the xanax diary

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

Archive for the category “Feelings”

04 Mar 2013
5 Comments

Wading into the Dating Pool


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After one week on match.com I received an email that piqued (not “peeked” as another subscriber wrote) my interests because it was funny, razor-sharp and quick. Many emails, a phone conversation, and many more texts later found me on my first “first date” since 2001.

Over the past few months–since the holidays, I suppose–I’ve been considering what should come next in my personal life. With a rich and supportive circle of friends–most of whom are coupled–I found myself as the “odd man out”–never by their actions or words. But at a certain age it’s normal to be paired up. It’s what most if us want. I can certainly appreciate that.

Online dating seemed like the only viable option. Though I’d done it before in 1999-2000ish era and really have no prejudices against it, it seemed awfully unappealing to me. It lay in the back of my mind for a couple of months until I finally had to confront it. And it a took a Skype conversation with my Argentine amigo Diego (and some wine) to help me unearth it. And the answer wasn’t really that surprising: I was embarrassed, ashamed and sort of annoyed I had to follow up an iconic, textured love relationship–that ended far too early and without our permission–with an online profile and photos that would be scrutinized/discarded by strangers.

It was somehow in acknowledging that when I was able to be free of it and move past it. It almost allowed me to look forward with some excitement as to what possibilities might lie ahead for me. I know what it’s like–the good and the bad–to be in a healthy, loving relationship, and I don’t relish the idea of living the rest of my life without being one. I don’t mind saying I owe it to myself to see if its out there for me. Whether or not I find it again, what I had with Ken will never cease to fill me with love and pride, knowing I’ve experienced the truest of loves; one that can never be replaced or forgotten.

Certainly as Friday evening approached and I prepared for my date, Ken was heavily on my mind. But not with any feelings of sadness, doubt or betrayal. He was pumping me up, telling me to go for it. In my mind’s eye he’s my biggest supporter. No one would wish this kind of happiness for me more than he would. And it was of great comfort to my butterfly-stuffed stomach and tingly nerves.

Just the fact I wanted to go on a date was such a revealing symbol to me, someone who doesn’t do anything I don’t want to do before I’m ready to do it. It felt good and right. And it wouldn’t have at any time previously. It was another indication that I’d moved significantly further down my path of grief. Knowing the time and effort I put into grieving Ken was purposeful, and brought me to a moment like this invites great satisfaction. Like I didn’t just clock in every day, I showed up and did the work.

As for the date itself I can only supply general information about my feelings. I’ve never written a post that included someone I don’t know very well, and I want to be sensitive to his feelings and experience. But as far as first dates go–especially one gapped from its predecessor by some dozen years and, in many ways, a lifetime–it was ideal. Fraught with laughter, curiosity, flirtation and even reverence for Ken as my date asked kindly about him and our life together, the time flew by and before I knew it, it was a smile-inducing memory.

Regardless of what the future holds for my dinner date and me I will always think fondly of this occasion and be eternally grateful for his humor and compassion in making this momentous night so easy, comfortable and unforgettable.

Posted in Dating, Feelings, Firsts, Grief and tagged
31 Jan 2013

Some Days…


Sometimes I’m overpowered by the need to organize. I think part of it stems from a need for control that I didn’t have over Ken’s health or of the apartment during his illness. It was tantamount that things be accessible to him–aesthetics and organization be damned. Of course, that was okay. I wanted him to be as comfortable as possible. But once they removed his hospital bed on June 2, 2011, I’ve been moving things around and trying to organize and streamline. This need for controlled change hits me in jolts and must be obeyed.

I tackled some long-avoided boxes of cards and letters. I’m a hoarder of such mementos when they share a personal message or commemorate a special occasion. The 80s and 90s box brought unabashed giddiness, laughter and smiles. But there were other boxes I was dreading to go through, and others I wasn’t even quite sure about the contents. After the fun box was sorted, labeled and stored, I moved to the fork on the road. To “go there” or “not to go there” is sometimes the question. And as time has passed, it becomes somewhat of a choice. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself, trying to assert control of something that is forever uncontrollable.

I didn’t necessarily keep the cards and notes in order, but as I fumbled through them, they fell into definite chronological groups. Beginning with Ken’s rediagnosis and hemipelvectomy in January of 2010, I kept pretty much every card received. I hung them up or kept them out so he could see how many people were supporting for him. Once he’d recovered I couldn’t bring myself to throw any of them away. When the cancer returned again later that year, he received a deluge of love and support via USPS. And again when he came home for hospice in April of 2011. Then came the condolence cards for me. Followed closely by the funny ones. To try to make me smile. All the the love, hugs, and prayers sent was lush and plentiful. I can’t say they were all for naught. It’s what we do. It’s all there is to do.

Reading through all the cards in that box brought me back to a time when that hospital bed rested humbly at the front of the living room in which Ken was nestled each night. I could hear his voice. His laughter. Our in-jokes. I found numerous cards he’d written me over the years, tears stinging my eyes then running eagerly down my face. I could feel his love, and I could see our live together–clearly. I felt chained to it…in a way. For better or for worse. And wondered–even now–if  it will ever be possible to touch or see or feel something from my life with Ken and not feel this tiresome ache.

2000s sorted, labeled and lovingly stored. Until the next fork in the road.

Some days are inherently tough. And those days deserve to end with something like this.

Posted in Feelings, Grief and tagged , , | Leave a Comment
10 Jan 2013

A Delicious Discovery


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I’ve had a box of Ken’s personal papers under my desk for months–since moving them there over the summer to remind myself to deal with them. Nothing drastic. But to go through it to at least understand what it contained. I’d only managed a short look the last time–sometime in 2011 when I wasn’t ready for it. So back on the shelf it went. I had a burst of organization this week–and a desire to get rid of anything that is emotionally inert and serves no other purpose.

I spied the plastic box under my desk, and made a note to pull it out as soon as I finished moving some books. I wondered if it was a good idea. Sometimes “good ideas” like this can result in a nostalgic path to Sad Town. Population: me. But I didn’t want to give it any imagined power over me and waded ahead, fully prepared to pull the plug should I feel any of the well-known signs of ooginess creeping up on me.

But I was curious. And in working on the book I’m writing about Ken and me, I was interested to see if I’d find anything he’d written that might be something I could use to that end. And immediately, I hit pay dirt. Ken was a prolific writer. Thoughts. Poems. Stories. I’d found some other writings on a shelf in his office last year, and stumbled upon some more here and there. So, finding more excited me!

I didn’t take the time to read anything too closely, I just wanted to get a feel of what was in it, and perhaps begin to categorize it. I am a nostalgic fool, and can be so easily be derailed by mementos and the like. And I found plenty in the box. Cards and notes I’d written him and some photos of  us, friends and Quantum–and Peyote, the dog he had and loved before he had Q.

Seeing and touching all of these pieces of his life wasn’t sad for me today. I think I had a smile on my face the entire time. (I probably wouldn’t have proceeded if that hadn’t been the case.)

One of the last things I pulled out of the box was a book of some kind. Upon closer inspection, it was a small date book with shiny pages and an old Hollywood movie theme. I’d never seen it before–that I could recall. I flipped around the spiral binding to find the cover, but there wasn’t one to be found. And the year didn’t appear anywhere I could see.

For all I knew this could have been from any of years prior to my meeting him in 2001, but I had a funny feeling it wasn’t. I flipped to March 23 and there in the scribbles in the tiny rectangle under the date I could make out my name. It was indeed for 2001 and he used it as an abbreviated diary. I skimmed around and read his notes, what he did, who he talked to (usually me.) It was like poking my head through a kind of time portal and seeing the beginning of our relationship from his point of view.

It was so fun to find a piece of his world from the time just before he met me and during the rest of that exciting year when we were freshly in love and learning about each other. Seeing his notations from our dates and time spent together is a kind of reassurance I never needed, but find nonetheless comforting now.

I’m so proud of what we built together, and I’ll never tire of being reminded of it.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Life, Love | Leave a Comment
06 Jan 2013

Life as I Know It


I was lying in bed the other night writing, Kallie stretched out beside me, her raspy, rhythmic snore keeping time with her belly as it raised and lowered. I stopped what I was doing and looked at over her, my hand resting on her side. And I thought, “this is my life.” It sounded odd as I contemplated the words. It was almost a question. “This is my life?” Sometimes it’s easy to forget all that has transpired over the last couple of years that changed my life so drastically from what it was to what it is.

It seemed strange for a few moments until it sank in, filling me with warmth and complacence and…happiness. Like I was finally doing something right in the months of fumbling after Ken’s death. It’s easy to doubt yourself and feel lost after losing someone you love. Little moments like this one have remained quiet for me, but are filled with less sadness than they used to be. Or at least a different kind of sadness.

As far as 2012 goes, it was a good year–as good as possible, that is. It was another first. My first full calendar year without Ken. I’m not even sure how it’s possible. In reading from my personal journal, on January 1, 2012 I wrote about 2012 having to be a good year because “at least it’s not the year Ken died.” Clearly, I set the bar as high as I was able at the time, and is a good snapshot as to where I stood emotionally.

My life–like anyone’s–is a work in progress, frought with successes, failures, love and pain, but since my sabbatical from work (which most epically includes getting Kallie) I’ve felt more settled and confident. The world started to seem a little more interesting to me again. It’s a place I’m gaining more and more curiosity about, and will have to shake off the dust to get out into and explore again.

As for 2013, a friend of mine wished me a year of purpose, action and success. I like the sound of that.

That’s my wish for me and for everyone.

Posted in Feelings, Firsts, Grief, Humor and tagged , | Leave a Comment
29 Nov 2012

Eggnog Memories


A bottle of Christmas memory goodness

I saw eggnog at the grocery store the other day. It made me think fondly (as always) of Ken. He was the first person I ever knew who actually bought it and drank it every year. He mostly used it to sweeten his coffee during Christmastime. Throughout the holiday season, if I saw it at the store, I’d gleefully buy a bottle and bring it home to his grateful smile and eager hands. I bought a bottle last year, but never opened it. I’m not a huge fan, but it was a tradition I’m not willing to let go of.

For some reason I haven’t bought any yet this year. Maybe it’s just not close enough to feel like Christmas yet.

Posted in Feelings, Holiday, Ken, Memories and tagged , | Leave a Comment
27 Nov 2012
3 Comments

The Story of the Pink Tree


Fact: It’s impossible to be in a bad mood while decorating a sparkly, pink Christmas tree.

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[There is a magical quality about this tree that attracts Chow Chows beneath it's shimmering boughs. Quantum - 12.05.09]

It feels like this tree has been a part of our Christmases forever. But it only became a part of the holiday tradition in 2009. And it was sort of borne out of the beginning of a very challenging part of our lives. Two days before Thanksgiving that year we’d received definite news that his cancer had returned. He’d been having pains in leg since late summer. He even told me months earlier before tests had even been run, he knew it was the cancer. “I’ve had this pain before,” he told me, standing in our bright orange and yellow kitchen. “I know what it is.” Larry Sunshine, King of Denial–brushed it off in hopes he was wrong. Of course he wasn’t.

They day before Thanksgiving after he got home from work, I set out on a secret mission that would hopefully surprise him and take his mind off the immediate. He’d seen a sparkly, pink tree on display at Border’s (I miss Borders!) he really liked. I’d seen them too–several different colors. They were like Ken: bright, shiny and whimsical. It was just the fun thing to kick of what was to be an uncertain holiday season. When I hopped in the car at 5:30 p.m. it had been dark for an hour already. The city streets were crowded with cars, presumably people buying their last-minute-after-work Thanksgiving meal accoutrements.

I tried the closest Borders in Lake View where parking is a disaster on your best day. No dice. They’d sold all of theirs. Onward to the next one way up on Lincoln Avenue. I spent quite a bit of time there, waiting to hear from someone–anyone–that they were definitely out of trees. You’d think a six-foot sparkly pink tree would be an item you could pretty readily say if you had in stock or not. Second Strike. No luck their either. So, I jumped in the car, pushing the GPS in the car to its limits by trying to figure out where another store was within a reasonable about of distance. I really didn’t want to come home empty-handed. This tree was really more than a tree. It was some kind of metaphor what Ken and I shared. I remembered there was a Borders in Uptown–sketchy Uptown. So, that’s where I went.

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[Ken and I, perplexed, 2010]

But it was in Uptown where I pay dirt! I saw a pink tree in the display window as I entered and zeroed in on the nearest clerk to find out if they had more. They didn’t. But the display model was for sale. I think it was $99. There was no box for it, which was for the best. It wouldn’t have fit in my tiny car. The tree came apart into three pieces that I jammed parts of into the front and back seat, careful not to hit the front door against the fire hydrant that stood inches away. (How’d that get there?)

Surprising Ken was next to impossible. If he was surprised when I brought the tree home, I think it was trumped by his gratitude that I went in search of something special he wanted. He knew heading out into traffic mayhem on a holiday eve was out of my comfort zone. I think he was proud of me. I was too–but only because it turned out I did something very “Ken.” He was always full of delicious surprises. And he delighted in gifting them. From love notes, to hand-crafted artwork, to dinners, he was expert at surprising me. I think of those moments so often. The look of anticipation on his face. His rampant grin. His giggle. His child-like excitement in the act of giving.

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[2011. My first Christmas without Ken. But decorating this crazy, pink tree could do nothing but make my heart happy and brought back lots of wonderful memories.]

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[2012. See what I mean about the Chow Chow magic? Which is also why the ornaments don't hang on the lower boughs.]

I think included in the tradition of getting the tree out and decorating it is remembering how it came into my living room, what my life was like then, and who I was lucky enough to share it with. Christmases will keep coming, and this tree will keep making an appearance.

I can’t look at it and not smile.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Grief, Holiday, Ken, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , ,
22 Nov 2012

Thankful.


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[Her majesty is in the hizzy!]

When I took Kallie for a walk last evening, the streets of the neighborhood seemed electrified–abuzz with pre-Thanksgiving activity before the city lies down to be still while we celebrate the holiday. People talking and laughing as they pulled luggage on wheels, probably heading out of town for the long weekend. The weather is unseasonably warm, no one bundled up, but rather wearing light coats or sweaters. Oddly three helicopters hovered to the Southeast. As we walked and the sounds of the blades echoed off the brick buildings I thought about living in LA, and the holidays Ken and I celebrated there with family and friends. It brought smile to my mug.

Our walks can provide such zen-ness for me, as my mind drifts from the real to the surreal. I’m thankful to Kallie for that–that our lives intersected. She is something I’m thankful for daily–hourly, depending on how cute she’s being. When she snuggles in bed with me at night–before she leaps off because she’s too hot–I often whisper to her, “You saved me, Kallie.” It sounds more dramatic than intended, but in many respects it’s true. She fanned the flames of the nurturer, the caregiver who had grown weary and jaded. She reminded me what unconditional love feels like–to both to give it and receive it. Watching her play fills my heart with the furriest kind of joy.

On our walks today the city felt deserted. Parking spaces abounded along the street , awaiting the return of cars returning many pounds heavier than they left. Moments seemed slower than usual, and filled with gratitude and happiness. It can’t go without saying that I’m thankful that I fell in love with an amazing man who taught me so much about life and love, and who faced both with bravery, grace and gratitude. Though I’ll always hate that he had to leave me, he’ll never leave my heart–something I’m most thankful for.

Along with the families (birth and chosen) I belonged to when I met Ken, I’m thankful for my connection to my in-law family, who have been dealt more than its share of heartache over the last couple of years. Standing strong and together, we’ve weathered some very difficult storms. I’ll be spending Christmas with them, and am so looking forward to it.

Lastly, I’m ever thankful that the here and the now–as well as the future–hold great interest for me. I’m excited to see what comes next.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Posted in "New" Normal, Family, Feelings, Friends, Grief, Holiday, Ken, Life, Love, Memories and tagged , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
18 Nov 2012
2 Comments

Grown Up Stuff


Working on one’s will is a kind of drudgery that I know is important, but nonetheless depressing. I’ve been putting it off for a while–since Ken died when everything changed, literally and figuratively. But as I plan a trip for the holidays and as a responsible pet parent, I know how important it is to have my ducks in a row. I know how important it was that Ken and I both handled our estate planning before his surgery in 2010; what a sick feeling it gave me in my gut while we did it and how I had to keep smiling and just push through; and ultimately how it made things easier–administratively, that is–after he died.

I remember after I returned to work last year I was notified by the Benefits Team to update my beneficiary information. Ken had, of course, been my beneficiary. Deleting his name was unsettling and gut wrenching. But I had to remind myself I wasn’t deleting him from my life or memory. It was nonetheless a harsh reminder he was gone.

When I went for my annual physical recently, they always have you check over your information and ask you to initial it if it’s correct. Mine was. I handed the clipboard back, then she asked me about my emergency contact–that I didn’t have one listed. Ken was a patient of the same doctor, so I assume he was no longer in the system, so to speak. It caught me off guard. It always does. “Do you have anyone you’d like us to contact in an emergency.” My brain froze up. It usually does. “No, I don’t,” is usually what I want to say. Not because I don’t have people in my life who care about me, but because I was used to being a part of a pair where legal matters like this were automatically answered. I didn’t have to think about it. It felt weird to be my age and give my parents names, but I did–begrudgingly.

Likewise, when I enrolled my Chow Chow, Kallie, in daycare I was asked for an emergency contact–aside from myself. “I don’t have one.” At first I don’t think she believed me. “Certainly you must have SOMEONE?” I heard her think. “Just me,” I said. Her “okay” probably sounded more accusatory to me than it really was. It never ceases to sting. Sometimes I want to blurt it out. “I used to have someone! I used to have an emergency contact! I wasn’t always this person. I used to be two people. Does “used to” count?”

Such is the business of being a grown up.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Friends, Grief and tagged , , ,
06 Nov 2012

Treading in Memories


It’s been a busy week. Ken has been on my mind a lot.

Last weekend my brother-in-law Craig (Ken’s brother) and nephew were in town for a hockey tournament. My nephew Nate is one of the sweetest kids I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing (and loving). And he is a badass goalie on the ice. I eagerly trekked to and from the dreaded suburbs for his games to watch him play, and cheer him on with his dad. I couldn’t help but think of Ken and how proud he’d be of Nate and how much he’d enjoy spending time with both of them. And admittedly, when I actually stopped to think about it (which I don’t do often) it feels strange to spend time with his family on my own without the possibility of him joining us at some point. Regardless, I enjoyed my time with them and was happy I got see them on multiple occasions and, of course, support Nate!

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[My brother-in-law Craig and I, rink-side]

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[A skilled goalie and a proud uncle.]

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[A future goalie and a whipped uncle in 2006.]

After two plus weeks of “heat,” it was finally time to take Kallie in for her “lady surgery.” We’d tried it a few weeks ago, but she had a fever at the time, so it was put off. Her cycle began exactly on her sixth month birthday which put off the surgery even further and immediately required her to wear diapers day after day. I have to say she wore them like a champ.

So, on Monday morning I dropped Kallie off at my beloved vet office for her surgery on my way to work. As soon as I left the building I quelled a griefburst with some quick intellectualizing and a previously ingested xanax. As I sat in the car I understood I wasn’t upset for Kallie. Of course I was concerned about her but had full confidence in my vet to perform this routine surgery that will leave her as able as it found her. It was more like an echo–an emotional stain–from all the times Ken was wheeled away for testing or radiation or surgery. Some very loud music and traffic on Lake Shore Drive easily distracted me and sucked me into the rest of my day. I picked her up later in the day, thrilled–though not completely surprised–she was acting pretty much the same way she was when I dropped her off.

As I’ve mentioned before my vet was the same vet who Ken took our Chow Quantum to. Dr. Marks is effervescent and kind of glamorous. She remembered me immediately and was thrilled to see I’d gotten another Chow–and one that she deemed after her first exam as “perfect.” She reminded me that Ken had given her a photo of Quantum (who was a favorite patient of hers) that she still has. She told me all the compliments Kallie received all day before and after her surgery. Not just how beautiful she is, but how easy to work with she is and how gentle she is. For me, our interactions are never just the two of us (and Kallie, of course). Ken is always in the little examination room he and I were in together so many times. It proved challenging and emotional the first few times, but has gotten easier as I attempt to step out of the past and into the present of a single pet parent.

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[Kallie, fashionable in diapers.]

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[Photo of Quantum I snapped in 2004 in Malibu. Ken loved it, and it still hangs in my kitchen.]

And tonight as I sit at home in front of the television, anticipating the outcome of our presidential election, my mind drifts back to four years ago when Ken and I were watching 2008′s historic election night when our hometown favorite became the first African American president in history. The electricity in the city was palpable. We were entering a new era and we were in the epicenter of it. Martinis were poured and we celebrated the entire experience.

It’s definitely a quieter election night in my house tonight, though no less historic. Another new era continues to reveal itself.

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[Ken making pancakes with Nate and his brother Jack in 2003.]

Posted in "New" Normal, Family, Feelings, Grief, Ken, Life, Love, Memories and tagged , , , , , | Leave a Comment
18 Oct 2012
3 Comments

Gypsy 2: Electronic Boogaloo


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[Ken named our 2002 Prius "Gypsy" because of the female GPS voice that guided us from location to location.]

Yesterday did’t turn out at all as I expected it to. Funny how some days are just like that. The things I woke up concerned about didn’t end up being anything I needed to be worried about. Nothing life changing, mind you. Just surprises.

I took Kallie for a long walk early this morning. It would be the last one we’d be able to take for a while as she was scheduled for her “lady” surgery later in the day, but would spend the entire day at the vet. It’s the last right of passage for her as a puppy–and the last big planed expense of puppy-dome. She had to fast since 8 p.m. last night so I was already feeling guilty. I dropped her off without incident, though as soon as I left I was a little verklempt. But that all changed when I got into the car and was greeted by more blinking lights than witnessed by the crew of Apollo 13. I’d seen these same lights before back in April. It was a costly expense I was willing to pay because I wasn’t ready for more change–particularly involving the car that Ken and I bought together.

As I drove my sputtering, decade-old car home, I could barely get it to 20 mph when flooring it. I put the hazards on and kept pulling over to let other cars pass. I came to a stop at a red light at the intersection of Clark Street and Irving Park Boulevard–blocks from my home. The light turned green. I pressed the accelerator. Nothing happened. Correction, horn honking happened–from behind me. I jumped out, swearing like a convict singing a happy tune, and tried to push it through the unending, diagonal intersection. But it was too late. The light had turned. So, there I waited, ears growing hotter by the second as I prepared to push my dead weight car through the intersection, followed by I-don’t-know-how-many cars. I didn’t have the courage to look behind me.

Just as the light turned, a gentleman coming toward me on the crosswalk waved and motioned. He was going to help me. Seriously, someone coming forward to help during a moment of primal, basic thoughts “must move car” changed my outlook and lightened my mood a little. He helped me push it through the intersection (crossing back to the side he’d already come from once), and I pulled Gypsy over to the curb, jumped in, and pondered. Only blocks from home, I considered my options, trying not to be upset or annoyed. (In my mind, the way Ken would have helped me handle it, lovingly coaching me to remain in the moment.) I resigned myself to call AAA, and remain seated in the car until it came. Then, I tried the ignition. It started. Car on. Check. Pushing on accelerator. Car moving. Check. So, for about six blocks, pedal to the metal at not even 20 miles per hour, windows rolled up, I was repeatedly screamed “GET OUTA MY WAY, YOU BASTAGES!” as I urgently–yet slowly–inched my way home.

After having her towed in and enduring what turned out to be a really chatty ride with the tow driver, I sighed heavily as the repair tech went through the short, but detailed list of what needed to be repaired. I stopped listening at some point, until he got to the total. Though not hefty, it was another fairly large expense. And more than that, my confidence in the car was waning. As a hybrid the engine often shuts off when at a stop, but at the intersection mentioned above, I didn’t realize it had not just stopped, but rather died. So, I decided should I find something that I was satisfied with, I’d get a new car.

Unlike my experience in April, this felt correct. It was time for some change. Fun change. Non-earth shattering or life threatening change. So, I put my sales associate through her paces. I’d been interested in a RAV4, Toyota’s small SUV, but I was surprised how little leg room it offered for moi. So, it was back to the Prius. I wasn’t interested in any other model.

A few hours and piles of paperwork later, I was all set. It had felt very grown up to make this decision and test drive and look around at different cars. It brought to mind the day Ken and I bought Gypsy in LA. It felt a little more serious then though. Maybe it’s a matter of perspective. I know serious. This was important, but I’d dealt with more serious matters.

There is some comfort in knowing the direction of my life without Ken is still one he would like and feel comfortable in. I share the company of a Chow he would adore, and together we ride in a car he would love, and in no small way had a hand in helping me choose. A year ago, or six months ago, losing Gypsy wouldn’t have been an option. As vestiges–trappings, never the feelings or memories–of my old life fall away, I find that it’s okay. Necessary, even. I think now more than ever in the past, I expect things to be different and to find change where I’m not even looking for it.

My sales associate was very compassionate when it came time to saying goodbye to Gypsy. I wasn’t sad though. It was time. And it felt like it. I didn’t take the time then to think of all the adventures had in that car (front seat and back) and all the places it took us. I had to get going. While waiting for final prep of the new car, the vet called to tell me Kallie’s surgery would have to be postponed because she was running a low fever. It made sense because her nose had been running since Friday. Initially it was phone diagnosed as allergies, but she had a cold. And she’d been fasting since 8 p.m. the night before. So I needed to scoop her up, get her home and feed her some food and some lovin’.

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I pulled out the “Automotive” file folder which is packed full of ten years of receipts, maintenance reports and even the original key tags. Flipping through it is like reading a version of a diary of my life with Ken. Unlike the car, the folder might have to go back into the file cabinet…for now. As I drove home and engaged the GPS, I was relieved to hear a familiar voice telling me where to go. Gypsy lives on–probably via some Toyota version of the Cylon Resurrection Ship, I would imagine. (Ken would enjoy the BSG reference.) The new car, Gypsy 2, styles with the sun visor extender Ken fashioned and SpongeBog floor mats. A new beginning with some old friends along for the ride.

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I snapped a photo of Gypsy before I left the dealership, smiled, and drove away completely and blissfully ensnarled in my present.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Firsts, Ken, Life, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , ,

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