the xanax diary

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

Archive for the category “Moving Forward”

09 May 2013
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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.

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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:

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

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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:

Posted in Gardening, Grief, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged
27 Nov 2012
3 Comments

The Story of the Pink Tree


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

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

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

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

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

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[Ken and I, perplexed, 2010]

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t look at it and not smile.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Grief, Holiday, Ken, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , ,
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 , , , , ,
16 Oct 2012
2 Comments

Driving Miss Kallie


Kallie and I took a road trip this weekend. As mentioned in a previous blog, I love the colors, smells and sights of autumn. A drive out of the city offered some beautiful vistas of oranges, reds and coppers–along with cursing at truck driver’s and the Department of Transportation while sneaking glances at what Special K was up to in the back seat. I always look forward to returning to my childhood home and seeing my parents. It’s like heading toward a gilded fortress that is–somehow, for me–suspended in time; a home base where I’m never “it.”

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As we made our way southeastward to Indiana, I was struck by the difference between driving down to visit my family this time as opposed to times before. Though I took K there in August while on LOA to meet and greet, she was a teething, biting puppy who stressed me out as a guest in someone else’s pristine home. This time I was taking a noticeably bigger, calmer version, and I was back into the rhythm being of full-time employment at work. It feels so right that I have Kallie, and on the drive I was so content knowing that I had someone to take care of, play with, and worry about, and (unfortunately) chide upon occasion. It felt really good and right for us to be together, heading to my folks’ house.

Somehow going home lends itself to a sort of magnifying glass, but one that filters out anything unimportant and focuses only on the good stuff. As usual, my parents were waiting with welcoming arms–for Kallie. I’m not sure exactly how long it took before they tore themselves away from her to notice my presence, but as a proud pet parent I could hardly blame them.

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[She felt quite at home on my dad's lap.]

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[And was an "eager" helper in the kitchen with Mom.]

My aunt, sister and niece came over to hang out Saturday afternoon. It was light and fun and uncomplicated–like usual. It’s like unplugging from my every day life and leaving all thoughts and stresses behind. For so long these visits have been redemptive, and I’m so grateful for them.

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[Some beautiful fall colors visible from the back yard.]

This morning was relaxed. Kallie and I played in the back yard for a while before we headed home–I’m not sure she wanted to leave.

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The next day, I received an email from my mother after she noticed one of the edible chew toys I gave K to gnaw on had left a dark orange-ish stain on her brown carpeting.

Subject: Edit Please

Hope you can help me out by editing this for me. Let me know if there are any corrections/changes. I know it’s kind of vague…

GREAT OPPORTUNITY!
(Opening very recent!)

Qualifications:

Must be male
44 years old
Must own Chow puppy
Must be smart enough to not buy colored dog treats

Love,
Mom

Posted in Feelings, Humor, Life, Moving Forward and tagged , ,
21 Sep 2012
8 Comments

What His Birthday Inspires


I knew it was looming ahead, but never took the time to confirm until I returned to work recently and began regularly looking at a calendar again to realize Ken’s birthday was fast approaching. Very fast.

Today is Ken’s birthday. I have to say I really like typing that in the present tense (is–not was, were, did, used to be) because it still is the date on which he was born. A date that feels more appropriate to mark–rather than the day he died. Or at least feels more worthy of celebrating. It would have been his 47th.

Yesterday had some sucky moments for me, dreading what today might hold. But I’ve learned some lessons during the past year and just rolled with it. And like a dream sequence, I woke up today…feeling happy. It’s the day Ken was born. What could be more worthy? I have to be grateful for this day. It began a life that became intertwined with mine and brought me indescribable happiness–and, in fact, still does. No matter what has happened, his influence changed my life–and still continues to help shape it in more ways than I can possibly realize. Even more, meeting and loving him brought so many wonderful people into my orbit.

I over planned for today. But autumn seems to have settled in Chicago, so today’s weather threw off some of the plans I had. But what I wanted to do most was go visit the nurses and staff at the Creticos Cancer Center where he received both unparalleled TLC and a faithful fan club for whom to perform his antics while receiving treatment. His last visit there was a few weeks before he died, and I’ve been twice to deliver baked goodies since then. The oncology nurses there are heroines. They perform magic every single day, and I was in awe of them from the moment I first encountered them. Every time we were there for treatment, they were lighthearted, positive and loving. Once Ken was resigned to the fact he had to go there for treatment, he embraced it, made the most of it, and always looked forward to seeing the staff–and vice versa. It was one of the many gifts he possessed.

I’d anticipated that today would be tinged with sadness. But it just…wasn’t. I woke up happy, knowing what an important day it was. And during my travels I even tried to be sad–out of some kind of respect–for what has been lost, but I couldn’t. So I let it go. My mood was fortified by seeing all the loving posts on Ken’s Facebook wall; loved ones paying homage to him and sending messages of love, gratitude and humor. It was an incredible affirmation of what he was–and what he continues to be–for those of us who loved him.

I’m a little surprised–but not completely–that today wasn’t a mess for me. It heartens me and convinces me that I am moving in the right direction. And that’s a huge relief. It’s easy to get lost on the journey of loss and grief. Your compass spins like a top. It can be difficult to find the “markers” to tell you you’re on the right path. Today was chock full of them.

On Ken’s last birthday in 2010–his 45th–I worked months ahead to ask friends and loved ones to help me compile the “ken-do dictionary”: words and phrases that described Ken’s indomitable spirit, humor and grace. I–well, anyone, actually–could only hope to be thought of with these sentiments. Click the photo below to see the entire volume.

Today was the kind of day he would have loved: full of expression, love and surprises.

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Posted in "New" Normal, Family, Feelings, Friends, Grief, Ken, Life, Love, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , ,
03 Sep 2012
2 Comments

What I Did on My Summer Vacation


The last couple of weeks I’ve done everything but write. As the time winds quickly down on my leave from work, I’ve been frenzied with organizing and prepping for me to re-enter the work-a-day world, as well as prepping for what it will mean for Kallie.

What has my leave meant for me? Remember how summer’s as a child between grades were long, rolling, and agenda-less? And how it seemed to clean the slate from the prior year? And by the end of summer you looked forward to returning to the rituals of school? That’s what it feels like as my first day back lies only hours away.

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[Kallie's reaction when I told her I was going back to work.]

Reflecting back on my time off brings to mind many things: the quiet, reverential marking of Ken’s passing with friends; lazy mornings, stretching in bed and for the life of me not being able to figure out what day it was; cool nights, sitting in my firefly-filled front yard with a little 10 lb. pup, watching her and feeling something long inanimate start to stir and move and explore its range of motion again.

Though I didn’t explore Chicago as I’d planned to because of parental responsibilities (and separation anxiety–purely on my part), I did other kinds of exploring; reflecting on my life–the past and future–and most importantly, the present. Having this kind of time to consider such weighty topics was truly a gift. Mix that with plenty of free time, my Mac and a puppy, and you have a recipe for something remarkable and truly once-in-a-lifetime. (I’d never want reason to need this kind of time again.)

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[My work laptop has rested on the highest shelf in the guest room since May 31.]

Part of me knew I would have no idea what my leave would mean or produce. But turns out, it wasn’t really about writing (though it played a large part), it was about being, and learning to get comfortable in a new life that doesn’t feel nearly as new, itchy and ill-fitting as it once did. But it will take quite some time before it will ever feel “normal”–if ever.

I’ll always look back on my time off with great affection and nostalgia. What stands out the most of these past 95 days is something I relish the most. It’s the same thing that connects me to Ken and brings him and Quantum to my thoughts and my heart many times per day. Like Quantum for Ken, Kallie chooses me. Quatum’s kisses were reserved strictly for Ken–and given freely. Now, I’m the recipient of such gifts.

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[Ken and Q in 2002.]

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[Kallie and me.]

So, the beginning of the reboot is complete, though as with old timey PC’s, it takes a while for all the peripherals to come online and for the complete system to be ready. And I return to work, and a schedule, and a paycheck with a healthy amount of excitement and anticipation. And each day, take one step further into my future.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Grief, Life, Love, Memories, Moving Forward 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 , , , , , , ,
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 , , , , , , ,
21 Jul 2012

The Pinch of Fridays


Fridays aren’t what they used to be. Now Fridays mean no matter what I need–unless is puppy-related–my errands will have to wait until Monday. It’s when my quiet little street becomes a little louder in the evenings as families begin to enjoy their time “off the clock.” As most everyone else gets out and about and the air is scented with charcoal, I retreat to familiarity and buckle down for the weekend. Weekends don’t seem to be full of the possibilities they once were.

I feel a pinch of sadness on Fridays. It can be quick, but is always assertive. An echo that reminds me that Friday’s (particularly in the summer months) used to mean firing up the grill, unfolding the chairs in the back yard and the maraca-sounding shakes of martinis being made. Though we talked every night, Fridays were special. It’s when we unplugged from the work week and laid out plans for the weekend. Most importantly, we were together after completing another week in “the matrix.”

Since being on leave from work, weekends have inverted from their usual place of solace from the “real” world. It’s the week days where I find my greatest joys in tending to my writing, garden, and my puppy. It’s Monday through Friday when I run errands and do things while everyone else is at work. It’s perfect for me. Never someone who enjoys crowds, my week is filled with intermittent trips and errands, and my weeknights–sometimes to the wee hours of the morning (I actually typed “mourning”…someone’s Freudian slip is showing)–is where I sometimes accomplish the most.

There hasn’t been a Friday since he died–and even some when he was failing mentally toward the end–where I haven’t felt this emotional pinch and sighed, recalling countless Fridays where weekends were kicked off, jokes were shared, and plans were hatched. I’ve often wondered when I’ll stop feeling the little twinge of Fridays past; when the flicker of memories won’t invoke that cold flash of sadness, yanking me out of the present and reminding me weekly of what joy the past still holds for me.

Until then I suppose I have no choice but to wait for my present to unfold, as I’m sure new traditions will emerge before I’m even aware of them, as they did before with Ken. In spite of this weekly reminder, the drive to move forward continues.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Grief, Life, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , | Leave a Comment
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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