Milestone dates regarding Ken don’t ambush me or fill me with dread…much. Or at least like they once did. I’m usually prepared for them–particularly the important ones. Birthday. Our anniversary. Or the anniversary of his death. And, really, as time passes and I keep pushing forward in my life, they seem to hurt less. Really, though, what I think is happening is my tolerance for the pain is higher. I’m just used to it.
This past weekend was Ken’s birthday. He would have been 49. It’s marked on my calendar, though it hardly needs to be. I know it like it’s my own. I can still picture the day. Waiting for him to come home from work, martini ready to be shaken. Making whatever he wanted for dinner. Watching him open birthday cards and a presents, and talking to long distance well-wishers on the phone. Laughing and kissing him, reveling in the joy and fun of his pre-semicentennial birthday while making mental notes and listening for clues of what he’d like for next year’s milestone celebration.
This year I marked the occasion as I have done since he died. I baked up some cupcake love, wrote out a thank you note, and journeyed to the cancer center where he received treatment to see the nurses–of course, Blanca, in particular. And thank them. For all they did for him, and all they do. Period.
My friend Mindy was in town visiting from Portland. It wasn’t really planned to coincide with Ken’s birthday. It just worked out that way. So, on one of our day excursions, she came to the cancer center with me to deliver the goodies and meet the very famous Blanca–someone she’s heard about since Ken received treatment there.
It was really fun. And special to have her there with me. Ken adored her as well. And she was a pylon for me during his illness. Back then the two-hour time difference allowed me to ensure Ken was sleeping before making a call that would be too late locally. To ramble. Or blubber. Depending on what I was feeling that day. Mindy, like so many of my nearest and dearest, allowed me to lean on her. And taking her to the cancer center felt completing in some way. A tiny measure of closure for one of the many journeys swirling around in my head.
It always feels satisfying to honor a tradition I started in his name. It’s still not always easy to go there. But, as I’ve written before, I feel it’s something I must do. I’m compelled to. Out of a sense of…something. A sense of Ken. It’s a part of me that wants to remember all of it. The good and bad. It’s what life is about–as much as I would prefer it to be only about the good, there can’t be any such thing without the other.
In taking someone with me to visit, maybe I can change how I feel about going there, but I’m not truly sure that will ever happen. What I do know–or at least hope–is that it speaks well of him that I still go. That is important to me. And reminds those who treated him for just a minute of his laughter and smile and good humor during his treatments. And that I–and our entire family–are grateful to the nurses for their untiring dedication to him and to their profession.
Since Ken’s birthday was on a weekend (when they are closed), I went to the cancer center a couple of days before. When his actual birthday arrived, it felt good that I hadn’t waited for a momentous day to come and have its emotional way with me, but rather been proactive, rendering it somewhat impotent–emotionally speaking.
Kind of like giving grief the finger.