the xanax diary

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

Archive for the category “Firsts”

21 Apr 2013
2 Comments

Enjoying My Kind of Town


One of the Art Institute's iconic lions.

One of the Art Institute’s iconic lions.

There are so many fun things to do in Chicago I’m ashamed to say I don’t take advantage of what the city has to offer nearly often enough. True, winter is typically a time for Midwesterners to cocoon, and truer, Ken was the driver behind most of our excursions. Even in the weeks before he died getting out of the house was always on his mind–even if it was just to sit in the backyard to smell the fresh spring air and look at the life returning after a long winter’s sleep. It’s some of these traits–to experience life–I admired most in him, and try to emulate now. Not only as a tribute to him, but as a way to enhance my world.

I live in a city full of art. And I was reminded of that recently when I went to see a play in Evanston. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a stage production of anything. It was quite good, and the 2 plus hours flew by long before “dead end” was able to set in. I was sitting  in the darkness, spellbound not only by the story playing out in front of me, but in the fact I was sitting there observing it at all. I decided to coax myself out of my tender fortress from time to time  and indulge in such in the bountiful pleasures my beautiful city has to offer.

Excuse me. Can you tell me where the Member entrance is? I'm a member, so....

Excuse me? Can you tell me where the Member Entrance is? I’m a member, so…

I took a step in the right direction by becoming a member of the Art Institute recently. Sadly but truly, I haven’t been there since a work function in the very early 2000s. But I have very fond memories of my aunt and uncle taking me there in teens: once to the Impressionist exhibit (cementing this era as a nostalgic favorite) and another to the Vatican exhibit. It was on those two trips I imagined myself living here.

I took a weekday off without real plans–except for making a trip downtown to one of the city’s cultural gems. And it was a true Chicago experience from beginning to end. It wouldn’t be spring without unpredictable weather. It was blustery and freezing with ice pellets raining from the sky from time to time. It was a harsh walk to the L, but once I was on my way, it became an exciting day full of possibilities. I wore the awestruck grin of a tourist for most of the day.

Seurat's famed "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatt" greeted my when I entered the Impressionist exhibit.

Seurat’s famed “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatt” greeted my when I entered the Impressionist exhibit.

As I moved around from gallery to gallery, I was as fascinated by the other people shuffling around from piece to piece as I was by the works themselves. Some of them seemed to be devouring the experience with such veracity I envied them. For me, they themselves became the most fascinating subjects to observe. And yet from the outside, I looked just like one of them. I was one of them. It’s a comforting feeling to blend into the crowd sometimes. To not be different or remarkable in any way. To be a part of something larger than myself.

I meandered around the cavernous halls for almost two hours–including a short rest in the Members Lounge to journal, capture my thoughts, and–most importantly–because I could. I took my time extricating myself from the museum. There is no rush, I kept reminding myself. Just a grumbly stomach and a puppy I wanted to retrieve from doggie daycare.

It was a great day. And certainly a better day than Jared must have had (see photo below.)

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Irving Park from the L Platform

What will it be this week?

Posted in Chicago, Firsts, Grief and tagged
24 Mar 2013
6 Comments

Remembering the Beginning


One of my favorite photos of us.

One of my favorite photos of us.

I woke up yesterday morning to what was the twelfth anniversary of when I met Ken–when my life changed direction in the subtlest yet most dramatic of ways. I knew it was coming but as it got closer, it slipped my mind. For someone who is date-obsessed, I’m not sure how that happens. Or maybe I am. As I lay there, ensnarled in my flannel sheets and the quilt Ken’s grandmother made for him for his high school graduation, I let all the memories this date invokes wash over me. It was an important way for me to start the day.

Thoughts of the night we met at a bar just a few blocks from where I live flooded my brain as I blissfully relived those first exciting moments of our meeting–and so any others that followed. It’s so easy to get lost in thoughts of Ken–the purr of his voice or the sparkle of his smile–both of which enraptured me on this night a dozen years back.

As I lay there thinking about him, I wondered if it would always be the case. Would March 23 always be an important date for me? Would time’s relentless push forward wear away the connection I feel–the one I want to feel–with this date? It saddened me to think there might come a day when my memories of meeting Ken on March 23 won’t come to mind on this anniversary. Ever the guy who worries about things ridiculously far in advance, I stopped myself. “One March 23rd at a time,” I could hear him saying.

Ken was on my mind all day. If Kallie was around, I regaled her with a story or two about “Papa Kenny” as we carried on with our day. As usual, she was a great source of joy for me as we played on our walks and inside the apartment. I bought a bunch of fun snacks and watched TV that evening. And my night ended with a fluffy black ninja sprawled over my lap and snoring like I was a piece of furniture.

It was a scene Ken would have appreciated–which makes me love it even more.

Posted in Firsts, Gratitude, Grief, Love, Memories and tagged , , , ,
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
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
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 , , , , ,
30 Sep 2012
2 Comments

My Favorite Season


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I love autumn. It’s my favorite season–in spite of what it is the harbinger of here in the Midwest. It’s the crisp earthy smell in the air, the vibrant colors of the changing leaves, and the sound of them crunching beneath shoes (or paws). It’s the time when you begin to layer, and pull out the sweaters that have lain unused since you put them away when spring warmed up.

Since returning to work, I’ve struggled with blog topics. Having a schedule and a sense of purpose as my days in the office fill up with work projects and my time at home revolves around a certain furry ninja as we take long walks through the neighborhood and weekend visits to the dog park. I guess the best way to describe what I’ve been feeling is content. I appreciate the mundane in a way I wasn’t capable of before.

As the photos show, it’s truly the beginning of fall and this weekend demonstrated it in stunning visuals and brisk temperatures. As I ran errands I found myself on Bowmanville Road. It’s a road that runs on the south end of Rose Hill Cemetery (home to some pretty famous Chicagoans and second only in that regard to nearby Graceland.) Like so many places in Chicago, I discovered Bowmanville Road with Ken. It was near his apartment when we met. It’s an unremarkable street in most respects. But there is a beautiful community garden that runs along side it. And though there are many community gardens that grace many streets around the city, this is the one we drove down so many times on the way to his place–and it was the first time I’d been on the street in years. I drove slowly and admired the garden and the neighbors who were out working in it. It was nice, but also strange. To be on that favorite road for the first time without Ken and rather than a cinnamon Chow in the back seat, a small black one sat.

Sometimes I see these snapshots of my life and still find them surreal. But they don’t sting me with guilt or overwhelming sadness anymore–or at least not right now.

And with tremendous gratitude, I’ll take it!

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Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Firsts, Grief, Ken, Life, Love, Memories and tagged , , , , , ,
18 Aug 2012
4 Comments

The Sweet and Surprising Rewards of Fighting Entropy


Changing things around the apartment is a tricky business for me. Leaving things as they were when Ken was alive offers some kind of security–or maybe a kind of certainty that he was here–especially if it was something he’d placed himself. So, finding myself sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor at 11 pm on Tuesday night, going through all the lower kitchen cabinets was a surprise. But it was one of the several household projects I swore to get done before I return to work after Labor Day. But as I contemplated it–and obviously kept putting off, probably a little afraid at what might result from doing it–I was compelled–like a divining rod to water–to do it. I think of all the rooms in the apartment, the kitchen is the one I most associate with Ken. He was a master improvisational chef. He loved cooking for our friends and family and for me–and even more–with me as he encouraged my own improvisation and boldness in the kitchen. I knew the cabinets were need of a “sifting”, but never felt up to it…until this week.

The flip side to such a productive endeavor has traditionally resulted in a “grief burst” within the ensuing days. Not this time. It felt a bit different than it had before–though there are more shades of grief than there are of gray and there is always the chance the burst is just taking its sweet time to settle upon me. Yet it still feels like a milestone that I’m grateful for. I had to work pretty hard to not touch everything and relive all the memories attached to each and every one. (His coffee grinder that I remember him using the morning after my first overnight, the set of clear juice glasses we got for his 39th birthday–Birthday Improvable–that he colored the bottoms of each with crayon so people could tell their drinks apart.) And I though did hesitate when I decided something should go into the “donate” box (wait…should it?), it was around midnight, and I had miles to go before I slept.

Ken was a loving packrat…er…collector, and would have begrudgingly admitted as much. He saw the potential in almost anything–probably even in me, so it’s not a trail I can balk at. So, I have an apartment full of stuff that needs to be sifted through. There is no rush. But a part of me I haven’t felt for a long time is nudging me toward order and simplicity. There are things that are still “off limits”; that will remain untouched until I feel differently. I’ve learned I can look at something, or touch it, and know that it has to be put back. No questions or judgement.

But a constant reminder of this (sort of?) new chapter is an ancient ice box Ken had discovered years before we met. I thought it was so cool until we had to move it to Los Angeles. (Then I just thought it was heavy as $(%&!) Ken loved it so I did too, and treated it with the familiarity of an old friend. Somewhat of a chameleon, it’s been a food pantry, a liquor cabinet, a linen closet, and a paper storage cabinet. It moved to LA and back with us. When we learned of Ken’s cancer diagnosis in late 2009 and were prepping for his ensuing surgery, I had to move the icebox out of the kitchen to allow for wheelchair access and into what had been Ken’s office–which slowly became more like a storage room. I still kept canned goods in it, but just never remembered what was in there and would usually forget to go look.

After I’d gone through the cabinets, I had a little “why not?” nudge to move it back into the kitchen. And though I said I don’t like changing things from the way they were when Ken was here, the ice box had been in the kitchen for years before I moved it out. Seeing it back where it sat during countless holiday and birthday parties and gatherings with friends (which all ultimately wind up in the kitchen) makes me smile.

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(It’s pretty beat up, and I considered painting it to freshen it up. But for now, I like it just the way it is–the way it’s always been. And I love that it’s standing at attention in the spot where it stood for so many happy years.)

After getting the kitchen done, I found my wheels spinning. What could I do next? (As a lazy person by nature, I was surprised, but went with it.) In cleaning out a back closet I found a disassembled table that I loved. It had been present in Craig and Katie’s guest house when Ken and I lived there our first year in LA. Then, later after we moved out I was sad to see it up for sale at their yard sale. But true to form, a few weeks later (maybe for my birthday?) Ken surprised me with this little gem. And it sat on our covered patio at the apartment where we met some life-long friends. It was sort of like a “Melrose Place” building, but no pool.

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(Ken and Quantum snuggled up next to “the” table on our patio in Valley Village – Feb. 2005)

For whatever reason we needed to make space for something here in our Chicago apartment. I honestly and frustratingly can’t remember if it was related to preparing for his surgery or before. But I couldn’t bear to part with it–to which he obliged by lovingly taking it apart so we could store it for future use. When I ran across it yesterday, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t put it together (another “why not?”) and move it back into the living room. And, in a surprising move, that’s exactly what I did!

It sort of felt like opening a gift Ken left for me that had been locked in a time capsule. All similar pieces were tethered together and the bag of hardware was taped to the underside of the table. I couldn’t help but feel connected to him while I worked on putting it together. It’s hard to explain, but I’m short on patience (I almost shot myself in the face while putting together a “Real Simple”–ironic name, by the way–organizer last week), but this was not a destination-driven exercise. It was all journey as I was lost in memories, counting screws and washers to see if I could figure out which went where. It was almost “zen”, and most certainly very “Ken”. I grabbed the Ryobi electric screw driver thingie like I was a pro! I’d never used any of those power tools before. (Well, I didn’t have to. Ken loved that kind of thing.)

From this:
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To this:
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Without a single curse word uttered.

I’m still in shock myself.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Firsts, Grief, Ken, Life, Love, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , , ,
28 Jul 2012
2 Comments

Beware of the Crabby, Reclusive D*** in Apartment G!


Upon checking the mail early last week, I found a flyer stuffed into my mailbox proclaiming my block’s first ever block party. The moment I saw it a blackness filled my heart and I began a slow burn, fuming slowly the rest of the week. I didn’t want a block party. No one asked me. Why should I contribute to something that was being billed as a kid’s event with a jumpie and water slide? Why would I ever want to participate in something like this? Odd responses, I know.

As Saturday approached, I’d mention the block party to friends, trying to make it sound casual, trying to talk myself out of hating it so much, trying to talk to myself into going. But I knew better. And as the week progressed, my anger grew. I figured it out a few days before the event: it was something social and neighborly and so Ken. He would have loved it. And because he wasn’t here to participate in it, I hated it. And would have no part of it.

My mom has often recounted the story of when she took me to the public library as a little boy for story hour. As all the other children gathered around the librarian to be enchanted by whatever book she was reading, I would have none of it, preferring to stand far away in a corner by a potted plant. Since then, things haven’t changed much. “Joining” has never been easy for me. I’d learned to selectively overcome it when necessary, but I didn’t really have to work at it once I met Ken. Socially, he was my polar opposite. Outgoing and adventurous, he could persuade me to join and tell me why it would be good for me. Watching him dance around a crowd, effortlessly dazzling them with his charm, smile and fearlessness was a constant source of awe for me. I admired it. Envied it, even.

The morning of the block party, I took Kallie out before I left for a brunch date. The street was already closed off and neighbors were gathered in the street in their morning gear, sipping paper cups of coffee from Starbucks. My blood ran cold, and I was never happier to leave my apartment and forget about this block–if even for a little while.

When I returned two hours later, my jaw hit the floor and my temper hit the ceiling when I saw the bouncie house/water slide mega complex placed directly in front of my building. I dreaded the thought of taking Kallie out into the yard to do her business, imagining crazy-eyed, screaming kids running at us. (It’s not Kallie’s fault she’s so adorable, but still I considered shaving her and putting a wide-brimmed hat on her.) I took her out briefly, and thanks to that giant air-filled funhouse and the magnetic distraction it offered its wee block partiers, we weren’t spotted.

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(I texted this photo to my friend Sofia, and she replied, “It looks like you’re in jail.” “I AM,” I replied.)

Once inside, Kallie collapsed for a long afternoon nap. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was safely isolated…for now.

While she napped I contemplated finding some way to puncture the bouncie house/water slide. I don’t own a BB gun, but perhaps I could have fashioned a sling shot out of a slotted spoon and a bungee cord. Just as I was considering what it would take the blow up the transformer that would leave the block powerless and the bouncie house deflated, Kallie stirred and was soon doing the potty dance. I pleaded with her to hold out until 10 pm when the party officially ended and the street was opened up again. But in spite of my well-detailed plea, outlining all the treats she’d get if she could abide my one simple request, she would not be denied.

I knew I’d have to prepare myself for a eventual trip outside into the milieu. Enter martins. They helped a bit as we slipped outside without attracting much attention. A neighbor whose daughter is crazy about Kallie came over to chat with me and to invite me to take part in the food that sat on the table under the hot sun in the middle of the street. I had, in fact, already eaten, but public food with unknown origins will never be a “yes” for me. But I didn’t even feel like faking it. We talked for a while, but he got that I wasn’t interested in participating.

Make no mistake. The entire day I realized how ridiculous I was being. Even if I didn’t want to participate, the fact that I was so angry didn’t offer me my proudest moments. But still that wasn’t enough to propel me to break through it and join. Sometimes a little, embittered voice echoes inside me: “If I can’t do it with Ken, I’m not doing it at all”–particularly things I wouldn’t have done on my own without his dynamic facilitation. Scary things were far last scary with him around. He accepted my personality oddities. He didn’t understand them, but he accepted them.

This day was no triumph of any kind. It was a fail. Epically. The first of this kind, really. I fell asleep on the couch, the brine from the martini olives still on my tongue. Kallie was camped at the base of the couch where my arm dropped over. By far nothing to brag about or be proud of, I was nonetheless thrilled to have the day behind me. It’s not a cry for help or an indictment of block parties. It’s like all my other blogs: a confession of my feelings–good, bad, pretty or ugly–and a little self-reflection.

I’d like to think Kallie and I will be attention whores at next year’s block party. But, it’s probably a better bet that we’ll just be out of town.

Posted in Feelings, Firsts, Grief and tagged , , , , , ,
27 Jul 2012
2 Comments

A Bundle of Joy


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(Me and the Peanut on Tuesday)

This week I made a date to head to the <insert gasp here> suburbs to visit my friend Anna and her husband for a very special reason: to meet their one-month old daughter Amelia Violet. It was special for me for a couple of reasons. First, Anna was a close friend of Ken’s. They meet several years ago when they worked together. Anna left shortly after but they remained in close contact. Once we knew Ken’s prognosis in the hospital in March of 2011, Anna was a frequent visitor at both the hospital and at home during hospice. Secondly, Ken had been a big cheerleader for Anna in her quest to be a mommy. So, sitting with her and holding her beautiful daughter felt important and as weighty as it did light and easy.

Ken always looked forward to seeing Anna. Laughter brimmed from the front room when they were visiting, always bright, shiny and bursting with love for him. She was one of those of people who I felt completely comfortable leaving him with, knowing she would tend to any of his needs, or come get me if he needed me.

She spoke at his soiree, and has been available to me for comfort and love in the wake of his death. Completely hung over from a long night, I met her for breakfast one morning in January after I guessed she was pregnant during a text conversation. And I sat across from her, watching her beam at the life growing inside her, knowing a long held dream was in the process of being accomplished.

It was on her last visit with Ken–May 15, 2011–that ties this story together, tugs at my heartstrings and reminds me of the specialness that defined Ken. I know it was May 15 because it was the last date we had a photo taken together (below). It was a cold, blustery, miserable day. And little did Anna–or I–know that when she arrived to spend time with him, it wasn’t going to be in the warmth and comfort of our apartment. Ken had an adventure planned for them…that surprised both of us.

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(Me (l) and Ken (r) on May 15, 2011. He was delighted to get out that day, and took great pleasure in surprising me with a gift.)

He wanted to go up to a little gift shop in Lincoln Square to buy a candle for our friend and hospice grief counselor Claire before she moved to California later that same month. (He surprised me with one as well which explains the bow in my hair.) I remember hearing him outlining his plans for Anna: pushing him in is wheelchair the mile or so to and from the gift shop on bumpy, crack-laden sidewalks that caused him to wince in pain thanks to the tumor on his glute. I stepped in and offered to go, as I had the most experience in maneuvering the wheelchair, but I wasn’t invited. It was his loving way of giving me “alone time,” something we always afforded each other in the decade we were together. It was a sweet gesture, but I remember wincing, myself–for Anna.

But she was up for it and approached it with a “bring it on!” attitude. I’m sure she didn’t really want to brave such horrible weather, worrying about his comfort with every crag in the sidewalk, but it’s what he wanted and she would do anything for him. I was concerned, but at the time, I learned to just “let go.” I had too much on my plate to worry about potential “what if’s.” It’s what he wanted, and that’s what would happen. I trusted Anna implicitly to do it, and if by any chance she couldn’t, I also trusted her to call me so I could come to them and assist. A few hours later, they returned from their trip, which was a success on all fronts.

The next time I saw Anna was a few days after Ken died. She came over and we went to lunch. We both recalled that last visit she had with Ken. It was then that she revealed to me the pep talk Ken had given her that blustery day regarding her pursuit of motherhood. And on that trip as she pushed him up Lincoln Avenue, they talked as friends do, and she recounted to me the encouragement he gave her, facing everything he was facing. I don’t remember him telling me about it, but as she did, I just thought, “that is so Ken.” He took such great pleasure in supporting his friends. What was important to them was important to him, and he would do whatever he could to help them reach their goals. I know this first hand.

So, last Tuesday when I sat there holding Amelia, I was holding her, loving her, and in awe of her for me–and for Ken. It was pure joy. It was actually impossible to feel anything else. It certainly had the potential for the bittersweet flavor I’m so used to–and somewhat tired of–but there was none to be had.

No bitter. Just sweet.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Firsts, Friends, Grief, Life, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , , ,
07 Jul 2012
6 Comments

Mine Fields of Memories


My task list had been taunting me all week. I’d managed to get some writing done, in addition to enjoying and caring for me new puppy, but I’ve had some organization projects I’ve been wanting to tackle on my time off. Since Kallie doesn’t yet have full access to the entire apartment (we’ve tried twice…unsuccessfully) and I feel guilty leaving her alone to tend to my business unless she’s napping–which though unpredictably timed can offer ample “away” time around the house for me.

There is a storage bin in the mud room that I’ve never been able to get through before. I can’t even remember where it came from or when we got it, but it’s filled mostly with utility stuff that Ken used for various home projects. The first drawer is considered a “junk drawer” filled with pencils and odds and ends–much of them little mementos I supposed Ken picked up throughout his life. Nothing of value or particularly useful, but just the sort of things we all collect whether we mean to or not. That drawer remained mostly untouched. I’m not interested in going through and sorting. There’s something innately unappealing about deciding what to do with things whose purpose is unknown to me. Were they treasured lucky charms? Found items he was so good at finding? Remnants of an art piece he was so adept at creating?

I was able to go through the remaining drawers–relatively well–able to get rid of a few things and categorize ones that remained. I knew the camping percolator was in there, along with our two cups. I couldn’t face them for months and months, in knowing that I’d never go camping with him again and recalling the amazing times when we did. Since I looked in that drawer last–almost a year ago–I’ve started to think that maybe my camping days aren’t over. They don’t have to be. So I plucked out the treasured camping items and will dig out the camping gear and put them there…someday. I’ve opened the lid of the camping gear when I organized the front closet around Christmas, but not ready to face it. The last time we used it was for our iconic trip to Ojai in 2005. And I have no doubt Ken was the one who packed it. Touching things he touched last is sacred and heart dropping for me…still.

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(The percolator and cups were separated from the rest of the camping gear because we took them the beach with us on Christmas Eve 2005 for the family breakfast in Malibu. My memory about such minutiae can feel like a real burden sometimes.)

Oddly, in the last drawer I found a visor of Ken’s. I have no idea what a clothing item was doing in there, but as soon as I saw it I remember buying it with him at Target when we first moved to LA. I still have the green one I bought the same day. I’d actually thought about his visor recently and even looked for it because I kept all of Ken’s hats, and even have a few hanging on the wall in the bedroom. (No one could rock a hat as hard as Ken did, and I love seeing them and being reminded of his flair.) Anyway, it was quite a surprise to find it buried in the bottom drawer like a little gem. It brought back a deluge of memories as I pulled it out and held it in my hands. Moments like this are surreal and feel very “out of space and time.” Finding something so tangible and so identified with Ken make it hard to believe he’s gone–especially something I haven’t seen since before he died.

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(Back in 2003 at Malibu Beach, Ken, wearing the visor, and me, wearing a lot of hair.)

After a break from organizing and trip outside with Kallie for some pup-foolerie, I was able jump back in with the help of my trusty label and accomplish what I set out to do. Making changes around the apartment to the way things were with Ken is always difficult. Again, it’s another (necessary, though I know) step away from my old, beloved life. I probably didn’t need to keep some of the stuff I kept, but at least I labeled the drawers to know what is in them.

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Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Firsts, Grief, Life, Love, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , ,

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