the xanax diary

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

25 Feb 2013
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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
14 Feb 2013
5 Comments

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.

Posted in Grief, Holiday, Ken, Life, Love and tagged
07 Feb 2013

Missing the Rituals


Ken snapped a photo of Munstah on the way to treatment in February 2011.

I’m a creature of habit. I take great comfort in the rituals and traditions of everyday life. There are certain routes I like to take–usually out-of-the-way and less traveled. I like to do certain things in a certain order. I usually walk Kallie on the same exact walk and mutter very bad things when someone and their dog cause us to change course. (My Chow hasn’t learned what “aloof” is yet despite of my best attempts to show her.) It’s almost Rainman-esque. But I gotta be me.

When Ken was undergoing radiation therapy or chemo, there was a specific route I would take on the drive to Creticos Cancer Center. On a tiny street that straddles the Metra train tracks not too far from our apartment, we discovered some kind of drawing on an access ladder up to the tracks. It looked like a monster, so we named it “Munstah”–that’s just the way we said it. And each day, as we drove to and from treatment we would try to remember to greet Munstah. Mornings were easier, because it was fresh on our minds, and Ken wasn’t weary or sick from treatment. One of us could be mid-sentence and the other would greet Munstah. It sort of became a game to see who would remember to greet him first.

I noticed on a drive recently that Munstah was gone. Like he’d never been there. I even pulled over the car and looked around, thinking I might have gotten the spot wrong and perhaps it was covered up by the wild flora. But, alas, Munstah was gone.

I haven’t taken that route very often since Ken died–except on the few visits I’ve made to the Creticos to deliver home-baked goodies to the nurses and staff who I admire so much. I’d driven past it a few other times greeting it in the way we used to, and probably many more times so lost in thought, I paid little attention to the ritual. Or purposely didn’t acknowledge Munstah like so many things I didn’t want to acknowledge after Ken died.

For some reason the ritual of greeting Munstah popped into my head the other day. And it felt like our drives past him couldn’t possibly have been two years in the past. So often I think of the little in-jokes and games Ken and I played, and how it was a ritual we derived so much pleasure and laughter from. It was part of him, and something I think he shared with many people in his life. He was verbal and thoughtful and creative.

I’m not so certain I’d have cared about the ritual of greeting Munstah if I were on my way to be poisoned for eight hours or to lie uncomfortably for 30 minutes to achieve a position so I could be radiated for 30 seconds. But he did. He was ever-present in every moment–a quality I admired then when I could bear to consider it, and one I admire even more greatly now. One I try so hard to embrace. And one that I still find so elusive at times.

I found this image of Munstah via Google Maps. His face is blurred. Ken would find that funny.

Courtesy of Google Maps and Munstah’s legal team.

Posted in Grief, Memories and tagged , , | Leave a Comment
31 Jan 2013

Some Days…


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Guest Blogger…of sorts


Today’s date is significant for me. It’s the third anniversary of Ken’s hemipelvectomy. (You can read more about it in last year’s blog if you’d like.) Because of this anniversary–like so many that have come and gone, Ken has been heavily on my mind this week. More so than usual. And I think it would be fitting to hear his voice–in a manner of speaking. (If you want to hear his actual voice, head over to the Poop Song.)

What I would like to try doing today–and on any date that is meaningful in a Ken-specific way for me–is share a little of him with you. As I’ve said before he was a prolific writer, leaving behind more things than I’ve yet been able to read/catalog. I ran across this piece and brought it smile to my face. I well remember the incident described. And I think it’s a good representation of him. It’s from January of 2003 when he and I were living in his brother (Craig) and sister-in-law’s (Katie) guest house in Los Angeles. Craig installed a kitchen for us on this particular day.

[Please forgive any errors, I make any edits to it.]

Running on Empty by Ken Anderson (aka kenan derson) – Jan. 3, 2003

Kenan Legs

I empty my last packet of instant oatmeal into the amount of water meant for two packets. I stare into the cloudy, beige liquid imagining the little oats taking on more water than usual. Super oats. I take a sip. The warmth of the oatmeal juice is welcomed to my throat, but the whisper of oats in the juice make my tongue recoil, stand up, walk to the headmaster and say, “More?” Oh, Oliver!

My head is throbbing with the rhythm of this cursor on the screen. I leave work early and go home to rest, but I know full well my ‘rest’ would be like lying next to a cranky Thor since my brother and boyfriend are cussing at the god Ikea as they install a kitchen into our one-room guesthouse.

I descend in the elevator. Sixty floors down. The air is squeezing my head as if my horned helmet is collapsing my skull.

I get into Gypsy, my Toyota hybrid car.

“Ping” she says. “Add Fuel. Ping.” She repeats, haughtily this time, in French to cover her derriere, “Ajoutez Essence”

“Okay, Gypsy.” I tell her “We can make it home. You tell me this when there is about a gallon of fuel left.  (And I get about forty-three miles to the gallon.)

I take it cautiously, the drive home. I coast as much as possible down the mountain foothills, all the time watching the fuel gauge. “Blink, blink” she whispers. I think, “Oh yeah, you told me this morning, thirty miles ago. Well, I can always stop off at a gas station sooner. I know where one is. The second exit ahead.”

“No way!” shouts Gypsy in her own “Ding Ding” way. “No Kenny, I am not feeling well. I am staaarving.”

Gypsy sputters. Then, “Ding, Ding.” Her warning lights flash all over the dashboard. I quickly ask Gypsy to tell me where the nearest fueling station is by tapping the touch screen with POI (Point of Interest). She quickly displays her fuel pump icons, indicating the locations of all stations in the area.

“Yes!” I say seeing a station close by. And click on Gypsy’s turn signal.

There was no traffic a second ago! But now, we are surrounded by cars. Tons and tons of cars. Fucking L.A. “I am not Custer! You can’t just descend upon me like a bunch of Indians. Get the fuck out of my way. Gypsy needs nourishment!”

“Ding…Ding…”  “I can’t go on, Kenny. I…”

“I am sorry, Gypsy.” We pull to the curb and Gypsy rolls slightly back as I take my foot off her pedal. “Blink. Blink.” “I gave it all I could, Captain.” She whispers.

“Poor girl. I will be right back.” I salute her by pressing ’Lock’ on my remote, then turn to head uphill to the station Gypsy said was about a mile away.

“Geez, this is steep hill. My prosthetic leg is not fitting well at all. With each lift of my leg, my prosthetic slips slightly away then is shoved back on when I step forward. “OUCH! I just have to get up this hill, then make a left and it is, like, two block away. Gosh those flowers are pretty.”

I wait for the walk light to come on at the corner and I see a police car. I fantasize that they see me and know what’s going on, that I am a cripple walking uphill and then need gas.

“Oh, shit,” I think, “I have to walk back too. And walking downhill is always harder. Fuck. Oh, there’s the “White Walk Guy” on the crossing signal. “Yay for me!” I mouth.

I cross the street and look ahead for the station. I do not see it. “It must be just behind this building.” I assure myself.

I clear the building and “you’re kidding me. God dammit!” There is a station right where Gypsy said. All the pumps are gone and a chain-linked fence surrounds it. I walk on. I look to my right and look at the mountains. “Well at least I am not in Chicago. Where it would be ten degrees with a wind chill, making it feel like minus sixty. (Yeah.  So my blood thinned since moving here. What of it? Fuck off.) In the Midwest there would be at least six inches of dirty, slushy snow on the ground. Here, it is seventy-four degrees (without the wind chill) and the sun is out and…hey, there’s Mt. Wilson.

“Hey. There’s a Shell station. It looks like it is only a few blocks away…which, of course, means it is at least six. Shit. I need a container for the fuel.” I don’t want to be ripped of by the gas station. “Albertson’s? What is that,” I wondered. I have heard of them and seen them before, but was not sure what they were. I thought it was a drugstore like Walgreen’s or Osco. But, alas, it is a dingy, dank every skuzzy-old-fat-or-drugged-out-person-in-the-area-shops-here grocery store. So as a cripple with a cold, I fit right in. They did not have a gas container. Which was just as well because I didn’t want to wait in line with those stinky people.

“A Do-It Center store. “ I proclaimed to Mt. Wilson. “They have to have a fuel container. I mean they have, I read, hardware, home decorating, lumber, x-mas dec half off, and garden.” Surely they have some manly, gas-powered, vroom-vroom, kind of thingy and fuel containers are probably right below them. “Yes. I was right.” I said to an old man who didn’t seem to care. I made my purchase and continued on my trek.

Now, of course, everyone that sees me carrying a fuel container will think similarly. “Oh that guy ran out of gas.” “Oh he is so stupid to run out of gas.” “Ran out of gas. That sucks for him. I love my Special Edition Survivor Land Rover. “ “Normal people call those things gas cans.” I try to appear as if they are all wrong. “I’m getting ready to blow some leaves. I am cutting the grass. I am a go-cart racer. Uh, my friend ran out, of gas, he is so stupid.” I swing the container gleefully. I look around and teeter on my feet at stoplights.

I, well, I look like and idiot who ran out of gas.

At the station many, many, many blocks later, I insert my bankcard, punch my PIN and proceed to fill my container. I put the nozzle in the hole and squeeze the trigger. Gas spills out. I put just the tip of the nozzle in and squeeze…nothing. The new fume-catching, foreskin-like device does not allow me to do that. I pull the hood back and begin to fill the can. I have to do it in short bursts then glance at the meter because it is only a one-gallon tank. I play it safe and stop filling at .754 gallons. God, I could really use a smoke. Oh…yeah.

For a change of scenery, I decide to take the other side of the road back. “Hey, there’s a Goodwill store.” I decide not to stop in as I am carrying a can of gas and this is probably frowned upon, yes, even at a Goodwill store.

The sidewalk has ended. “Great.” I take a side road with a sidewalk. The very first house I pass, a woman opens her door for another woman and a dog runs out and greets her happily. Then the dog sees me and runs at me. He stops to sniff the gas can, runs to my right side and smells my gassy hand and starts to bark and snap at me. The woman runs out of her house. “NO!” she yells. The dog continues its barking. “It is just gas,” I say “and I am going to pour it on you and sue her if you don’t go away.” The woman doesn’t even apologize. She simply yells at her mutt, “No! Bad dog. No. No. Bad.” I walk away and her scolds fade into the din of traffic.

“Gypsy. I’m back.” I say as I salute hello by pressing  ‘unlock’ on my remote.

I climb into the captain’s seat. Key in the ignition. I turn the key. “I still don’t feel so well, Kenny.” Ding. Ding.  I can tell she doesn’t feel so well because she is sluggishly lurching forward. I press on the gas and she coughs. And going uphill make me even more nervous for her. It feels like she is about to sleep again. I keep saying, “Just to this corner. Just a little bit more. Stay green. Stay green light, stay green.” I turn fast to make the green. Right in front of a cop. I think of course I will get pulled over. No. I ease on down to the station and pull up to the pump and realize the tank opening is on the other side. “Shit.”

Filled up I back the car from the pump into a spot by the station and pull out my owner’s manual for Gypsy because even after filling her, she is still warning me. The manual says when certain lights are on, “Pull over as soon as possible and contact your Toyota dealer immediately.”

“Oh my god,” I say. “Okay, what do I do? God! And of course I do not have my cell phone.”  The boyfriend’s voice plays in my head, “It’s called a mobile phone for a reason.”

I find some change in my bag and pull over to a pay phone. I call Ron to tell him I will be late and ask for advice. He doesn’t know what I should do either.  I am really just calling for a voice. Other than Gypsy’s “that’s not right, Kenny”. So I get “Please deposit twenty cents.”

“I don’t have any money. The manual says take her in immediately. The lights are still on. I don’t feel so good either. I am tired. I have no more change. I will ca…boooop.” Dial tone. I’ve been cut off.

I decide I will get in the car and go to another payphone and call AAA or the dealer. I turn the key and Gypsy is fine. “Ping” Fasten your seatbelt. No dings. No warnings. She feels better. And she sounds better. Maybe I don’t have to do anything. I will call home to say I am on my way. I stop at a convenience store and park by the phones. There are two derelict looking guys. Homeless? Maybe? Are slouched against the phone.  Find my quarters and proceed to go ahead and back out of the lot and find a different phone.

I find a phone near a Ralph’s. I call home find out the dealer said I can bring it in tomorrow. I want to be home. I have to go into Ralph’s to get fixings for margaritas. I want to go into that place like Gypsy wants to run out of gas again. I, however do. Once I get to one of the three checkouts that Ralph’s ever has, I discover that the bottle of tequila that took a solid ten minutes to find in their fucked-up organization of liquor, where some is even under lock and key. Skyy under lock and Key?  God dammit. I fucking hate Ralph’s.

Back in Gypsy–still feeling good she is–I head home, following a sign to the freeway.  I look for another, “oh there it is …in my rearview mirror. Shit. Fine, Gypsy is there another way to go? I look at the map and decided, “no fucking way. I will turn around at the next street.” I turn right onto the street and the bottles of beer that I bought come tumbling out of the bag onto the seat. “Shit. “ I secure the bottles in the back seat and finish my u-turn. I turn right. “goddamn it. What the fu…. I have got to get home. “

As not to screw up again, I say, “ Okay. Turn left. There you go. Good, no cars around because you probably would get hit is there was even one. Okay. Make a u-turn. Now since we went left, the direction we need to return to is to your right. To your right. Your right. Right. I made the right.

Now I am free.  Just a quick jaunt on the 210 then to the 118 and we are pretty much home.  Gypsy and I are behind a truck he is going so slowly.  Like 59 mph, and the speed here is normally, like, 80. So we change lanes to get around him and the asshole moves over too. We beep at him to let him know he is going to hit us. Then he flashes his rear work lights at us. Like it is our fault. I pass him and want to flip him off, so I get into the next lane, pass him get up to his driver’s window and give him my patented ‘retard’ look, eyes crossed and tongue hanging out, mouthing, “Only wetarwds flash theiwer lights at people.” I leave him confused and disarmed, I pull ahead and make my exit off the freeway and make my way home.

I park Gypsy in front of the house grab my loot and go to the guesthouse where my nephews greet me.

“Uncle Kenny!” shouts Nathan, my two, almost three, year old nephew. Then he runs throwing his little arms around my knees and squeezes.

“I am sorry you had such a rough ride home,” my sister-in-law Katie says.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I grin.

“Uncle Kenny. Close your eyes,” says Jack Henry. He leads me into the guesthouse and says, “Open your eyes.” I do. “You have a new kitchen!”

That I did.

I love that my home was in my brother’s backyard.

Posted in Essay, Humor, Memories, Writing and tagged , , , | Leave a Comment
13 Jan 2013

On the Topic of Change


I took Kallie for a longer-than-usual walk last night thanks to the unseasonably Spring-like weather. A few blocks north of our usual route landed us in Ravenswood. I lived there the last few years in Chicago before moving to Los Angeles with Ken. We walked past my old apartment. It’s where I lived when I fell in love. My whole experience living in Ravenswood was somewhat magical. I loved living there as I love this part of the city.

My old apartment stands next to Ravenswood Medical Center. When I moved there I was excited to have such a big apartment and somehow felt a sense of security having it be only feet from a dependable neighborhood hospital. The hospital was sold years ago–probably even when I was living next to it–and slowly began to shut down as services were switched to another nearby hospital owned by Advocate. It closed for business in 2002, the same year I moved.

The hospital dominated the skyline of the neighborhood and provided somewhat of an anchor. And I’ve always been fascinated by it. Even after I moved, I thought of the neighborhood and the hospital, and often googled both to see what was new. It had been abandoned for almost five years when I returned to the neighborhood in 2006 when Ken and I moved back from California. I often took walks past it, and it never ceased to give me pause for sadness. A once vibrant center for medical health and treatment sold off and reduced to an empty shell–presumably full of equipment and records. (One of the conditions the hospital’s sale was that it couldn’t ever be used as a medical facility.) What a waste.

The largest section of the hospital was called the Adler Pavilion. All the times I passed it on the way to work, I figured it was the same Adler as the Planetarium. Recently, I lost an afternoon googling everything I could think of regarding the hospital and I made some interesting discoveries. I found the obituaries of the Adler donors William S. and Elizabeth S. Adler. They were incredible philanthropists who lived to ripe old ages, both dying in 1982. Though she’d been comatose for several months prior to her husband’s death, Mrs. Adler died with 24 of hours of his passing. Sad and a little romantic. (I couldn’t figure out if they were related to Max Adler who was the benefactor of the Planetarium.)

I stumbled across this fascinating Flicker album from a photographer who somehow got inside inside the abandoned building in February of 2011 and took some pretty amazing photos. I find them beautiful, haunting and profoundly sad–and I can’t keep from looking at them. In my mind’s eye I can picture each scene in the hospital’s better days when it was full of life, people and activity. Ken was admitted there years before I knew him. So, it’s no wonder I feel a little bit of a connection with it.

Since demolition of the hospital began, I’ve taken many walks and drives by and photos of the structure. I know my nostalgia is driven by more than my love and memories of the neighborhood. It’s loss and change, and seeing something that was once vital and healthy decline and decay until it “dies.” It’s Ken–in a way. Having experienced what I did with him during his illness has most certainly slanted my perspective and made my hypersensitive to metaphors of loss.

The good news is that the hospital campus is being torn down to make way for the new campus of the Lycée Francais de Chicago. Something about the land going to use for a school takes a little of the sting away. Oui!

 

Posted in Chicago, Grief, Memories | Leave a Comment
10 Jan 2013

A Delicious Discovery


IMG_5429

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life as I Know It


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

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

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

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

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

That’s my wish for me and for everyone.

Posted in Feelings, Firsts, Grief, Humor and tagged , | Leave a Comment
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.

IMG_5252

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
15 Dec 2012
4 Comments

Music to My Ears


I went to bed pretty early last night. As a result my eyes opened at 4:30 a.m. this morning. It was fortuitous because I could hear Kallie, who was lying on the bedroom floor, whining a little–waiting for me to wake up. When she whines, it’s a pretty sure sign she needs to “poodle” (as opposed to “piddle”). And given the fact I ignored a similar plea earlier in the week, resulting in a big steaming pile of lovin’ left for me in the middle of the kitchen floor, I decided to heed her  signals, get up and get dressed.

I was surprised how “warm” it felt this morning as we walked. (At 45 degrees, my annual winter blood thickening has obviously begun.) As we scurried down the sidewalk, it felt like we were the only people on earth. And certainly if we weren’t, then we were the only ones who were up. It didn’t matter which way I looked, there wasn’t a car or person to be seen. It was a unique perspective to have, living in such a big city. And not one I ever had when I was stumbling home at this hour back in the day.

This kind of quiet walk in a neighborhood lit by Christmas decorations was a sweet way to kick off the weekend. With plenty of holiday thoughts to ponder, my mind of course turned to Ken and our holiday memories–and just memories in general. When we got back home I had received an email from 7-11. Actually, Ken did. I took control of his email address when he wasn’t able to manage it any longer and have kept it ever since. And I probably will  have it forever. When I saw the spam email, I realized it wasn’t spam. It was part of a promotion Ken signed up for.

When he was getting radiation on his glute in the fall of 2010 we started the tradition of going to 7-11 for a Slurpee–when he was up for it. His preference was a mixture of cola on the bottom and cherry on the top or the other way around. It depended, and I gladly obliged and tried to pick a fun-colored straw to compliment his preferred treat.

One particular day comes to mind as we laughed ourselves silly on the drive from the Creticos Cancer Center where he received treatment to the 7-11 on the way home. The inappropriate subject of “poop” came up as similar topics often did on our amusing drives. Very musically inclined, Ken came up with a song about said “poop” topic and I remember laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

While I was in 7-11 getting his combo Slurpee he took out his iPhone and recorded the song. When I got back into the car and he played it for me. I laughed so hard I cried. Lately, so many “inside” jokes between him and me have been popping (pooping?) into my  head–and a few of them have cracked me up all over again. When I saw the 7-11 email this morning and thought of this story, it occurred to me that I still have the original recording. I played it several times and laughed each time.

I hope you do too. Enjoy.

Poop Your Pants

Ken was full of such creativity and drive and humor and music. I love hearing his voice again, singing and improvising as he loved to do–and was so adept at.

As for now, please excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom…

Posted in Memories, Writing and tagged ,

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