the xanax diary

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

Archive for the category “Grief”

Trudging through the Melancholy of May


A journal I gave to Ken for Xmas 2010.

A journal I gave to Ken for Xmas 2010.

I had the coolest dream last night. I was part of an elite espionage team on some kind of dangerous mission to stop some bad guy from doing something…well…bad. Unfortunately, our team of assassins wasn’t getting along and during the mission we broke up, each of us going our own way and trying to get out of wherever we were without getting killed. It was one of those rare dreams that is so unusual and different and fun, you can’t help but remember it–even be excited about it–as you wake up. And as I was rising out of the drowsy mist of slumber, I couldn’t wait to tell Ken about this amazing dream.

Ouch.

Those sweet, flirty milliseconds between sleep and sentience had fucked me over. Yet again.

These past couple of weeks have been tricky. In typical fashion, it took my out-of-sorts self longer than I can believe to realize it has to do with the time of year–leading up to the second anniversary of Ken’s death on June 1. It was this time of year, watching his once-razor-sharp brain spring leaks, letting long accumulated knowledge begin to slowly drain away was one of the most frustrating and humbling aspects of his decline those two months he was home for hospice. Unlike me, Ken was a compulsive lover of crossword puzzles, Sudoku, and learning of any kind. His brain was a sponge. He loved learning new things. And of the things he already knew, he was so highly skilled.

It was a difficult time, watching his once-steel-trap-of-a-mind grow more and more unfocused. On the other hand, I was silently grateful and sincerely hopeful that he didn’t fully grasp what was going on. Although I do remember painful moments when he’d surrender a remote control, or his iPhone to me to carry out a task, remarking “I used to know how that worked.” In my memory it was more a statement of fact than a lament. As if he wouldn’t give up completely. He may not remember how it worked, but he sure as hell remembered that at one time he did. He knew how  everything worked around our apartment. Fact is, I’ve only used the DVD player a few times since he died because I can never get it to work right with the speakers.

This time of year I can’t help but think about our last great adventure together to get his tattoo. I wrote about it last year, but it’s been on my mind all week, and was the first thought in my head when I woke up on Sunday morning–which was the actual anniversary. I can’t help but think about his single-mindedness in accomplishing his desire to get a tattoo–even if he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it for long. It was his beautiful journey-oriented mind that drove him. And though he was having occasional mental lapses by then, he blew past my cautious roadblocks, calling his oncologist behind my back to get the medical “thumbs up” to proceed. It shocked me that he’d done that–in a good way. It took mental prowess to be sneaky.

He wanted that tattoo and he figured out a way to get it. But it wasn’t just the tattoo he wanted, it was the adventure of getting it–with me at his side–that I think we both loved the most. The experience is chock full of beautiful metaphors as much as it is drizzled in sadness for me–much like the month of May itself.

I miss not needing to know everything. And having someone to roll over and tell me crazy dreams to. But for now, I’ll settle for vaulting my feelings into the ether, and taking the joy each morning offers in finding my pup, rubbing her belly as she stretches and trying to remember how grateful I am for all that I have.

She never ceases to surprise me with where I find her in the morning.

She never ceases to surprise me with where I find her in the morning.

Magic Time


Ken loved candles. Once he found the battery operated flickering candles at Costco, our apartment was soon filled with them. They had timers in them, so they “lit” each evening at roughly the same time. When we’d be sitting in the front room watching TV and one would begin the slow chain reaction of lighting up, the first one of us to notice would say “magic time.” And we’d wait and watch the rest of them begin to glow. We couldn’t help but be filled with a little bit of wonderment at the soft yellow lights dancing before us.

There are easily a dozen of those candles. And they sat unused for nearly a year after Ken died. Clumped together on a shelf in a seldom-used room. I almost got rid of them, but decided to shelve them instead (literally). Magic time had escaped this house like lightning in a bottle.

Then at some point last year they became important to me–almost urgent–and I went about testing them, replacing batteries and scattering them around the apartment again. I’m certain the last person to perform any maintenance on them was Ken. It’s always a solemn and reverent experience to touch something that he last touched. And it’s happened hundreds of times.

There are two sets of candles in the front room. Four on the coffee table and three more on a nearby shelf. And each evening when one of them begins the little parade of light, I say aloud, “magic time.”

The Further Adventures of the Unwitting Gardener


Spring has finally sprung in Chicagoland–after a long and crappy winter. The uptick in the weather coincided with a week-long staycation. And gnawing on my work-free agenda has been getting the garden planted–something Ken looked forward to and planned for every year. It was a true rite of spring in our house. Though it wasn’t my thing, he’d ask for my opinion and help  in planning for and caring for it.

It’s my third consecutive year of planting and maintaining the garden. First and second excursions were moderately successful. It’s not something I really planned to do, but it’s an undeniable way to feel connected to Ken and lovingly honor a little piece of him and something he loved in a tangible way. When Ken curated the garden it was lush, and full of flowers and vegetables and herbs. (Oh my!)

Though I’ve kept with the tradition of growing herbs–I like to cook with them, and there is nothing like plucking your herbs fresh off the plant–I’ve kept it simple with only a few perennials and colorful hanging baskets of flowers. I’m not a gardener the way most people are, and I’m realistic in what my time commitment will be. Plus, wedding is boring as hell. (Hello, mulch, nice to make your acquaintance.) Nonetheless, this year since I had the time and the weather was being cooperative, I decided I’d add some color and add some annuals.

It’s always a bit of a zen experience when I set to work in the dirt that fringes the patio in the back yard. It’s not that I think Ken can see me or anything, but working the dirt he worked with his hands offers me a connection to him that I really didn’t have while he was alive. Or couldn’t appreciate.

I projected 4 hours for this project–which was about 2 hours off. And you know in which direction. But as I cleaned up the area and did some weeding, I was struck by the lone hyacinth that was growing at the base of the rose plant our friend Barbara came over and planted for Ken in the last weeks of his life. He loved hyacinth but I can’t for the life of me remember planting it last year. But considering I don’t know the names of half of things I planted this year, it’s probably a good bet I did.

IMG_6076

Per usual, I kept it simple, but felt a burst of creativity while I was working in the flower bed–something Ken would have appreciated. I thought I’d plant the bunch of impatiens in some kind of shape. Maybe a heart? Or was that too much? And while digging in the dirt that Ken had dug in–and that I had dug in the past two summers–I found this:

IMG_6081

So, I planted this heart for him (not terribly recognizable, but hopefully it will grow into it):

IMG_6074

I needed to balance it with another shape on the other side of the bed. I’d planned on a peace sign, but it ended up looking more like Mercedes logo. So, it’s just s circle. There comes a point after working for many hours that it just needs to be finished. I sort of snickered to myself as any other design ideas gave way to clumps or straight lines. Ken would have maintained a vision and pumped me up to help him see it through. But my way is okay for me. And it works. I like feeling okay with that. There was a time when I didn’t.

It felt more like my garden this year than ever–that I wasn’t just tending to it for someone unseen. Though in my heart of hearts (see what I did there?) it will never be just “my” garden. It will always be shared with the memories of Ken and all the friends and fun we had in our tiny back yard on the north side of Chicago.

The finished product:

Who’s the Crybaby with the Puppy?


IMG_6032

Spring is slowly awakening in Chicago. Finally. Although it’s always such a tease. 70 one day. 30 the next. Rain. Wind. By the time it stabilizes, it’s practically summer and we’re just grateful for it–for anything over 50 degrees with some sunshine once in a while. I think we’re all eagerly awaiting to blow the dust off the window locks and open them wide for some fresh air. For me, Spring means something else, too. And it didn’t “click” with me until the other day. Springtime is when Ken came home for hospice for what would be the last two months of his life in 2011.

When I think back to that time, it looks like an unsurvivable pressure cooker, living with such leaden and bleak news. And sometimes it was. I’m not sure it could be anything else. But when you’re “in it” you’re just as pressurized so it doesn’t seem as startling. What I do remember is all the love and support that surrounded Ken and me. And how brave (though he would scoff at term, and would–rightly so–claim he was just being himself), upbeat and graceful he was. And I remember the walks we took–mostly with family and friends around the neighborhood. Ken wanted to be outside as often as possible that spring.

Ken enjoying some waning sunlight in the back yard.

Ken enjoying some waning sunlight in the back yard in Spring, 2011.

I can’t say I’ve had any grief bursts as I’ve experienced them previously of late, but the past month or so there have been moments of…stillness. Not particularly filled with anything. Or filled with emptiness and all that might imply. For brief flashes. I think my heart knew the time of year better than my brain did. Or was more ready to recognize it as such, anyway.

I began to put the pieces together yesterday evening on a longer-than-usual walk with Kallie. The weather was being teasingly cooperative. We walked farther than we ever had, as last summer/fall she wasn’t old enough to walk far. It was more in the neighborhood where I lived when I met Ken–which is snuggled up to the neighborhood I live in now–where we lived together. We walked on some of the same streets that Ken, Quantum and I used to walk on–which isn’t usual, really. It certainly helped bring him to mind.

Lots of people were out with their own dogs, and strollers with babies and toddlers toddling along–many of whom stopped to greet or pet Kal–who is always eager for a diversion. It was nice and neighborly–Rockwellian, even. Perfect in all the right ways–or in enough ways. As we walked down a quiet side street, lined with trees ready to burst with green, Kallie frolicked and loped  in the park way. I was bursting too. With tears. Streaming down my cheeks as I blinked to clear my eyes. Surprising? Yes. Sad? Well, not really. Not overtly. It was more about what a beautiful moment it was. It was simple and pure, and a moment I couldn’t have predicted two years ago. And most importantly, it would have been a moment Ken would have delighted in.

We took a less traveled side street to get home as I wiped my eyes and cursed myself for not wearing sunglasses. And as we finished up our walk, I considered the complex recipe for my tear-burst. One million parts: missing Ken. One part: having this ridiculous puppy who plays with abandon because she knows she’s safe and loved. One part: I sometimes can’t believe that I’ve managed to hold my life together and been able to morph it from what it was to what it is. With a dash of WTF?

There really isn’t any time of year that I can’t tie with Ken, each one special for its own reason. Oddly, spring–the season of renewal and rebirth–was the last season we spent together. And it’s the season where I feebly contemplate planting the lowest maintenance garden as possible to keep up the tradition of his much-more-capable green thumb.

At least as the sun shines more regularly, I’ll be less likely to forget my sunglasses on my walks with Kallie. Just in case.

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.)

IMG_5959

Irving Park from the L Platform

What will it be this week?

Honoring a Hero of My Heart


IMG_5805

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.

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.

Gym Dandy


The decent shape I’d worked into beginning in 2010 carried me through the stress and duress of Ken’s illness–all the way up until my LOA last summer when my eating (and drinking) habits took a nose dive. Since I lack the self-discipline to manage this situation on my own, I decided to rejoin the personal training gym I’d belonged to before. I avoided this solution for a long time. I’m guessing because it was hard. And I’m lazy. But also maybe a little fearful of returning to a routine that is so closely associated with Ken during a time in my life  I’ll forever regard with equal measures of hatred and longing.

But I had to suck it up. I couldn’t deny how good I felt when I hit my stride there. I weighed 30 lbs. more than I do now when I decided to take matters in my own hands in October of 2010. That year Ken had made a nothing-short-of-miraculous recovery from his surgery earlier that year, and had been progressing heroically in using his new prosthetic leg when we learned his cancer had returned in September. He was in a lot of pain from the tumor in his glute, and I knew the road ahead was going to be choppy–at best.

Taking care of myself was paramount to taking care of him. In doing so, I hoped working out regularly would help me manage the vice grip of pressure I felt. I tried to go early in the morning to get it over with and to reap the benefits of feeling good about doing something good for myself all day long. I remember being incredibly crabby before heading there for a 45-minute session with a trainer. If Ken was awake, he learned only one of us was excited about my appointment–in the beginning at least. Once I was used to the rigor of my routine my mood improved. And I tried shared my excitement with him. I felt guilty in a way because I knew he’d give anything to be able to work out vigorously like he had in years past. But he was excited for me. And proud of me.

When I returned to the gym after a year and half absence I cursed myself for quitting in the first place. Though I have no doubt I was in the best physical shape of my adult life, and it served me well in coping with such a difficult loss, I know why I quit. I’d lived in a necessarily regimented world as I cared for Ken. There weren’t enough hours in the day. With timed medication dispenses, coordinating hospice worker schedules, dealing with insurance forms and payments, and of course, spending time with Ken. After he died, I didn’t want to have to do anything I didn’t have to do. I wanted freedom from structure–even if it was good for me. Just because I could.

This time around though it felt a little self-indulgent. Empty, perhaps. After all, I was only doing it just for myself. Last time I felt the slightest sense of nobleness for doing it partly for Ken. It was bigger than me which made it easier in some ways. When I finished my first session and collapsed in the car, panting like Kallie on a hot summer day, I was acutely aware that my mood was as elevated as my pulse. And I thought of Ken and how after a work out I’d go home, make us some coffee and I’d tell him what exercises I did that day. I never knew the names or muscles they were working out. He did, of course.

I find gratitude in moments like this, when I can think of him and our past, but remain in the present. It’s happened a lot lately during routine activities and new experiences alike. It feels in a way like my past is reassuring my future. I hear his confident, cheerleading voice day in and day out.

And it propels me forward.

Wading into the Dating Pool


20130304-121023.jpg

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.

No St. Valentine’s Day Masochist


My treasure chest.

My treasure chest.

When I was in Jewel the other day at the self-check out, I noticed bouquets of roses in different hues of reds and pinks nearby. Within arms reach. My first immediate thought was to buy one. My hand ever-so-slightly was reaching toward the bin. Then somehow–finally–my brain caught up to what my hand was doing and “righted” the situation, correcting my hand’s trajectory back to my bag of goods.

It was surprising to me more than anything else. And it felt sort of…comforting.That I would see Valentine flowers and immediately think to bring them home for Ken. That good habits are no more easy to break than bad ones. Like there was somehow some sort of universal equilibrium that I didn’t spend too much time thinking about.

I haven’t dreaded Valentine’s Day this year. It hasn’t been on my radar much, but when I do realize it, it seems irrelevant more than anything else. Like it might for any single person, I suppose. Perhaps with one very important difference. If I never have a valentine again for the rest of my life, I’m good. Without trying to sound too condescending to those who may not have had one, I hope everyone at some point is lucky enough to have had one as kind, loving, handsome and creative as the one I had–and still have in some ways.

I received a Valentine in the mail yesterday from my friend Kathy. I think she’s been sending them to since we met in the early 90s (in day care). The next day one followed lovingly from Mama Jo, my mother-in-law. Last year it sort of pissed me off to get Valentines in the mail. Obviously (to me, anyway), there was only one I wanted and it wouldn’t be coming. And though well-intentioned, each Valentine scratched at a scabby wound, reminding me what I didn’t have. Not so this year. I was better prepared for this year’s holiday of lovers. Like all the major events since Ken died, I’ve cycled through the annual ones once already. So this isn’t my first day at the V-Day rodeo.

In noticing my own indifference to the holiday, it feels like I’ve taken some big boy steps further along this very poorly lit path of grief. I don’t know if I will ever not be at least a little angry that he’s gone, but I imagine time will continue to work her magic as I’m reminded more and more of what a wonderful relationship I had with Ken rather than the lack of it now.

The biggest action I took in preparing for today was collecting all the love notes and cards Ken and I exchanged over the years and putting them in a beautiful box. To have them all in one place at my fingertips to be reminded of him and his creative, loving heart hurts less than I feared it might. But sometimes you do things because they’re the right thing to do, not because you want to do them. Like cleaning the bathroom. And after you’ve done them,  you reap the reward of satisfaction of having done it.

My treasure chest is so full of love I’m surprised it shuts at all.

Post Navigation

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 255 other followers