoo. What an honor to be there for the actual achievement of this wish.

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With is arm shaved and (original) PadLo on his shoulder–and me standing by with an arsenal of pharmaceuticals that would have made Charlie Sheen blush, the caper truly began. It was easy and (mostly) fun, as the three of us talked. I’d walk over to get a better look at the progress he was making and was impressed each time. I was equally impressed how little it seemed to hurt Ken, but given everything he’d been through in his life he had a remarkably high tolerance for pain. The look on Ken’s face throughout the process was priceless, and I hope I never forget his childlike excitement and enthusiasm–so bittersweetly like the Ken I fell in love with ten years before.

PadLo’s outline seemed to come quickly, and I was impressed with Patrick’s work–as was Ken.

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Next, PadLo was outlined:

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We were there for about three hours before heading home to sit in the back yard and prepare for the unveiling and post-tat lotion treatment. He was so excited and so pleased that he and I had gone on another adventure together. He knew well what a stretch it was for me to leave my comfort zone and never failed to appreciate it–despite…everything he was going through.

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And the final reveal of our caper:

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I’m ashamed to say that part of my hesitation about getting this tattoo was because we knew Ken wasn’t going to be around much longer. What would be the point when we could spend the time doing something more meaningful? Well, the pic above and his attitude and excitement prior to and during the caper were obvious answers. I have to say it healed very quickly with little pain, and it became such a source of great pride for him. Any visitor or hospice worker who stopped by was treated to this magnificent artwork and the story of how it came to be. He loved to brag about how into it I was and that he couldn’t have done it without me.

It’s the most demonstrative example of how some exercises in life are purely for the journey–destination be damned. And I’m ever grateful I could be there with him to share in it.

He wrote a blog about it that day and sent it to me for editing, but unfortunately it was pretty indiscernible. The cancer or the drugs or the concert of both began ebbing the sharpness of his once-detail-fascinated mind. What I could discern is that he was very pleased I’d jumped on board to support this decision after the medical questions had all been answered, and that he loved the entire experience.

As I wrote this blog I realized it was the last of a long line of distinguished adventures we shared together. And in thinking of it in that way it is…sad, poignant and powerful. But in thinking about this particular journey, it was wild, fun, and so gratifying. I’d catch him looking at his tattoo from time to time, snapping photos to text to people or just beholding it himself.

And though I still have original PadLo, Patrick gave me the original artwork he based the tattoo on. And it sits brightly next to a photo of us on our wedding day, heading back from Iowa (where same sex marriage had recently become legal) in 2009.

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And that’s where this treasure will always be found–near Ken and in my fondest memories.

Posted in Grief, Ken, Love, Memories, Gratitude
13 May 2012
3 Comments

Is That a Free Form Apple Tart in Your Pants or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

I took over cooking full time after Ken’s surgery in early 2010. It was quite a shift for us because this role had primarily been Ken’s. He was a supremely creative man and his cooking was no exception. His improv skills played a role in everything he did–particularly cooking. He often commented that he loved when we cooked together–which ultimately served as great training for me. I learned to get comfortable experimenting–no matter what the result. It was about the journey, after all. As his illness progressed and he relied on me solely for cooking, he took great pleasure in the meals I served up for him (and, frankly, so did I) and always complimented me on them. And of course, he took great pride in knowing I’d learned from him.

Since he died I’ve made note of the ebbs and flows of my interest in cooking–without judgement. I was really into it last summer, but it sort of waned after the holidays. Of late, I’ve ordered out more than I’ve spent time in the kitchen. I think it’s akin to why I don’t like spending time in the garden: because it’s something that was Ken’s domain, and in spite of the reality and the time that’s passed it can feel a little “trespassy” to work in these areas–and sometimes even harder when taking pleasure in it. (In this capacity, far cooking for exceeds gardening in enjoyment.)

As I prepare for my leave from work, I know it’s important and economical to plan and cook my own meals. In an effort to push myself in that direction I put a pile of cookbooks on the coffee table so I could thumb through them to get inspired. And it started working. I couldn’t ignore them long before I started perusing them and MacGourmet, my recipe database.

I realized after Ken died–even while he was sick–my relationship with food changed. Eating it doesn’t excite me the way it used. I’ve forgotten to eat countless meals since last summer. But it’s in creating and cooking a meal where the enjoyment and satisfaction lies for me. Last weekend I spent a couple of hours embroiled in a cooking adventure, and I loved it. I created “Asparagus Bleu Cheese Stuffed Chicken with Prosciutto” (with some jazzed up brown rice with mushrooms.)

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I couldn’t help but think about how much Ken would have loved what I made–and the sense of play I felt while creating it would have made him positively giddy. It was special and I felt so in-the-moment, and I didn’t want it to end. But dinner was ready, so I didn’t have a choice.

Fast forward a week to today. Chicago offered up a beautiful Mother’s Day. Probably one of the nicer weekend days we’ve had since…February. Weird, I know. I felt “something” looming behind me today as soon as I woke up. And I made the conscious decision to stay ahead of it. A trip to the lake while I sipped my coffee helped me stay in a good place. I wasn’t running, but I just wasn’t in the mood to “give in.” Not today.

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I’d had had taste for one, and thought it would make a distracting challenge, so I made a free form apple tart from scratch (including the dough), and am happy to report it tastes as good as it looks with an astoundingly flaky crust. Quite a coup since my apple pie disappointment last year.

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In addition, I had a hankering from some fried chicken. I’d read a lot about grape seed oil of late, and it’s goodness and high smoking point. After pounding out three breasts and spicing up the dredge, my new best friend grape seed oil helped churn out these crunchy, flavorful goodies. I highly recommend using this non-greasy, smokeless oil.

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No doubt May is a tricky month for me–for my whole family, and the shadow of June 1 looms distinctly in the distance. Beginning my leave that day helps put a little different spin on the day, but unlike what has stalked me today, the gravity of that fateful day will be unescapable. And that’s okay. That’s a bridge to be crossed when it needs to be crossed.

As for today, I felt satisfaction, pride and a special connection to Ken as I puttered around the kitchen, creating and improvising.

Posted in Cooking Therapy, Ken, Life, Loving Chicago, Moving Forward
11 May 2012
2 Comments

Paying Homage to a Year Ago Today: Tattoo Groundwork

It’s been on my mind all month. The events that occurred a year ago as they’re galvanized in my mind. And I can’t help but “cut” a little bit and read my diary from those days a year ago. On this date last year my sister-in-law Katie arrived as Ken and I were sitting in the back yard on a somewhat blustery May morning. She brought with her an amazing gift for Ken. PadLo, Ken’s constant stuffed companion and sometimes alter ego, had been tattooed on her shoulder blade. I didn’t know what the surprise was until she got here and she told me as we stepped into the apartment while Ken enjoyed being outside. She wore a strappy shirt that clearly showed off the tat, but Ken was so excited about seeing her and talking to her that it took a while before he noticed. Finally, she asked him if he’d put some lotion on her new tattoo. As she turned her back to reveal PadLo, Ken’s jaw dropped. PadLo had become a symbol of something important.

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He was blown away and so excited to see that she’d honored him in such a personal way. And the very next thing he said to me was “I want one!” So while Katie was here, she and Ken went on adventure to the tattoo artist who’d applied the infamous “Gray’s Anatomy Leg” on his left shoulder years before. It was a cold and windy day, and after they left I was worried about them being under dressed and out with only the CTA to bring them home.

Then I get this text from him:

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The caption below it read, “Don’t fret, Ronnie.” I was worried because I wasn’t there with him, but my badass sister-in-law was, so I knew everything would be fine. Though Ken wasn’t always himself, he was mostly and he was still capable and smart and adaptive. My hero. Of course, seeing this photo with the caption put my heart at ease. I knew he’d be fine and was usual form–enjoying the journey. Their efforts to the long-booked tattoo parlor managed to get Ken a slot with this favorite Tatoo Artist Patrick on May 19.

When Katie, Ken and PadLo returned home late that afternoon, we shivered outside for a while with margaritas. PadLo needed his the most::

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Even though I wasn’t with them, this day is burned into my memory. Ken’s relationship with Katie was more than brother-in-law/sister-in-law. They were friends and kindred spirits. They spoke the same language and they’d known each other for a very long time. And I knew he had the time of his life.

Posted in Family, Feelings, Grief, Ken, Love, Memories
09 May 2012
3 Comments

The Best Shows You’ve Never Seen

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(An early title card from “Our Lives” when I first joined the cast.)

There are many odd things about being “single” (that still feels weird to say or type) and living alone. Earlier today, I walked over to Subway to get a sammie for lunch and as I walked back I caught a glimpse of myself in a window I was passing, and I did double take. My lips were moving. I was talking. Aloud. And no one was with me. I don’t even remember what I was saying. It’s like my brain and my mouth had no connection. I smirked the rest of the walk home, thinking about this–one of many–oddities.

I’ve always done it–not just talked out loud to myself but “performed”. And I did it as a child and a lot more when I lived alone. Now is no exception. Though it was surprising, when I thought about, I realized I do it A LOT–though I’m usually home alone or in the car, and I’ve always done it

It comes from when I was a little TV-obsessed boy and didn’t understand how shows were produced. I thought everyone had cameras in their house–everywhere. And “the powers that be” went through all the footage and decided what shows made it on air. In spite of consistent and inspired dramatic soliloquies and perfectly timed comedic prat falls, my family’s show was never picked. Not even as a mid-season replacement.

So, on it went from there. Even though we never hit the official airwaves, I created a whole history–more exciting than the real one–as I starred as Channing in “Our Lives”, a steady drama about a midwestern town where I began as a minor character who soon became a fan favorite, pushing me to the forefront of the most compelling teen/young adult story lines, when I ran away from my mother (Emmy for me that year) and crazy ambitious State Senator of a step-father Sumner Sloane who eventually hanged himself. Eventually the whow followed me through four years of college and a couple years afterward. (By then my character found out he had a scoundrel of a twin brother, Colin–who was British, of course!) Our scenes were intense because he’d be cast away to live with their mother’s family in England.

Then in 1992, I left my venerable show to star in a “spin off” of my very own called “Chicago Lives” which chronicled Channing’s move to Chicago in pursuit of his dreams (and the company that had been swindled from him.) The first couple of seasons were rough with a rash of hirings and firings until the right cast was assembled. After that the show became a great success, culminating in the storyline where I met and fell in love with Ken–In spite of all the press leaks from “sources close to the situation”, saying I was difficult to work with or for. (Unlike the previous one, I owned half the show and was a much bigger target for criticism. Ah. Showbiz.)

At the height of CL’s popularity, the fans were shocked to hear that their beloved Channing was leaving for yet another spin off, “Pacific Lives” which ultimately followed his and Ken’s move to Los Angeles. It reintroduced a couple of old cast mates from CL who had since relocated and introduced some new ones, including a whole clan of Andersons. The show was a critical hit, but never found an audience, presumably because fans couldn’t accept Channing anywhere but Chicago.

So, in 2006 after a huge media blitz and ad campaign Channing and Ken returned to Chicago and to CL with all of the familiar faces–some real, some imagined. This year marks end of the show’s 20th iconic season. Channing is still here–so is Colin–when I’m feeling plucky. And I still deliver powerfully dramatic and comedic scenes and daydream about story lines or look back at past ones–most of which are chronicled in my diary.

These fantasy shows which have been a part of me for thirty years may sound odd or a waste of time. But in the last year I’ve thought about them a lot. They have acted somewhat like “religion” and helped me make sense of the world and my place in it. They’ve given me glimmers of perspective on the good, the bad, and the life changing story lines we had no interest in playing. But nor did we have a choice.

You hear this a lot, but we really are a family on our show. Let’s hear it for 20 more years!

Posted in Childhood Hijinx, Life, Memories, Writing
01 May 2012
10 Comments

Hopping Off the Hamster Wheel

At a month away, June 1 is a daunting and solemn date for me and for anyone who loved Ken. It’s the date he left us after such a valiant and graceful fight. Maybe someday it will be easier to “celebrate’ it, as time performs her magic, and softens the jagged edges and fades the vivid pain of the last year or so. As for this June 1–I’ve taken matters into my own hands (probably with a little help) to find a very special way to commemorate the date. I’m taking a break from work; hopping off the hamster wheel, so to speak.

Grief has been like a sometimes exhausting maze. Running around through infinite emotional dead ends, sudden turns and reversals. It’s just the kind of exercise Ken would have excelled at–and would have coached me expertly through. A true improviser, he took no complacent comfort in “knowns.” I think he learned to prefer just the opposite, creating the perfect “why not?” yin to my “what if?” yang. If you knew him or me, or have read my blog previously, you know he was more good for me than I could have ever possibly hoped for–in several life times. Yet in spite of the loss of him, I can’t help but feel I was left with far more than what was taken from me. And that’s a thought that is never far from my mind–even on my worst day.

For the most part I really feel like I’ve done things “right”. I have managed to maneuver the tricky snarl of grief and loss in a reasonable manner–given how completely my life has changed in so many emotional,  basic and important ways. To be honest, sometimes I’m amazed I am where I am. Then my next thought is usually “where am I?” It’s one thing to learn to live daily life and stumble toward my “new normal,” but it’s quite another to think about the bigger questions: who am I now? who do I want to be? where do I want to go? Daunting questions far to large in scope to consider in the aftermath of last year.

Like many of us, my plate at work has been getting fuller and fuller, and as that’s happened I’ve felt more and more inadequate, distracted and frazzled. I’m different. There is no two ways about it. Though my basic self has remained pretty steady, it will take some time to understand how loving and losing Ken has changed me. Ken was my spouse, creative partner and best friend. Learning to live without him–his physical presence–has been the biggest challenge of my life. But luckily for me I had another constant companion who I unfailingly turned to–particularly in the darkest of times: writing, as this sanity-saving blog hopefully demonstrates.

In struggling at work–a place full of truly talented and wonderfully kind people who were all so supportive of me during Ken’s illness and death–I’ve racked my brain tirelessly as to how I can satisfy my writing self while still managing to keep a roof over my head, gas in my car and food in my belly. I started knocking around the idea of leave of absence right after the holidays. Still, I thought, “this is something OTHER people do. I should just suck it up, do my job, and enjoy the security I have.” But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The chance to take some time to consider my life as I now know it and to live in the now as a writer…made sense to me.

In doing some further research I learned my company actually offers a couple of different kinds of LOA’s, based on the situation and need. I was reading a book on the subject recently, as many people are considering what I’m considering. An appendix in the booked offered “Companies That Get It.” When I turned to it, there was my company’s name, seemingly in bigger letters than any of the others. Another indication it was the right decision for me.

Ken’s voice has been very loud and clear in this regard. He lived his life with bravery and courage every single day–in good health and in poor. I’ve heard and seen his “why not?” attitude regularly in blaring stereo and in blinding Technicolor over the past few months. It’s a pull I couldn’t ignore any longer. So, a month ago I took a deep breath and composed an email to my team and leadership, informing them of my decision and asked for their assistance in helping me figure it out–which they are.

Meantime, at home I’ve created a “vision board” of sorts, where I scribble ideas and develop priorities for my time off: which writing  projects I’ll target, how I’ll manage my time, what I expect to get out of it. This is a great opportunity to accomplish some projects I’ve been struggling with–to focus only on writing. I plan to blog nearly every day to document the 90-day journey of “living as a writer.” I don’t want to forget a single nuance.

So, it’s one month and counting–for the worse and for the better. June 1 will take on additional significance as not only the day that I lost the truest love I could ever imagine, but a day when I took: a page from his book, a deep breath, and a flying leap toward my future.

 
Posted in "New" Normal, Firsts, Ken, Leave of Absence, Life, Writing and tagged ,
29 Apr 2012
3 Comments

I Knew You Were Coming, but Don’t Expect a Cake

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When I got home from work on Monday I was tired from a busy day and a fun weekend. So I dozed on the couch after dinner while watching TV. It was one of those twilight sleeps where I where I felt sort of awake–but couldn’t stop it if I tried. Ken came and sat down on the couch sort of in front of me, propping himself up on his arm as leaned in toward me, looking at me with a knowing smile. I reached over and rubbed up and down his arm, my hand finally resting upon his enormous hand. It was real. I could see the hair pattern on his arm, the crinkle of his grin, and the lipstick-smudge-of-a-birthmark on his cheek.

Then I woke up. Aching and forlorn. And pissed at myself because I should have known better. I knew this would happen, I thought as I berated myself for falling so hard and so deep into an instantly beautiful, but false and fragile “reality.”

It had occurred to me something like this would happen. Usually periods of great fun (my visit with Denise last weekend) are followed by some emotional trap and a “griefburst” or two. Add in some sadness and emotional cutting as I looked longingly through photos, videos, Facebook posts and cards, effortlessly assisting me lower and lower into my den of grief.

I was mired in sadness for a couple of days, but somehow this time I had some understanding why it was happening and where I was within it–which felt slightly empowering and helped me move through it. Then my friend Mindy published this blog. She emailed me to give me a heads up–because part of it was about Ken. I immediately stopped what I was doing and pulled up her blog “Never as the Crow Flies.” It was about how she felt she was losing her passion for writing, and that perhaps, it was something she should give up. (I would have done everything I could to keep her from making such a disastrous decision.) But as you read her blog (and urge you to), you’ll see I didn’t have to take any action at all. Ken took care of it–or part of it.

He spoke to her a similar fashion that he speaks to me–and with a similar message. As I considered taking a sabbatical from work, I heard him loud and clear: to go for it and take the time to focus on my passion for writing. (More to come on that later.)

As I’ve become more familiar with grief, I liken her to a guest who has full access to come into my house and sit down–whether invited or not. And she won’t even entertain the notion of leaving until you’ve acknowledged her presence–and even then she isn’t always quick to make her exit. I can’t say she’s unwelcome because I know her visits are an important part of my journey, but I can say when I see her coming my way I groan, “I hope to hell she’s going to someone else’s house.”

I’d like to think her visits are less frequent and she doesn’t get as comfortable as she used to. But what I do know for a fact about her is that she’s unpredictable.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Grief, Ken
21 Apr 2012
2 Comments

Shiny, (Truly) Happy People

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(A rare paparazzi shot, catching vintage badasses Denise and Ron (circa 1990) arriving “on the scene.”)

I read a blurb recently about a study conducted on a group of “truly happy” people to find what–if anything–they had in common. The study found that those surveyed only shared one trait: the strength of their social relationships. I’m not exactly sure how “truly happy” is measured and what metrics would actually reveal that, but I found it fascinating nonetheless. And in thinking about it for a while, I took great comfort in the relationships I share with my friends and family–and, of course, the crown jewel of them all–my relationship with Ken.

Stumbling across this article was “interesting” timing. (I’ve said before I’m not sure I believe in coincidence anymore since Ken’s death.) One of my oldest and dearest friends, Denise, was in Chicago for business this week. After coordinating schedules I was excited that she extended her trip by a day so we she could crash at my place and we could spend some time together, drink some wine and catch up. She and our mutual (and supremely lovely) friend Nick traveled to town last year to attend Ken’s soiree. Though they had no expectation of spending time with me, it meant more than I could ever put into words to have these two iconic friends take the time to travel so far to love and support me, and to honor Ken. But in terms of the study I mentioned earlier, it goes a long way in demonstrating the web of social relationships I’m lucky enough to have that form an intricate lattice that has caught me every single time I’ve fallen–not matter how hard.

Though we’re both far too young for this be true, I met Denise twenty-two years ago as I was finishing up at Purdue University. I’d only recently come out then and met her through Nick (our mutual friend who we harassed via text after a couple of glasses of wine last night.)

When I left to Lafayette to move to Chicago, Denise moved to northern California. In subsequent years as I moved to southern California with Ken, she moved to Texas. Like many of my friendships, no matter how long it’s been since we’ve talked or instant messaged or emailed or iChatted, it’s effortless to pick up where we left off. And it’s always been that way.

Denise was a constant dancing partner of mine during the early 90′s. From Depeche Mode to B-52′s to New Order to REM. We frequented the local club and tore up the dance floor week after week after week, culminating in–wait for it–a choreographed dance to a popular song of the day. The freedom of dancing was almost drug-like in its sweaty, gyrating satisfaction. But the unity I felt as our song would start and we would casually bust out our coordinated moves, impressing the onlookers week after week made me feel a part of something important–and more importantly, a part of…something. And as much as fun as that was, I think back to being at her apartment and working for HOURS to create the dance. That was, for me, the most fun memory of our concerted effort.

So much of what makes Denise and my friendship special is unspoken. It’s just the way it work works for us. Over the years I’ve wondered if she truly understands how impressive she was/is to me and what a powerful impact our friendship has made on my life. I reminded her during our visit together last night of something she once told me: feelings aren’t right or wrong; they just “are.” Those words made a big impression upon me, and served me well through all of my subsequent friendships, in falling in love with Ken, and most certainly in learning of his cancer’s return and in coping with his death.

We haven’t lived in the same city with daily access to each for twenty-some years, but when we’re together, it’s impossible to forget the power and excitement the future held for me then, and what it can still hold for me now. Denise and Ken met in 2007 when she traveled to Chicago for a couple of days before she and I returned to Lafayette to visit with Nick and our old friends there. I remember being excited for them to meet and how effortless it was to conjoin these seemingly disparate parts of my life.

I’ve never been overtly social. I don’t know how or why it works, but for the most part I’ve always been attracted to people who prove to be long-term friends. I think friendship is something that is organic and comes easily. As I still struggle to find equilibrium and continue to figure out what my new “normal” is, I take great comfort in the friendships I’ve made and how they offer me a sometimes greatly needed center-of-gravity.

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Some things never change.

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Thankfully!

Posted in "New" Normal, Friends, Gratitude, Growing Up Gay, Life, Memories
10 Apr 2012
4 Comments

Welcome Home, Gypsy

I returned from my week-long trip to California late on Friday night, exhausted but satisfied that I’d done my best on my visit to support my family, and managed to also make time to spend with friends. Being there stirred up a lot of memories of Ken, of living there with him, and of our last visit there together in 2009. But I did my best to remain in the moment and to try to look forward–for myself and for a family mourning the loss of another family member.

I slept late on Saturday and after a quick instant message conversation with my sister Shelli (who gave me the idea), I decided to head to my folks in Indiana later that day to spend some time with them before the rest of the family descended for Easter. I planned to head out after running some errands, but a monkey wrench was thrown into the works when I hopped gleefully into my car from returning something at Best Buy, turned the key, and was greeted by an until-then-unseen flashing red icon:

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After turning off the car and flipping furiously through the owner’s manual, I found it meant “Hybrid System Warning Light.” My only option was to contact the dealer, who couldn’t offer any input without looking at it–including whether I could drive it or not without damaging it further. I made it safely home, but it was late afternoon on Saturday and waiting for a tow truck would have eaten up the rest of the day and prevented me from renting a car and heading down to my folks–which is what I did after talking with them on the phone.

Even before having it towed in on Monday morning I couldn’t stop thinking about the Prius which Ken named Gypsy from the GPS system voice. I had to consider what the maximum amount I could pay to have it repaired–if it was repairable at all. And as I considered it, the number kept going up. Though I wasn’t sure what I’d do if the car were irreparable. I’d lived in Chicago before meeting Ken without a car for ten years. It used to be one of the best examples of what I loved best about living in this incredible city. But somehow, I felt differently now.

When they called me to let me know what the problem was (the hybrid battery was bad and would need to be replaced) I didn’t have to think about it too hard to authorize it, mistake or not for a ten-year-old car. When they called me to let me know it was done, I couldn’t get there fast enough. The sense of relief I felt when I walked in to pay, and saw it sitting outside the door was akin to coming home from a nervous night out, leaving my baby with a first-time babysitter.

After readjusting the mirrors and seat and pulling out of the dealership, my eyes welled up and I ended up blubbering half way home. It was during the deluge of tears that it all came flooding to me, and should have been obvious to me all the while. This is far more than a car to me. It’s an extension of Ken and a life I loved with him. Only a month after we moved to Los Angeles, it was our first major purchase together. It’s a car that Ken was so proud of having. In 2002, hybrids were new. I know I’d never heard of it before, but he’d done lots of research. (After telling my father-in-law about it, he got a skeptical “good luck with that”, but years later a Prius is what my in laws decide to purchase. Coincidence?)

It carried two hand-holding lovers and briny, tired Chow Chow home from a day at the beach. It contained the laughter created by two uncles and two nephews on a trip to Disney Land. It took us to camping adventures, dinners with friends, family holidays, and a cross-country move. Living in LA, we spent a lot of time in this car. And now that Ken is gone and my life is different, I love spending time in it as well. Not having it today was an odd feeling, even though the “L” is only a block away. I felt trapped. And a little gypped being gypsyless.

“No more change,” I told my mom on the phone as I explained my rationale for having my decade old car repaired. But I realize it wasn’t all of it. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want change, I didn’t want anything else to be taken away from me–especially something with such deep emotional value. It was connected to Ken, and if I’d said “no” to the battery replacement, the car would have been done. Finished. I was able to make a decision that “saved” the car–something I couldn’t do for Ken. And I know it’s not the same thing, but it did feel empowering regardless of how ridiculous it sounds.

Since he stopped driving it on a daily basis more than a year ago I have yet to change anything it. The body spray he kept in the console is still in there, and I a reminded of his scent every time I open it. When I opened the glove box to get the owner’s manual out the other day I saw his ancient iPod in there.

The teary-eyed drive home from the dealership was a trip down memory lane. The Sponge Bob floor matts our friend Mindy gave Ken on his 40th birthday were a favorite adornment for him. They still smile up at me:

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Ever the “do-er”, he created an extender for the driver’s blind with a file folder and some tape. It would never occur to me to remove it because it comes in handy almost daily:

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Even the leash we used to take Quantum into the vet’s office is still tucked into the pouch behind the front seat:
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Knowing my obsession with “Knots Landing”, he named our home location on the navigation system:

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Welcome home, Gypsy. I hope to keep safe and working as long as I possibly can.

Posted in "New" Normal, Grief, Memories
31 Mar 2012
2 Comments

Westward Home

I never expected my next trip back to California to be tinged with sadness–well, other than sadness in visiting my in-law family and revisiting memories of Ken and the life we once shared when we lived there–not to be with the family and support each other through the loss of Ken’s older brother who died suddenly not yet a week ago. It was sudden and somewhat unexpected, and a blow to a family still mourning the loss of Ken last June.

I’ve done my best to support them all from Chicago since learning the news, but am relieved and–admittedly, a little daunted–to head there myself to offer whatever emotional support I can–even if just as “the jester,” a role that has come naturally to me since…always. Long before Ken got sick we became family. In fact, from the moment I met all of them I don’t ever remember feeling like anything but family. In so many ways it has remained easy to stay close.

When I sit and think about it, there is something unique and innately confounding about no longer having a spouse that linked you to his family. It’s not about love or respect. It’s just learning to operate without something that was once a vital part of the experience. It can seem very much like a metaphor for Ken himself, who learned on two separate occasions some twenty years apart to maneuver without parts of his leg. During his last months he made us promise to stay close as a family. It wasn’t hard promise to make. I never had any doubt.

I’ve often wondered why he asked us to make the promise. Was he afraid once he was gone his family would turn their back and ostracize me, or was he predicting my pattern for isolating myself when in pain? It doesn’t matter, really. I think what he needed to know was that we’d be there for each other through good times and bad, and that hasn’t proven difficult.

In trying to take a page from Ken’s impressive lesson book–in spite of the reason for my trip–I decided to really do my best to “embrace the journey.” Not a frequent traveler and definitely someone who has historically viewed it only as a “means to a destination” I’ve rarely taken the time to appreciate the journey. Ken’s absence was glaring to me last time I traveled to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving with his family. He was a great distractor and a constant reminder of the humor and wonder that surrounds–particularly while traveling. This time, maybe he was with me a little bit.

I thought of him on the cab right to the airport this morning, and our last trip westward together–for Christmas in 2009 before his hemipelvectomy surgery scheduled for mid-January. Despite what he was facing and the pressure of celebrating a concentrated and perfect holiday, and the physical pain and anxiety he was experiencing, he was still my other half and my rock. Yin and yang. A true balance. Understanding that I have to do that for myself has its sadness, but also offers a challenge that doesn’t seem completely insurmountable–particularly given the stellar set for me by my beloved.

This morning when the cab dropped me off at O’Hare, it was the first time I didn’t find my heart racing with nervousness and anticipation to just get through security and get seated and wait–just get to my destination, journey be damned. I looked around, and took in all the people. Interesting people. Excited and traveling to destinations unknown. It was fun and light, and made me appreciate…well, everything.

I sashayed through the security check point and almost gave a high five to the TSA agent who waved me through. (I know I should have, but some of them are necessarily humorless for good reason.) For the first time ever, I didn’t just head to my gate and wait for my flight to board. I found the food court and after ordering my “breakfast of champions”, sat and people watched until just shortly before my flight was called. Amongst a place I usually find chaotic and IBS-inducing, I was relaxed.

Probably the most exciting injection I’ve given my trip is my class of service. Non-refundable first class? Who knew? It wasn’t a lot more than flying coach and at 6’3″ leg room and elbow room are at a premium. (Plus, I’m a bit of a closet elitist who doesn’t mind paying a little extra for the peace of mind of not being crammed into a seat, flying shoulder-to-shoulder next to a line backer for a four-hour flight.)

I hope that doesn’t make me a 1% wannabe, but I was disappointed there was no curtain separating “us” from “them” in steerage. Maybe I’ll offer to use the soft fleece blanket from the pocket in front of me.

My flight lands in Palm Springs in a few ours where I’ll be greeted by my mother- and father-in-law. I’m really looking forward to seeing them; hugging them, and doing my best to love and support them.

Hey! I think that guy from “the back of the plane” is using “our” bathroom!

Oh! There is a curtain!

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Posted in "New" Normal, Family, Feelings, Grief, Ken, Love

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