the xanax diary

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

Archive for the tag “Friends”

15 Mar 2013
4 Comments

The Funny Lattice of Five


Our final day of class.

From our final day of class.

It’s difficult to believe that sixteen years ago today, with a stomach full of butterflies I reported to 1616 N. Wells with my bestie Kathy for our first class at the venerable Second City’s improv comedy program. Aside from attempting to learn the “rules of improv,” the longest lasting gift it gave me was a new dimension of my friendship with Kathy, as well as shiny new, yet-slightly-wrong-in-the-rightest-way friendship with Alan, Retta and Tina. The A-List.

I’ve written about them before, but like any deep love affair, I can’t help but celebrate this anniversary by waxing philosophic about not only our enduring friendship, but the extraordinary experience it was to get to know them on stage and off. We learned to love to play together on stage in locales from diners to living rooms to funerals to dead hooker alley. Off stage, we congregated across the street at the preferred watering hole and spent on average of three times as much time together there as we did on stage–and our class was three hours long.

These four hold a special place for me as we came together at a time our lives when meeting new friends isn’t very likely. And the freedom of improv certainly made being anything but ourselves incredibly difficult. That in itself might be the nugget of why we all came together. Peeling off any layers of pretense on stage somehow sped up the process of our “friendship dating.” We took countless risks and innumerable leaps of faith together on a weekly basis. Trusting them came easily. And loving them, even easier.

From a photo shoot shortly after we "graduated."

From a photo shoot shortly after we “graduated.”

Together we’ve celebrated weddings, births of children, birthdays, anniversaries, and all life’s bountiful moments, as well as supported each other through life’s crueler improv scenes–and not just the horrifying ones we perpetrated on stage. Along with many other loving friends, these four helped me stand, speak, function–and even laugh on occasion–during Ken’s illness. It’s not that they are more special than any of the other wonderful friends in my life, but I guess it was that we met on the same hallowed stage that played host to likes of Mike Myers, Jane Lynch, Steve Carrell, Amy Poehler, Tina Fey, Mike Nichols and Elaine May (among many others) that certainly added a unique texture to our relationship.

Of course, we graduated and like any group of school friends, we continued on in our lives–as we should. But when the five us get together, it feels like it did all those (very few) years ago. Finding time to get together isn’t easy and doesn’t happy consistently, but it happens when it can. And we sit around and talk about the same stories of the “glory days.”

And it’s magic. Every time.

Happy anniversary, my friends. I love all of you, and am in awe of each of you.

From my 40th birthday.

From my 40th birthday.

[Blogger's note: at sixteen years ago, please know that each of us left the DMV with our shiny new licenses and drove to our first class.]

Posted in Friends, Memories, Second City 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 , , , , , ,
07 Aug 2012
8 Comments

The Day They All Knew My Name


With only a couple of months until high school graduation to go, I was content to quietly slip out the doors of my sleepy, small town high school and into my future at college. But one chilly spring morning in 1986, everyone knew my name as it was screeched out over the school’s PA system. “RON STEMPKOWSKI REPORT TO THE OFFICE!!! RON STEMPKOWSKI REPORT TO THE OFFICE!!!” I can still hear it like it was yesterday. Wid-eyed and surprised, I couldn’t imagine why a notorious “good boy” would be called to the office so vehemently.

Turns out, my powder blue AMC Pacer was on fire–ablaze in the school parking lot. Anyone in a classroom on the front side of the building (both floors) could see it. I imagine you could see it from space. When the vice-principal told me “Your car is on fire!” he said it like I was supposed to know what to do next. I think I said something like “Okay” then asked to use the phone. As I dialed my mom’s work number, I could see the smoke billowing from the hood of my car as fire trucks arrived (a TWO alarm fire.) I calmly told her my car was on fire, but once that was out of the way I got to the real reason why I was calling. “Can you come pick me up?” I couldn’t spend an entire day at school in the wake of such a ridiculous and public spectacle. Life in high school was hard enough as it was. I don’t recall my mom laughing at my request, but she might as well have. With my dad out of town, I was stuck in school for the day–horrified and now carless. The thought of spending the entire day at school being gawked and sniggered at was repulsive enough. But to endure a bus ride home pushed me to the brink.

I don’t remember much detail of the day progressed, but I do remember being relieved at how kind people were being. No on really made fun of me or the event. I got a lot of “what happened?” and “glad you weren’t in it when it happened” and a couple “do you think it sabotage?” Yikes. Sabotage?

As I trudged out to the buses after the final bell of the day, holding my head low I anticipated the longest ride into town imaginable. But then, Jennifer Bower, one of the most popular and nicest girls in my class stopped me on the way to the parking lot and asked me if I’d like a ride home. I think I hugged her. I’ll never forget her act of kindness, saving me from humiliation–real or imagined–and getting me home where I could regroup and try to forget about the entire event.

Then, my senior year book came out with this photo:

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It was official. My last high school humiliation was memorialized, never to let me forget that humbling day. So, maybe it was Freudian that I lost my year book somewhere over the years. (Special thanks to my high school pal–and Prom date–Jody for digging hers out and scanning this pic!)

It has turns out that one of my worst high school experiences is one of my favorite high school memories. Seriously, who else can say they’ve had this experience? Even if they had it, who else would admit to it?

Posted in Friends, Humor, Memories, Writing 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 , , , , , , ,
15 Jun 2012
5 Comments

Whispers of Birthdays Past


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shut it.

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

Marking a Weighty Occasion


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

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

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

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

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

So, I didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted in Family, Firsts, Friends, Gratitude, Grief, Ken, Memories, Moving Forward and tagged , , , , , , ,
21 Apr 2012
2 Comments

Shiny, (Truly) Happy People


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(A rare paparazzi shot, catching vintage badasses Denise and Ron (circa 1990) arriving “on the scene.”)

I read a blurb recently about a study conducted on a group of “truly happy” people to find what–if anything–they had in common. The study found that those surveyed only shared one trait: the strength of their social relationships. I’m not exactly sure how “truly happy” is measured and what metrics would actually reveal that, but I found it fascinating nonetheless. And in thinking about it for a while, I took great comfort in the relationships I share with my friends and family–and, of course, the crown jewel of them all–my relationship with Ken.

Stumbling across this article was “interesting” timing. (I’ve said before I’m not sure I believe in coincidence anymore since Ken’s death.) One of my oldest and dearest friends, Denise, was in Chicago for business this week. After coordinating schedules I was excited that she extended her trip by a day so we she could crash at my place and we could spend some time together, drink some wine and catch up. She and our mutual (and supremely lovely) friend Nick traveled to town last year to attend Ken’s soiree. Though they had no expectation of spending time with me, it meant more than I could ever put into words to have these two iconic friends take the time to travel so far to love and support me, and to honor Ken. But in terms of the study I mentioned earlier, it goes a long way in demonstrating the web of social relationships I’m lucky enough to have that form an intricate lattice that has caught me every single time I’ve fallen–not matter how hard.

Though we’re both far too young for this be true, I met Denise twenty-two years ago as I was finishing up at Purdue University. I’d only recently come out then and met her through Nick (our mutual friend who we harassed via text after a couple of glasses of wine last night.)

When I left to Lafayette to move to Chicago, Denise moved to northern California. In subsequent years as I moved to southern California with Ken, she moved to Texas. Like many of my friendships, no matter how long it’s been since we’ve talked or instant messaged or emailed or iChatted, it’s effortless to pick up where we left off. And it’s always been that way.

Denise was a constant dancing partner of mine during the early 90′s. From Depeche Mode to B-52′s to New Order to REM. We frequented the local club and tore up the dance floor week after week after week, culminating in–wait for it–a choreographed dance to a popular song of the day. The freedom of dancing was almost drug-like in its sweaty, gyrating satisfaction. But the unity I felt as our song would start and we would casually bust out our coordinated moves, impressing the onlookers week after week made me feel a part of something important–and more importantly, a part of…something. And as much as fun as that was, I think back to being at her apartment and working for HOURS to create the dance. That was, for me, the most fun memory of our concerted effort.

So much of what makes Denise and my friendship special is unspoken. It’s just the way it work works for us. Over the years I’ve wondered if she truly understands how impressive she was/is to me and what a powerful impact our friendship has made on my life. I reminded her during our visit together last night of something she once told me: feelings aren’t right or wrong; they just “are.” Those words made a big impression upon me, and served me well through all of my subsequent friendships, in falling in love with Ken, and most certainly in learning of his cancer’s return and in coping with his death.

We haven’t lived in the same city with daily access to each for twenty-some years, but when we’re together, it’s impossible to forget the power and excitement the future held for me then, and what it can still hold for me now. Denise and Ken met in 2007 when she traveled to Chicago for a couple of days before she and I returned to Lafayette to visit with Nick and our old friends there. I remember being excited for them to meet and how effortless it was to conjoin these seemingly disparate parts of my life.

I’ve never been overtly social. I don’t know how or why it works, but for the most part I’ve always been attracted to people who prove to be long-term friends. I think friendship is something that is organic and comes easily. As I still struggle to find equilibrium and continue to figure out what my new “normal” is, I take great comfort in the friendships I’ve made and how they offer me a sometimes greatly needed center-of-gravity.

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Some things never change.

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Thankfully!

Posted in "New" Normal, Friends, Gratitude, Growing Up Gay, Life, Memories and tagged , , , , ,
15 Mar 2012
5 Comments

Meet the A-List


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(Four of THE most amazing friends you could ask for–like it or not. L-R, Kathy, Me, Tina, Alan, Retta – August, 2011)

March 15, 1997 is a day that lives in infamy–at least for five people.

It was the day me and my irritable bowls walked up the stairs in terror to the hallowed halls of Chicago’s famed Second City at 1616 N. Wells Street for my first day of improv class. Kathy and I had been friends five-or-so years and had talked about going to Second City for the previous couple of years. I could never have guessed what I wound up finding there. Aside from learning the “rules of improv”, I found my tribe.

For the most part I’d grown up feeling a bit of an outsider/loner in high school. But I remember in spite of how different all of our backgrounds were how quickly I clicked with this group. I’d finally found my clique! And we ruled the school as the A-List, “the most powerful clique Second City has ever known.” Legends in our own minds, but that made it no less sweet. Saturdays for two-and-half years became what I lived for–and not as much about learning improv and prepping for shows, but to see these friends of mine, who so easily became family to me. It didn’t take long for Saturday morning or afternoon classes to bleed into all day hang-outs at the bar across the street, or packing up the gang and heading over to Bucktown for a CDR (“Casa De Retta”) party. My apartment sat empty and lifeless for most Saturdays in the late 90′s.

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(From a reunion at my place in 2007. It was the first time we’d all been together in a few years. I think this photo is one of my favorites because a) I’m obviously the star and b) it illustrates that “you have to go through me to get to them.”)

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(A true representation of our dynamic.)

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(One of several photos shoots we did while still attending while still attending Second City.)

It’s been 15 years since we came together as a group, and it hardly seems possible that I haven’t known them all for so much longer. It may sound trite, but I’ve laughed with–and at–them, and I’ve cried with them. We’ve celebrated birthdays, weddings, and births. They’ve offered me unwavering support–not just in the wake of Ken’s illness and death–but always. I’m sort of in love with this group, and am so proud of–and grateful for–my friendships with each of them–that they’ve endured and remained as rich as they were since we met 15 years ago.

Happy anniversary, A-Listers. You rock my world. (Consider the restraining order my gift to each of you.)

Posted in Friends, Memories and tagged ,
02 Mar 2012
4 Comments

Firsts and Friends


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Yours truly (right) with author and friend, Claire Bidwell Smith (left–and moderately preggars)

Most months, the first is a sometimes glaring, sometimes dreaded number appearing in the first square of the calendar. Some months it approaches more brazenly than others. The first of this month (March) has been on my radar for a while for a couple of reasons. March 23 would have been Ken’s and my 11th anniversary together, and also serves as a reminder that last year on that date he was in the hospital and was too out of it recognize our 10th. I think more than anything the beginning of March is more of a harbinger for me for feelings that will come later in the month. As for March 1 marking nine months since Ken died, like many other months past, I can hardly believe it.

But there was less of a sting this month. I’ve kept this first on my calendar for other reasons since I found out my friend and author Claire Bidwell Smith would be in Chicago doing a reading and signing of her first book, “The Rules of Inheritance.” It’s a stunning memoir dealing with the journey of coming to terms with grief and loss that I devoured the same day it was released last month. (See my blog about the book.) As the promotional tour was announced, I was excited to see Chicago was on her agenda. She was scheduled to do a reading at an independent book store in Andersonville–on Chicago’s north side and not far from me. And I couldn’t wait. I’d never been to an author’s reading before, so it was extra exciting.

There’s something very healing for me about seeing Claire. Something quiet and unspoken and gentle. Our friendship was forged for me–not only in the unyielding heat of grief and loss–but partially because of it. As our hospice grief counselor, we shared intimate moments that can only be experienced when you’re talking about love, life and approaching death. I felt at ease with her the first time I met her, and my husband Ken and I both fell for her very quickly. Knowing my journey isn’t an unfamiliar one to her; that she has experienced significant loss like me, but that she’s compelled to write about it and help others better understand it are some of the reasons I find myself so connected to her. The irony–or rather, serendipity–of meeting her as I was losing Ken isn’t lost on me. She is one of the gifts bestowed upon me from the experience of loving and losing him.

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The book store was packed and became standing room only at a certain point. Her reading was spellbinding. I found it comforting to hear her smooth, steady voice speaking the words just as I’d imagined them when I was reading it. In spite of that, I couldn’t help bobbing in and out of the story as I looked around the room, seeing everyone riveted and motionless as she read; the obvious support and love emanating from her husband Greg (who I’d gotten the chance to meet just before the event started) as he watched; the sound of my own heartbeat racing at times during her reading when her evocative words transported me.

It was a beautiful evening that left me feeling joy, pride and love–which the picture at the top pretty clearly demonstrates.

Posted in Feelings, Firsts, Friends, Grief, Ken, Love, Writing and tagged , , , , , ,
08 Feb 2012

A Book in a Day


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“The Rules of Inheritance” was released on February 2. I woke up that morning to an email from Amazon.com, letting me know the book had been delivered to my Kindle. Up and out of bed with the excitement of a toddler on Christmas morning, I grabbed my iPad and curled up in a chair in the living room and devoured the first section while sipping the day’s first cup of coffee. But it didn’t stop there. It couldn’t. I was riveted; compelled to keep reading. I couldn’t put it down. My friend–the author–Claire Bidwell Smith‘s first book was a first book for me too: it was the first book read from cover to cover in one sitting. It consumed me.

I knew some of the stories from meeting Claire, when she was our hospice grief counselor who made weekly visits to north side apartment as part of the hospice services afforded to my partner Ken, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer. On her visits, during many of our talks we asked her about where the book was in terms of getting published. It was exciting and terribly impressive–particularly to aspiring writers like Ken and I. He was as thrilled for her as I was. In fact, the whole family really got into the act.

The book itself is a sensual read about her experience of having both parents diagnosed with cancer within months each other when she was fourteen. Her mother died when she 18 and her father when she was 25. A lot of loss for an only child to deal with. Her easy writing style in the book is unconventional–more like reading a personal diary in some ways than anything else. And most importantly, I felt like she was talking to me. I could hear her gentle serene voice reading the words aloud in my head.

So much has happened since those visits last spring. She and her family relocated to LA just a week or so before Ken died. And through the darkness that ensued, Claire and I remained in touch, even having the opportunity to meet for drinks later in the summer–to check in with each other. Emails and texts followed. And as a faithful reader of her blog, I was kept in constant touch with what was going on in her exciting pre-publication life.

Within the framework of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance), Bidwell Smith weaves a lattice of vignettes from her life, not chronologically but by these stages that serve to envelope you and take on this journey with her. With no shroud or subterfuge, Claire tells her story poetically in some parts, and with stark honesty in others. It was a true emotional roller coaster. There were parts where I openly wept for her and what she was going through, other times I wept selfishly without abandon for myself, what I’ve lost because she was saying rings that I’d said or felt during my husband’s illness. And other times, I didn’t know who I was weeping for.

I don’t know if I ever would have heard of Claire’s book had I never known her or experienced loss and subsequent grief as I did, but that’s how life works, I suppose. When someone special like Claire comes into your life, you know your better for it. I know I am. Her book helped me to release some feelings I wasn’t sure I still had, and I’m so grateful for that.

If you have ever experienced loss and grief, I strongly encourage you to pick up a copy of this book. Yes, I’m a little jaded because we’re friends, but that didn’t mitigate what a well-written memoir it is.

I encourage Chicagoans to go to her book signing event at Women and Children First Books on March 1. You can see her other events on her website, or check out my review (and several others) on amazon.com.

Posted in Books, Friends, Grief and tagged , , | Leave a Comment

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