the xanax diary

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

Archive for the category “Gratitude”

26 Mar 2013
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Honoring a Hero of My Heart


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I still check Ken’s email. I’m not sure why. I just like knowing it’s still there and active. And it’s still something I monitor on his behalf should anything of substance ever arrive. It’s one of the more mundane ways I honor him.

I’ve long ago archived all the emails that he sent and received personally–or ones I sent on his behalf. Now I just check the inbox from time to time and delete the spam or long-ago-subscribed-to newsletters. One day last week I clicked on the lone message in the inbox and tapped the delete key. But just as it vanished I saw a few words of the subject: DEADLINE EXTENDED.

Curious, I clicked into the trash and read the entire subject line: “DEADLINE EXTENDED: Nominate your nurse & win a trip!” I read further and was intrigued to learn it was an essay contest to nominate an oncology nurse you feel went above and beyond in caring for you or a loved one. It clicked so easily for me to write about Blanca, “Kenny’s girlfriend,” and main nursing squeeze during his chemotherapy treatments at the Creticos Cancer Center.

With only seven days to write a 700-1,000 word essay, I set to work on this labor of love. But time was of the essence for such a daunting task. So last Sunday I dropped Kallie off at daycare so I could write at my favorite coffee shop. Writing about this time in my life is still very emotional for me, so I figured working in a public forum would force me to hold it together and power through. And it did! For the most part. After multiple read-throughs and edits, I submitted it on Sunday evening, with a few days to spare before the deadline.

I decided to stop by the cancer center yesterday to tell her I’d nominated her for the Extraordinary Healer Award, to give her a printed out copy of the essay and tell her why I nominated her. For Ken, really. (One of the less mundane ways I honor him.) And for me and our family. Our gratitude to her and the nursing staff is boundless. She and I actually had time to sit down for a few minutes so I could tell her about the nomination, and why I nominated her, and–again–how grateful I am for the love and care she showered upon Ken during his treatments.

I have no illusions of winning the competition. I know there are many worthy nurses and more agile writers than I to tell their stories. I’m certain my piece is tinged with more sentimentality that I would have liked. But it’s the only way I can see that time in my life from where I am now.

The real “win” for me is just having someone like Blanca to write about and be grateful for.

With Beautiful Blanca when I stopped by to give her my essay.

With Beautiful Blanca when I stopped by to give her my essay.

Here is the essay I submitted.

Kenny’s Girlfriend

By Ron Stempkowski (March 24, 2013)

Nurses are heroes. There is no doubt in my mind. Nurses who devote themselves to caring for people battling cancer are a special breed of hero; an elite force who lovingly carry out their duties regardless of how the mission might end with each patient. Their dedication is as unyielding as it is impressive.

Blanca Vargas, RN, BSN, OCN, is a first-class example of this type of hero. Her presence at the Creticos Cancer Center transformed the Infusion Room from a cold, sterile facility into a room filled with caring and laughter–and even a touch of cozy.

For my husband Kenny Anderson, Blanca was the face of his infusion treatments at Creticos. Her reassuring smile. Her cooing voice. Her gentle yet capable touch. He never looked forward to the treatment, but always looked forward to seeing “his” Blanca. Her warmth drew us both in and earned her a place on the highest shelf in our esteem.

I accompanied him to most all of his treatments during the year he underwent them. I can still remember meeting Blanca for the first time as she prepared Kenny for his first chemotherapy session. So sweet and jovial as she donned the required and intimidating hazmat garb, she made the whole daunting process seem a little more routine, easing two very unnerved gentlemen’s minds. It was late winter, and she talked about the promise of spring. It so perfectly demonstrated her optimistic point of view.

Ever the performer, having a loyal audience participant helped Kenny pass the time while receiving treatment. Blanca engaged him in conversation, listened intently as he shared stories, and shared stories of her own. It wasn’t long before Kenny and Blanca became the best of “dancing” partners as they played off each other effortlessly, usually resulting in uproarious laughter from their adoring audience–of which I was lucky enough to a part.

Their mutual crush soon became so obvious to me I began referring to Blanca as Kenny’s “girlfriend.” And not long after, she and the entire staff were in it. Their affinity for each other was palpable–and so delightfully palatable. No matter how poorly he was feeling as I drove him to treatment, watching his demeanor transform and lighten when he saw Blanca was a delicious treat I always loved to witness; and one that was so good for him.

With Kenny (and all her patients, no doubt) Blanca understood the subtle yet powerful importance of touch. I can still see the Zen smile that would brighten his face when she would touch his arm or gently rub his back, murmuring sweet words of encouragement to him.

As Kenny’s husband and partner, I watched helplessly as either cancer or chemotherapy drugs devastated his body. I was his constant albeit stressed-out 24/7 caregiver, and taking him to Creticos for treatment was a respite for me, knowing Blanca would tend to his every need and indulgence–even if I was sitting right next to him. She understood not only what Ken was going through, but what I was going through as well. I could breathe a little easier while we were there.

As Kenny’s condition deteriorated, he remained steadfast in his optimism–as did Blanca. I so appreciated having another pylon to stand strong with me in support of Kenny. We knew we were going to lose him, but focusing on it would have been paralyzing to him, me, and our family. She was such a great help to me in that regard. Knowing she’d cared for so many patients who had ultimately died and yet remaining so hopeful and positive and light shored up my courage to do the same.

When he was hospitalized across the street from Creticos, Blanca and the other nurses came to visit him. Though his terminal diagnosis was difficult for both he and I to grasp, Blanca’s demeanor didn’t change. She was the same, unwavering fan of Kenny that she’d always been. It’s that kind of loving consistency that I found nothing short of remarkable.

Though Blanca is deservedly the topic of this essay, I’d be remiss in not pointing out that she is but one star among a constellation of other professionals who together spun a lattice of care around my Kenny as he valiantly battled cancer.

Since Kenny died I still visit my heroes at Creticos at least twice a year, taking them the same home-baked goods I brought when Kenny was undergoing treatment. As soon as anyone on the nursing staff sees me, their face brightens and they squeal, “Blanca will be so happy to see you!” before going off to find her for me.

Though the first couple of times were bittersweet–the wounds from losing Kenny were fresh–Blanca is the kind of person you just can’t help hugging. Now it’s like going to see an old friend. And that’s exactly what she is.

Except my friend is a hero.

Posted in Caregiving, Essay, Gratitude, Grief, Love, Memories 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 , , , ,
25 Feb 2013
2 Comments

A Little Portlandia Weirdness Comes to the Windy City


Our reflection in Cloud Gate (the Bean) in Millennium Park.

Our reflection in Cloud Gate (the Bean) in Millennium Park.

My friend Mindy came to town from Portland for a visit this past week. Though we talk and text regularly, I hadn’t seen her since she came to town to support me and attend Ken’s soiree in June of 2011. We met in 2003 when I got a job at a chamber of commerce where she was already working. It was a friendship that was so easy to slip into–like a comfortable pair of slippers. She’s fits into the category of women who are intelligent, kind and caring. And she holds a place in my esteem next to a select few.

Because of the two-hour time difference, Mindy was often my go-to resource during Ken’s illness–and after. When he was sleeping and I was struggling, texts would sometimes lead to conversations where she patiently listened as I rambled or blubbered, releasing my deepest fears of what I felt the future so grimly held for me. It was occasions like this where friendships, usually created under “normal” circumstances are somehow tempered to be even stronger after enduring one of life’s cruelest jokes.

One of the hallmarks of our friendship is Mindy’s ability to read me and situations, and how they affect me. Throughout our friendship in moments of stress she found ways to simply situations and make things easier for me, somehow relieving the pressure. Her ability to distill situations in a way I find elusive has never ceased to be a great source of comfort for me. On the more light-hearted side, another hallmark is our addiction to arguing and proving each other wrong in any given argument which inevitably ends in uproarious laughter.

Then there is the “language.”

Hamming it up.

Hamming it up.

What we couldn’t possibly have foreseen was somewhere along the way, a frenetic speech pattern developed between us that neither of us were completely aware of–including particular manic hand gestures and squinted faced expressions. From my point of view, I was just mimicking the way she talked. It wasn’t until our husbands pointed out that after spending time with each other–or even talking on the phone–we had an accent–of sorts–that they found altogether annoying. It at my 40th birthday party in 2008–where Mindy herself was the first of many surprises Ken had in store for me–that it was revealed to her by Ken that I didn’t normally talk “that way.” Both of us were in utter shock that the other didn’t normally speak the way we do when we’re together. Once we had a chance to talk about it, we both swore (and still do) we learned our “speak” from the other. All these years while I thought I was mimicking her, she thought she was mimicking me.

On her previous visits we haven’t done much Chicago stuff. So on this one, I planned to get her out and about to show her the city I love so much–without feeling too rushed about it. One afternoon was lunch, some meandering around the shops of Lincoln Square followed by a movie. Another day I wanted to show her one of Ken’s favorite destinations–and one he first introduced me to–Garfield Park Conservatory. As he taught me, it’s especially fun to go there with the ground is covered with snow, to venture into the steamy palm room or arid desert room. It’s like a micro-vacation, and it was fun to share with her.

@ the Garfield Park Conservatory

@ the Garfield Park Conservatory

A few years ago, she coordinated a visit to coincide for the AIDS Walk I had assembled a team for. We had a gorgeous walk along the downtown lake front, but didn’t take the time to see anything else. So this trip we headed back downtown to visit “The Bean” in Millennium Park. I think I’d only seen “Cloud Gate” from a distance. After taking our photo in the reflection, we walked under it. It was my first time, and was surprised by the funhouse-mirrorishness of its underbelly. It made Mindy dizzy, so we had to move on–not before I laughed my ass off at her. I know. I know. I’m a good friend.

On her last evening we talked about our weird speech pattern and gesticulations, and what an observer might think if they saw our heated, rapid-fire exchange, pointing and gesturing followed by unmistakable laughter. While they might be confused by what we were saying, our affection and connection would be unmistakable.

Thanks for coming to visit, Min!

Posted in Friends, Gratitude, Love and tagged
30 Dec 2012
4 Comments

The Happy of the Holidaze


From 2004 Christmas Eve breakfast at the beach.

Ken and I from 2004 Christmas Eve breakfast at the beach.

It’s difficult to believe it’s been three years since I’ve been to Southern California–specifically for Christmas. Even more difficult to believe: that it was a trip made without Ken and that it’s my second Christmas without him. In so many ways it felt so normal and so “usual” for me. And for that I’m incredibly grateful. But when I reflect on that very topic of things being “okay” for me, I credit Ken’s bravery and generous spirit, as well as a lot of hard work on my end, learning to manage without his physical presence and figuring out how to rearrange my life to compensate.

This occasion was a “first” I hoped wouldn’t be difficult, but in that regard, wasn’t one I was looking forward to. It’s impossible to go to Los Angeles and see people and visit places I saw and visited with Ken without being flooded with memories of our life together. There were many, tiny moments where I was overcome with them. And feelings. And longing for him. But thanks to his stay-in-the-moment encouragement, I was able to enjoy them for the most part.

Christmas Eve breakfast on the beach has been a long-standing tradition in the family. When Ken and I lived in LA, our job was to brew and bring the thermos of coffee or percolator. No matter what the weather has been over the years–rainy, foggy, windy, cold–it’s always transcended by the natural beauty and affection lingering in the air at that beach in Malibu. This Christmas Eve was no exception. The sun teased us for a while before making its presence known shortly before we packed up and headed home. We left, exhausted, wind-and sun-kissed, and jolly.

While there I took a walk to the edge of the frothy tide and thought of Ken. How much I miss and love him–how much everyone does. How proud of me I’d hope he’d be. I also pondered on how it felt to be with his family without him. Yes, they’ve been mine for over a decade, but there is an oddity in being present in a family he grew up with and I didn’t. Not in a bad way. Just an odd one–sometimes. And a circumstance that was never the plan and at times difficult to reconcile.

Above the beach where we breakfast and frolic is a bluff called Point Dume (pronounced “doom”). Ken and I had been there many times. It offers an uncompromised view of the coast and mighty Pacific. It’s also the locale where Ken told me he wanted his ashes scattered–something I have given enough thought to in order to know I’m not ready to think about it yet. It will happen per his wishes. I want that. But when the time is right.

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Walking up to the bluff with my sister-in-law, Katie. I love this pic.

It just so happened that my sister-in-law’s father decided this Christmas Eve was that time for him–to scatter his wife Connie’s ashes in that very place. I was honored to be there for the occasion. I never met her, but feel like I have in many ways because of all the stories I’ve heard from everyone over the years. The ceremony was simple, special, and full of love. (It was also briefly interrupted by a chain gang of orange-jump-suited-celebutante-looking offenders–each of them looking surprisingly happy and offering holiday wishes as they passed.)

The hike up to and down from the bluff was as beautiful as it was exerting. It was one of those metaphors Ken would have loved to point out. That the journey was as important as the destination on top. Maybe that’s why I snapped so many photos and was constantly noticing every rock or puddle or plant. I guess I wanted to feel him with me.

Last shot before we headed back down to the beach.

 

Last shot before we headed back down to the beach.

Last shot before we headed back down to the beach.

And perhaps I did.

During the short service for the ash scattering, I felt a sort of a poke on my left arm. I was standing next to my father-in-law but he wasn’t close enough to have touched me. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it wasn’t. I know which I choose to believe.

Blogger’s Note: Aside from my gratitude and love to my LA family and friends for hosting me while I visited, my trip wouldn’t have been possible without the incredible generosity of my parents who kindly agreed to take care my puppy while I was gone–which included giving Kallie her first bath after concluding treatment for an intestinal parasite. I’m one lucky son of a…oh, wait. Nevermind. Thanks, Mom & Dad!! You rock!!

Posted in Family, Gratitude, Grief, Holiday, Memories and tagged
28 Jun 2012
2 Comments

What a Difference a Year Makes


The way time has passed over the last year has never ceased to astound me. As I sit in the front yard playing with Kallie or watching her do her own Chow thing, it’s hard to not look around my quiet little street–sporadically interrupted by the Brown Line growling through the tree tops–feeling content and wonder “hasn’t my life always been like this?” I suppose that’s a good sign; that I’m happy in the moment as I take care of my pooch and take advantage of her many puppy naps to write–and try to tend the garden and the apartment.

Ken’s soirée was a year ago today. It doesn’t seem possible. It feels like so much longer ago than that; like my daily life as I cared for him was years ago. It’s a double-edged sword as that part of my life slips further and further into the past, offering up bittersweet perspective. I’m grateful that the first memories that come to mind about him are not when he was sick at home in hospice, but before that–when cancer was mercifully in his past and inevitably in his future, but not in our present.

That beautiful day when so many came together to love and honor him never fails to make me smile. I would never have imagined that a memorial soiree (as he wanted it called) would bring me ceaseless happiness when called to mind. Like a good improv class, everyone came “ready to play.” You couldn’t know Ken and not celebrate his life, gracious spirit and loving soul. I’ll forever remember what a perfect day it was in every possible way.

The picture below was taken that day–and I love it. Ken told me he wanted his brother Craig and sister-in-law Katie and me–just the three of us–to steal away from the soiree and have a martini together–as the four of us did so often when we were together–and toast to him. It was a difficult request to hear at the time. It was during his decline, I believe. At the time he made it, I couldn’t conceive of a world without him. I’d put together the framework of his soiree–which he signed off on–but thinking about the minutia of toasting to him in a future where he wasn’t alive was beyond me. But steal away and solemnly toast him we did. And, like the soiree itself, it was perfect. And he would have loved it, as we clinked glasses on the very stage where he’d been lovingly and hilariously memorialized by so many loving friends and family members.

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As for my time off, it has been amazing. I was afraid one of the impacts of getting K would be less time to write. Though that might be the case in the short term, I think I’ve become even more disciplined as I take advantage of naps or kennel time to work. It has, however, impacted my ability to get out and enjoy my favorite city, but that is only temporary–and well worth the sacrifice. With only my agenda to focus on, it’s been easier than not (most of the time) to be patient and remain journey-oriented while trying to curb K’ gnawing on everything in her path–including (and most preferred) my fingers.

Sleeping too much is never a possibility as I’m down late and up early to manage Kallie’s pea-sized bladder needs. Even as I stumble to the Keurig after 5 hours of sleep to take her outside, I’m able to understand how lucky I am. Lucky to have loved and been loved by someone as amazing as Ken; to have navigated through the year following his death relatively well; to work for a company and with people who have been so kind to me and so effortlessly agreed to me three-month leave of absence; and to feel like the best for me is most likely yet to come.

In spite of Ken’s death and the changes in the last year, the world keeps turning. Likewise, my world is changing…unavoidably. It’s the way it’s supposed to be, I know. It’s strange and a little disorienting at times, but it feels more right than not, and it feels like it’s leading somewhere. No clue where. But I’m getting excited and confident that it will be something truly special. And who could mind a journey when you’re accompanied by this:

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Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Friends, Gratitude, Grief, Ken, Leave of Absence, Life, Love, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , , , ,
25 Jun 2012
4 Comments

Something There Is That Doesn’t Love a Wall


Getting Kallie–though secretly long-considered–was an impulse decision that was somehow bigger than I. Though hesitant at first, something inside me knew it was the right decision. Yes, there are challenges in raising a puppy, but I have never been more right. Aside from giving me another layer of connection with Ken as I think about him raising Q from a pup, seeing the world through Kallie’s eager black eyes has been entertaining, soothing, and–more often than not–completely ridiculous. Watching her go from statue to blur just to flop out and start rolling around, biting at some imaginary foe is pure joy, and a great reminder to just play. For her, life is delicious combination of journey and destination.

Thinking about her and her needs above mine has been another shift in perspective that has been good for me after a year of taking care of only myself. But there are also some odd reminders from the past that seem somewhat out of context and have given me pause for thought.

When I was taking care of Ken, for the most part my schedule–and in particular, my sleep schedule–wasn’t my own. Like him, Kallie depends on me for food, care, entertainment–everything. It seems appropriate–and ironic–that I would be experiencing this situation again. It’s almost like a “do-over,” of sorts, getting to experience it again without living under the constant, stalking shadow of death. Less urgency and lessons learned of appreciating each moment or action as they occur make for complete moments of bliss and gratitude.

As far as city living goes my apartment and fenced yard are ideal for puppyhood. But aside from watering the garden and occasional grilling, I haven’t spent much time in the back yard and had no reason to spend any time in front yard since before Q died in 2009. Though Kallie and I have some work to do in terms of gardening etiquette (e.g. not pooping in it), we do enjoy the front yard which is completely hers to use as she sees fit. I’ve enjoyed sitting in the grass watching her and playing with her. I haven’t spent time up there since I used to walk up to find Q lying in the grass, watching the passers by, and sitting with her and petting her silky red coat. It has offers sweet moments thinking about some wonderful memories while creating new ones with my little girl.

Over the past six years of living here, I’ve spent much more time in the more private back yard–usually grilling and cocktailing with Ken and friends–than the more public front yard. However, its chain link fence gives Kallie an uninterrupted view of our street and all its wonders. It’s a different world for someone like me who lives a pretty self-insulated life as passers by stop to look at K and remark about how cute she is or how she doesn’t look real or how I look like Brad Pitt (okay, sometimes they’re drunk.)

I knew a potential benefit of having Kallie would involve a social component to get me out and among people–something I’m not very adept at if left to my own devices. A great example of this happened the other day when I was hanging out with K while she did her business and played around in the front yard. A neighbor from a couple of houses down stopped by to see her. It was a really pleasant interaction for someone who can feel stutteringly awkward with unplanned exchanges with strangers. Now, he, his wife and little girl are regular visitors if we are outside at the same time they are.

In contrast, I’ve had an odd succession of encounters with another neighbor since getting Kallie and being out front so often with her. This young woman lives next door with her grandparents and has since Ken and I moved in to this apartment in 2006. I usually say “hello” to her, but can go stretches of months without seeing her. She’s been working across the alley behind our buildings, helping another neighbor (I forget her name, but I know it’s someone Ken had become friendly with) and because her grandfather’s building doesn’t have a gang way, she uses ours–which isn’t a problem. That’s when she usually sees Kallie and me in the front yard.

Earlier today as she was coming or going, she said, “I see you out here way more than the other guy.”

It kind of annoyed me. Not that she didn’t know Ken had died, but if YOU knew some neighbors–peripherally, at best–and didn’t see one of them for a while, would YOU have said something? Though there are many plausible reasons, as the asker this is the answer you would probably be horrified to get (akin to asking someone who isn’t pregnant “when are you due?”)

“That’s because he died last year.” I got right to the point and don’t offer much information. It was sort of a jab that I hope cures this social ineptitude of hers. Okay. On a scale of 1 to 10, how much of an asshole does this make me? I did feel kind of bad after the exchange. But I’m only human. And it’s not like she knew “the other guys” name–or knows mine.

Later this evening when I was out in the front yard with K, the neighbors on the other side of my building stopped by to admire her as they returned home. I do actually know their names: Craig and Kathy. A sweet older couple who Ken was friendly with. We had some over-the-fence chatter upon occasion. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen or talked to them. “How’s Ken doing?” the wife asked, no doubt having seen him in his wheelchair last summer. When I told them he died last year, they were sad and sweet and sympathetic and kind. It was a very different kind of exchange than the one earlier in the day. Reverent and appropriate. It left me feeling a little forlorn and touched.

And I was way less of a dick.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Gratitude, Grief, Life, Memories and tagged , , , ,
23 Jun 2012
2 Comments

Remembering Pride


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(Our first Pride Day together in 2001. Notice Ken’s (l) nail bling.)

This week I watched “Out & Proud in Chicago” on WTTW, our local PBS station. It was riveting. I always love a good documentary that focuses on Chicago’s contribution to anything. That this special, narrated by “Glee’s” (and Chicago’s very own) Jane Lynch, focused on Chicago’s role in the gay civil rights movement made it a must-see for me. It’s so easy for me to take for granted that as an out gay man, not only am I accepted/liked/loved by the different echelons of my world, but that it’s illegal and punishable by law to hurt, fire or discriminate against me because I’m gay. It’s hard to fathom that it’s only been that way for less than twenty years (at least in Chicago.)

The documentary, along with a brief email from my real estate agent wishing me a happy pride, reminded that it is indeed Gay Pride month across the country, and this weekend in Chicago. Obviously, Pride has been the least of my concerns over the last few Junes. But even prior to that Ken and I never attended a parade together. In fact, the first few years we were together before moving to LA we went to the watering hole where we first met during the parade when it was vacant to hang with friends before leaving soon after the drunk parade revelers returned.

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(From Pride 2002, one of my favorite pics of Ken and our friend Tina.)

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(Another one from 2002 with Ken and his beautiful bestie, Kim–all smiles.)

I guess I felt like I “aged out” of the raucous insanity of the parade and all its crowded, hot annoyance around the time I turned 30. After I met Ken I was even less interested in going. I’ve never been into large crowds, but large, rambunctious, drunk crowds were even less appealing. (I prefer my drunks in intimate settings.) I told a friend recently I felt like it was up to the kids of today to attend the parade and party, and it was up to me to write checks and try to help fund all the good work that is being done by the Human Rights Campaign and like-minded organizations.

I served my time, mind you. For two years, I lived on the parade route across from the Jewel in Boystown early in my Chicago tenure. Watching from the comfort of my own apartment was the best way I have ever seen the parade. A ring-side seat, unending free cocktails, no interaction with others, and a bathroom. Perfection! But there were a few other times I stood along the route hungover and stuffed between the other plebs, sweltering in the summer heat. Not as enjoyable, but the feeling of the day was still palpable and undeniable: peace, love and utter acceptance. Everyone was nice to everyone else whether they knew them or not. That’s the part of Pride I found truly magical.

My first pride event was in Indianapolis in 1990 (I think). It was semi-early in Indy’s Pride celebration history. Since I lived in Lafayette at the time, going to Indianapolis’ Pride was just the thing to do. I accompanied a group of friends who were a little older than I was and had been to (at least) the prior year’s celebration. I was doe-eyed and not really sure exactly what we were celebrating, but, curious, I tagged along nonetheless.

Various LGBT groups from around the state had set up tables all around Monument Circle in heart of downtown. Just like the Prides in Chicago I experienced later in my life, the feeling was jubilant and light and exciting. And scary. I wasn’t out then, and I had dramatic notions that the event would be crawling with media and I could just imagine my parents, eating dinner, watching the news and seeing me at a Gay Pride Event. Oy.

I don’t recall seeing any media there. But the one striking image I do remember seeing was forever seared into my memory. As I sat, basking in all the excitement of my first Pride and in realizing I was part of a rich, bright and loving collective, and more importantly–that I wasn’t alone–cutting across the circle was a man dressed casually, in stark contrast to the military-grade gas mask he was sporting. It still sends shivers up my spine. I watched, speechless as he strolled through our event, leaving in his wake as many emotions as there are colors in the rainbow flag. It crushed me, deflated all the levity and giddiness I’d enjoyed up until that moment. It reminded me of the hatred and ignorance that was all-too-prevalent in a time when “gay” and “homosexual” were heard as “AIDS” or “HIV” or some horrifying epithet.

I remember thinking, “I can’t believe that guy hates me so much without even meeting me.” (If he’d met me, I think we’d all understand.) But he hated all of us. Every single gay person there–and those who weren’t. Not because of anything we’d done, but because of who we are. I’ll never forget how he sauntered casually, never making eye contact with anyone as he circled the monument. I remember feeling hopeless, submitting to the thought: “being gay will never be okay.”

Just then a group of young people–like my age at the time (early 20s) and maybe some younger–swarmed on this guy, chanting stuff like “hey, hey, hey, ho, ho, ho, homophobia has got to go!” My heart swelled with–appropriately enough–pride. And strength. Though chanting loudly at the interloper, that group of kids were also whispering in my ear “you’re not alone.” It was one of those true and beautifully distilled moments that happen in life where good triumphs over evil or ignorance, and your faith in humanity, the future, and in yourself is restored.

This documentary really helped remind me of the sacrifices my progenitors made in the name of acceptance and equal rights that I have most certainly benefited from. I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to be one of the many who helped change the way LGBT is perceived, but I hope I would have. It also reminded me of the leaps that have been made in the last 20 years (again, at least in Chicago and other urban areas). Though our journey for equality continues, I can certainly understand Pride as a day to give thanks and celebrate.!

Though Kallie and I won’t be attending the parade on Sunday, I’ll take time for gratitude as we take lots of trips outside to “make,” followed by treats and many, many naps. And maybe write a check or two.

Happy Pride to all.

Posted in Feelings, Firsts, Gratitude, Growing Up Gay, Life, Memories and tagged , , , ,
15 Jun 2012
5 Comments

Whispers of Birthdays Past


Within my families June is a busy birthday month. Yet I constantly forget it also contains mine until someone reminds me. Not as surprising, the same thing happened last year–as my birthday will forever occur exactly two weeks after Ken died. I had hoped it would be different this year–and I suppose it is. I’m not dreading it, I’m just indifferent to it. Last year, collecting the mail around this time was–for me–an exercise in terror. Birthday cards mixed in with sympathy cards–both well-meaning and kind–inextricably linked my birthday to Ken’s death. Will it always be like this?

Truth be told, before I met Ken I don’t remember caring that much about my birthday. And conversely, each of the ten Junes I spent with him, he made it special. But that’s just how it works in couples, right? You want to make a big deal out of their birthday and they want to do the same in kind. Ken delighted in giving and surprising–both on the small and large scale. On my birthday he took great pleasure in watching me be surprised, or happy or drunk (all of which may have happened on more than one occasion per year.) And in turn, I enjoyed watching how excited he was as he perpetrated crime after loving crime.

In 2008, he pulled out all the stops for my 40th birthday. I knew we were having a party, but there were plenty of surprises in store. In addition to several surprise friends from out-of-town, he’d tasked the guests with writing a scene about how each of them met me–and they acted it out on a beautiful, cloudless day in our back yard. “The Ronnie-ology” he called it, as he presented me with a book of the scripts. One of our friends recorded all the performances which I recently watched when I ran across it as I was organizing DVDs in the TV stand. Hilarious. A day that only conjures images of laughter, smiles and goodness.

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(Me on left, cracking up while watching “The Ronnie-ology” and Ken, right, expertly and lovingly directing the show.)

Another birthday, he took me to the Lincoln Park Conservatory, and as we walked around, admiring the flora, we ran across a couple friends who were each “planted” along side all the greenery, holding Latin-inspired names for themselves (which escape me.) Another crazy surprise. I’m not sure if he was particularly good at it, or if I am just particularly dull when it comes to subterfuge.

My so-called “Jesus” Birthday (my 33rd) was the first I celebrated with Ken. We’d only been dating three months, but we knew we were a part of something special. He took it upon himself to organize a party of my besties at my apartment. My “friend” Tina, made this cake, comparing/contrasting me to Jesus:

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(Jesus has the cross, I have the martini. This still makes me laugh. I love that my friends are such bitches.)

The last birthday I have any recollection of celebrating with Ken was 2009, as we drove to Iowa with our pal Bruce to apply for a marriage license–which at the time had only recently been legalized there. Make no mistake, we always felt married and no piece of paper from anyone could ever make it more “valid,” but we decided it was the right thing to do in order to send a message. It was a political statement that resulted in two fun road trips to Iowa with friends. Oddly, given the time of year and the same summer weather as then, it feels like it can’t possibly have been three years ago–and that everything that has happened has actually happened.

We’ll see. Just writing this post got some good birthday mojo flowing for me. And no one is happier to report that than I am. Even though I’ve already experienced one birthday without him, that it’s so close to the anniversary of death still tinges it with a little bit of a sting.

I’m still working out how I’ll spend my day, but I know that Ken will–as always–be close to my heart, and that I’m supported by innumerable well wishers as I turn 33…for the 11th time.

Shut it.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Firsts, Friends, Gratitude, Grief, Humor, Leave of Absence, Life, Love, Memories, Moving Forward, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
02 Jun 2012
8 Comments

Marking a Weighty Occasion


Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of Ken’s death. In so many ways it’s impossible to fathom. I can still picture him and our life together. How can this be? So often in the intervening year I’ve woken up, happy, stretching–then I remember. He’s gone. And my mood dips and my heart breaks. Over and over. That part has gotten a little easier. I guess I’m getting used to it–something I struggle with because I don’t want to get used to not having him in my daily life. And though every day since he died I’ve learned a telling lesson or been pushed to be stronger or smarter, it’s still another daunting, bittersweet day further from a life I loved so much.

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(Craig snapped this photo of PadLo (“SadLo”) on June 1, 2011. I think he accurately captured how we were all feeling in a very Ken-like way.)

Facing the anniversary of his death was something I dreaded–always–but particularly when the holiday milestones had passed and there was nothing between us but squares with bolded numbers on a calendar. It loomed in the distance, never letting me forget it was coming closer. The first of each month was an orderly and stark reminder another month had passed. And that “it” was coming.

But once I started thinking about how I would mark the occasion, I realized the day could be whatever I wanted it to be. It didn’t have to a thief or a bully who walked brazenly into my house and to hold me hostage or tell me how to feel. Rather, it was my day. In bold contrast to last June 1 I was in control and could do whatever I wanted to honor Ken and lasting impact he has. The way I was feeling about the day began to shift.

I started the day inevitably with thoughts of last June 1. Random ones. Like what a gorgeous day June 1, 2011 was–and how ironically in my mind it was the most beautiful day of the summer…maybe ever. (Yesterday was a different kind of day. Gloomy, rainy, cold. More appropriate in some ways.) I remember the breeze that kept the sun from making it too hot. And the sunburn on my back of my neck as I sat in the back yard with my brother- and mother-in-law and Ken’s bestie Kim for hours–dazed, broken and relieved. I didn’t want to relive last June 1.

So, I didn’t.

Ken had a green thumb. He had one of the greenest thumbs I’ve ever borne witness to–one of his many caregiving attributes. It’s something he and his friend Barbara shared in common. She has an overflowing and beautiful garden that Ken loved. I heard about it as soon as we met and before I saw it with my own eyes. It’s a lush paradise that he spent many an hour pulling weeds and planting green or flowery things. It seemed fitting to scatter a little of him there among the vibrant flowers and greenery.

And so we did, each of us in turn. Me, Barbara and husband Pedro. Talking of Ken. Loving him. And honoring him. It was subtle and powerful to hold his pebbly ashes in my bare hand and spread them among the flowering rose bush as Barbara spoke to him and recalled tales of him in the garden. It was joyful. It was love. And it was the perfect way to begin a day I imagined I’d be cursing the universe for. But I left there happy, moved and at peace.

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(Just a tiny portion of Barbara’s beautiful garden–and Beagle–and the sprawling rosebush that we encircled with love.)

I met up with Anna, another “kenron” pal, at Garfield Park Conservatory, a place Ken introduced me to early in our relationship and we visited with regularity over the years. It was a meaningful place for Anna as well. She’d gone there to reflect last June 1 after learning of Ken’s passing. I had considered going there as part of my day, but once I got her invitation, I knew it was where I belonged. We walked among the ferns, aroids, and cacti, talking of Ken, life and how in just a couple of weeks she and her husband Dave will become first-time parents. It felt so right that there were moments during our conversations I completely forgot about the milestone the day marked–which really astounded me as I thought about it on my way home in the late afternoon.

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(The Reflecting Pond with the standing Chihuly sculptures where we sat and talked.)

I arrived home shortly before my long-time bestie Kathy arrived to hang out and spend the night. She is a veteran of so many experiences in my life I was happy to know I’d be spending the evening and completing this “mother of all firsts” with her. We took a walk in the neighborhood for dinner, re-telling stories and sharing memories with Ken. After she went to bed, I sat down to do some writing, somehow wanting to make it to midnight. I was all about the journey for this special day, but I wanted to be awake to bid it a fond farewell. Forever.

It wasn’t that the day didn’t offer up its share of difficult moments–echoes from a year ago when the world as I knew it shifted on its axis–it was that they didn’t define the day. What did, was the richness of the connections and relationships with people I’m lucky enough to call my friends and family. The outpouring of support and love flowed toward me from the second I woke up until I went to sleep–and even after that. It’s been amazing to see and hear people expressing their love for him. I’m so proud to have loved someone with such integrity, creativity and charm. That he could love someone like me makes me feel special, worthy and somehow assures me that the future holds something for me–if my past is any indication.

In spite of it all, I’m still the luckiest man in the world.

Posted in Family, Firsts, Friends, Gratitude, Grief, Ken, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , , ,
27 May 2012

The Bravest Thing I've Ever Done


Since writing about our last adventure together, I’ve thought a lot about all the ones Ken and I shared that came before. Particularly, I was reminded of the bold decision we made in packing up our lives and driving cross-country to relocate from Chicago to LA in the fall of 2002.

When I met him in early 2001 Ken had been planning to move to LA to be closer to his brother, sister-in-law and nephews–and, of course, to pursue his acting career. His plans went off the rails a bit when he met me. Love has a way of doing that so easily. But it was always a topic of conversation–the idea of moving there together.

We took our first vacation together in early 2002 to visit the LA family. A child of television, I’d long been enthralled with Hollywood and sunny Southern California. It was on that trip we decided to move there. It was an effortless decision in many ways for someone usually so unsettled by change–and so willing to circumvent it whenever possible. I felt confident there wasn’t anything we couldn’t accomplish together–a feeling that only grew stronger throughout the following years.

Thinking back to that time awes me with our bravery. Well, honestly, it didn’t surprise me that Ken was so brave. Being brave was very “Ken.” I was quite surprised at myself and how easy it was to take such a leap of faith, my hand firmly interlocked with Ken’s. He so effortlessly and so quickly engendered a kind of trust I always dreamed of in a spouse.

That autumn we quit our jobs, consolidated our belongings before packing them into a moving truck that would make its own way, and on August 29, 2002, Ken, Quantum and I–along with all our newly purchased camping gear–headed westward in his 1989 Geo Prizm. It was an iconic trip–the once-in-a-lifetime-kind where we didn’t have to rush because we didn’t have jobs, so no one was expecting us to be anywhere. We planned for 10 days of camping and taking in vistas of Americana. One of the most striking memories of the trip was how “in the moment” I was able to be–because of him. It’s a tool that has served me well during the course of our relationship–particularly toward the end of his life and since.

We’d planned to camp our way across the country, but thanks to a moving company mishap Ken had injured his leg because we had to load everything into the pod ourselves. (Thanks to our combined efforts, our entire move expense was refunded.) The first couple of nights he needed a comfy bed, order-in dinners, and plenty of Q snuggles. We did manage to camp once in Nebraska, setting up everything in the pitch darkness of night, and once again in Williams, AZ which was a prelude to a day spent at the Grand Canyon–a place so beautiful and vibrant photos can’t do it justice.

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(Ken and his infamous Gray’s Anatomy Leg tattoo. We stopped in Boulder, CO to spend Labor Day weekend with my friend Craig on the way.)

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(As a model guest I didn’t see any reason to dirty a wine glass.)

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(On the road with our well-behaved and favorite passenger, Quantum.)

We stopped at every rest area so all three of us could stretch our legs and go to the bathroom. At one rest stop in particular (New Mexico, I think) I remember Ken being chattier than usual and encouraging me to take Q to the dog walk area rather than himself–and to hurry up. When we were done he asked me to get into the car first without moving from the spot he’d been in since we arrived–which I thought was odd. After I put Q into the back seat I buckled into the front, never taking my eyes off him, wondering what the deal was. After he was sure I we were in the car, he moved to do the same, revealing a sign he’d been standing in front of the entire time: Beware of Scorpions. We laughed so hard as we pulled away, both of us knowing had I seen that sign I would have freaked and no one would have peed for another one hundred and thirty miles. Even so early on he knew how to “manage” me when necessary.

We arrived in Needles, California on the ninth day of the trip. It was 112 degrees and 115 in our hotel room, as the air conditioner spat and sputtered out warm, moist air akin to breath. As we unloaded the topper from the car, we both noticed mounds of fire ants in the parking lot in addition to the half-inch gap under the door, giving them free and clear access to our room and our Chow Chow. Not cool–in any way. We had our doubts about staying but after plugging in our phones to charge and having the the outlet fell out of the wall and spark, we wearily replaced the topper, packed up and headed out to make the last leg of our trip.

We’d already had about six hours of driving under our belt, and weren’t looking forward to another eight. We hadn’t yet discovered the necessity of a Thomas Guide to tell us the highway we were taking was–in fact–not completed, which our Rand McNally map neglected to inform us. The day was an unforgettable comedy of errors that landed us in LA at something like 10:30 p.m. with family and martinis waiting for us.

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(Love this photo we took of the incredible panorama–though nothing compares to the real thing.)

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(The Wigwam Motel on historic Route 66! Never heard of it but after seeing it, have never forgotten it.)

This trip was a true experience in enjoying the figurative journey–literally.

Posted in Gratitude, Grief, Humor, Ken, Love, Memories and tagged , , , , , | Leave a Comment

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