the xanax diary

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

Archive for the tag “Gratitude”

26 Mar 2013
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Honoring a Hero of My Heart


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is the essay I submitted.

Kenny’s Girlfriend

By Ron Stempkowski (March 24, 2013)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except my friend is a hero.

Posted in Caregiving, Essay, Gratitude, Grief, Love, Memories and tagged , ,
24 Mar 2013
6 Comments

Remembering the Beginning


One of my favorite photos of us.

One of my favorite photos of us.

I woke up yesterday morning to what was the twelfth anniversary of when I met Ken–when my life changed direction in the subtlest yet most dramatic of ways. I knew it was coming but as it got closer, it slipped my mind. For someone who is date-obsessed, I’m not sure how that happens. Or maybe I am. As I lay there, ensnarled in my flannel sheets and the quilt Ken’s grandmother made for him for his high school graduation, I let all the memories this date invokes wash over me. It was an important way for me to start the day.

Thoughts of the night we met at a bar just a few blocks from where I live flooded my brain as I blissfully relived those first exciting moments of our meeting–and so any others that followed. It’s so easy to get lost in thoughts of Ken–the purr of his voice or the sparkle of his smile–both of which enraptured me on this night a dozen years back.

As I lay there thinking about him, I wondered if it would always be the case. Would March 23 always be an important date for me? Would time’s relentless push forward wear away the connection I feel–the one I want to feel–with this date? It saddened me to think there might come a day when my memories of meeting Ken on March 23 won’t come to mind on this anniversary. Ever the guy who worries about things ridiculously far in advance, I stopped myself. “One March 23rd at a time,” I could hear him saying.

Ken was on my mind all day. If Kallie was around, I regaled her with a story or two about “Papa Kenny” as we carried on with our day. As usual, she was a great source of joy for me as we played on our walks and inside the apartment. I bought a bunch of fun snacks and watched TV that evening. And my night ended with a fluffy black ninja sprawled over my lap and snoring like I was a piece of furniture.

It was a scene Ken would have appreciated–which makes me love it even more.

Posted in Firsts, Gratitude, Grief, Love, Memories and tagged , , , ,
22 Nov 2012

Thankful.


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[Her majesty is in the hizzy!]

When I took Kallie for a walk last evening, the streets of the neighborhood seemed electrified–abuzz with pre-Thanksgiving activity before the city lies down to be still while we celebrate the holiday. People talking and laughing as they pulled luggage on wheels, probably heading out of town for the long weekend. The weather is unseasonably warm, no one bundled up, but rather wearing light coats or sweaters. Oddly three helicopters hovered to the Southeast. As we walked and the sounds of the blades echoed off the brick buildings I thought about living in LA, and the holidays Ken and I celebrated there with family and friends. It brought smile to my mug.

Our walks can provide such zen-ness for me, as my mind drifts from the real to the surreal. I’m thankful to Kallie for that–that our lives intersected. She is something I’m thankful for daily–hourly, depending on how cute she’s being. When she snuggles in bed with me at night–before she leaps off because she’s too hot–I often whisper to her, “You saved me, Kallie.” It sounds more dramatic than intended, but in many respects it’s true. She fanned the flames of the nurturer, the caregiver who had grown weary and jaded. She reminded me what unconditional love feels like–to both to give it and receive it. Watching her play fills my heart with the furriest kind of joy.

On our walks today the city felt deserted. Parking spaces abounded along the street , awaiting the return of cars returning many pounds heavier than they left. Moments seemed slower than usual, and filled with gratitude and happiness. It can’t go without saying that I’m thankful that I fell in love with an amazing man who taught me so much about life and love, and who faced both with bravery, grace and gratitude. Though I’ll always hate that he had to leave me, he’ll never leave my heart–something I’m most thankful for.

Along with the families (birth and chosen) I belonged to when I met Ken, I’m thankful for my connection to my in-law family, who have been dealt more than its share of heartache over the last couple of years. Standing strong and together, we’ve weathered some very difficult storms. I’ll be spending Christmas with them, and am so looking forward to it.

Lastly, I’m ever thankful that the here and the now–as well as the future–hold great interest for me. I’m excited to see what comes next.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Posted in "New" Normal, Family, Feelings, Friends, Grief, Holiday, Ken, Life, Love, Memories and tagged , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
04 Oct 2012
2 Comments

A Singular Sensation


It was a beautiful day yesterday. It was gray and cloudy and drizzled the better part of the day. But it was mid-sixties. I was up early and took Kallie for a walk before the at-home work day began. I love when it’s damp or wet outside and her Chow-fro is revealed.

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While on our walk in the early morning, with dawn just breaking the stillness in the neighborhood was undeniably solemn for me. Looking around as a few early birds hurried in the dim morning light to their cars or to the “L” as we moseyed down the sidewalk, Kallie sniffing around or doing some business. These types of ordinary moments fill me with such gratitude. After my experiences with loving and losing Ken over the past few years, I can’t help but consider in one of the buildings that Kallie and I pass there is probably someone dealing with a serious health issue, and (I hope) he or she has a spouse who is dealing with it along side of him/her. I know waking up to to a beautiful day isn’t as lovely for everyone.

These are thoughts that cross my mind early in the morning as I walk with my companion through my neighborhood.

As the day progressed Kallie let me know that she had some extra energy to burn, so I decided to splurge on a hump day visit to the dog park we usually visit on the weekend. There is something so easy about social interaction–that I have readily shunned for over a year–with dogs that makes it easy, fun and enjoyable in a way that would never work if you took the canine’s out of the equation. The focus is on them and their well being. How they interact is such a great metaphor for how humans should be. Dogs seem to get over things quickly and hold no grudges. Play is the only item on the agenda. Watching them is relaxing, and almost meditative. I think I’m a dog park addict.

We met a Great Dane on this day. He was the size of a small horse, and dwarfed all his comrades.

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On my first weeknight visit, I started talking to another guy who had a Welch Terrier names Ruffles. (Another thing about the dog park is I can usually remember the dog’s names, but have a more difficult time with the human ones.) Somehow during the conversation he asked me if I was married. And I had a bit of a short circuit. The answer is clearly “no”. Moreover, the answer for a complete stranger should be easily, “no.” But I had an overwhelming and unstoppable urge to explain that I was a widower. I couldn’t not acknowledge that I’d been in a relationship–as it had been an exceptional one. Even as I spoke the words, I wondered if it was really necessary–in this circumstance. He was very kind and expressed his sympathies, then our conversation moved on. But I still kicked my ridiculous self for a while after.

Thankfully, it’s easy to get distracted by dog cuteness.

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Posted in "New" Normal, Grief, Life, Love 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 , , , , ,
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 , , , , , , ,
19 Jul 2012

LOA Update #2


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I just passed the half-way point of my leave from work. Three months seemed like such a long time. Ninety days sounded even longer. But nevertheless half of it has slipped into history. Epic history–regardless of what I accomplish. Epic because no matter what, it was something I needed and something I was brave enough to pursue, and lucky enough to be afforded it by my employer. Though I vacillate between wondering if I’m doing everything I hoped I’d do and embracing the journey, I’ve enjoyed every single second of my freedom from any schedule other than my own.

That my decisions and whims pretty much only impact me (and Kallie) has felt a little like being in a comfy cocoon. I think being able to do things or not doing things on a whim is a vestigial reaction to when my schedule wasn’t my own; when medications, treatments, doctors appointments, and countless loving visitors rightly ruled my days and my nights.

I’ve also just passed the one-month marker since Kallie padded into my apartment and into my heart. (Awwwwwww!) In so many ways, getting her is a gleeful metaphor for the unexpected things in life that happen (of the good kind) where adjusting and improvising keeps you on your toes. Where bleary-eyed moments, stumbling for the leash inevitably lead to ones where I can’t help but smile at some ridiculousness she has perpetrated with complete abandon. I know I wouldn’t have been as patient with her puppy needs if I had to get up for work two hours later.

We started obedience school last night. I think both of us had some trepidation about going. So many unknowns for a “what if” papa and puppy who is only familiar with a tiny chunk of the world (an apartment and yard on the northside of Chicago.) But as soon as we arrived, and I laid eyes on all the other parents and their pups, who were all feeling pretty much the same as I was my mind was eased. Before we began training, the puppies had play time together. (I can’t believe I forgot my phone at home so I couldn’t take any pictures!) It was fun to see them frolic. I hope that happens before every class. Kallie did great and wasn’t “that kid” who peed on the floor (this week, anyway.)

I’m curious to see if this time off will leave me a different kind of person than I was when it greeted me. Though quick thoughts of returning to work have begun popping up in my head before being consciously banished, it’s a sign, I think, that I’m slowly getting ready to re-enter the work-a-day world, and the world-at-large that I haven’t been interested in for so long.

In the meantime, I continue to work on my writing projects, and enjoy Kallie.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings and tagged , , , , | Leave a Comment
28 Jun 2012
2 Comments

What a Difference a Year Makes


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something There Is That Doesn’t Love a Wall


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I was way less of a dick.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Gratitude, Grief, Life, Memories and tagged , , , ,

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