the xanax diary

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

Archive for the tag “Grief”

15 May 2013
2 Comments

Magic Time


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

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

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

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

Posted in "New" Normal, Grief, Memories and tagged ,
26 Mar 2013
1 Comment

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 , , , ,
10 Mar 2013

Gym Dandy


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

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

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

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

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

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

And it propels me forward.

Posted in Fitness, Grief 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
27 Nov 2012
3 Comments

The Story of the Pink Tree


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

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

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

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

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

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[Ken and I, perplexed, 2010]

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t look at it and not smile.

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

Grown Up Stuff


Working on one’s will is a kind of drudgery that I know is important, but nonetheless depressing. I’ve been putting it off for a while–since Ken died when everything changed, literally and figuratively. But as I plan a trip for the holidays and as a responsible pet parent, I know how important it is to have my ducks in a row. I know how important it was that Ken and I both handled our estate planning before his surgery in 2010; what a sick feeling it gave me in my gut while we did it and how I had to keep smiling and just push through; and ultimately how it made things easier–administratively, that is–after he died.

I remember after I returned to work last year I was notified by the Benefits Team to update my beneficiary information. Ken had, of course, been my beneficiary. Deleting his name was unsettling and gut wrenching. But I had to remind myself I wasn’t deleting him from my life or memory. It was nonetheless a harsh reminder he was gone.

When I went for my annual physical recently, they always have you check over your information and ask you to initial it if it’s correct. Mine was. I handed the clipboard back, then she asked me about my emergency contact–that I didn’t have one listed. Ken was a patient of the same doctor, so I assume he was no longer in the system, so to speak. It caught me off guard. It always does. “Do you have anyone you’d like us to contact in an emergency.” My brain froze up. It usually does. “No, I don’t,” is usually what I want to say. Not because I don’t have people in my life who care about me, but because I was used to being a part of a pair where legal matters like this were automatically answered. I didn’t have to think about it. It felt weird to be my age and give my parents names, but I did–begrudgingly.

Likewise, when I enrolled my Chow Chow, Kallie, in daycare I was asked for an emergency contact–aside from myself. “I don’t have one.” At first I don’t think she believed me. “Certainly you must have SOMEONE?” I heard her think. “Just me,” I said. Her “okay” probably sounded more accusatory to me than it really was. It never ceases to sting. Sometimes I want to blurt it out. “I used to have someone! I used to have an emergency contact! I wasn’t always this person. I used to be two people. Does “used to” count?”

Such is the business of being a grown up.

Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Friends, Grief and tagged , , ,
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 , ,
30 Sep 2012
2 Comments

My Favorite Season


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I love autumn. It’s my favorite season–in spite of what it is the harbinger of here in the Midwest. It’s the crisp earthy smell in the air, the vibrant colors of the changing leaves, and the sound of them crunching beneath shoes (or paws). It’s the time when you begin to layer, and pull out the sweaters that have lain unused since you put them away when spring warmed up.

Since returning to work, I’ve struggled with blog topics. Having a schedule and a sense of purpose as my days in the office fill up with work projects and my time at home revolves around a certain furry ninja as we take long walks through the neighborhood and weekend visits to the dog park. I guess the best way to describe what I’ve been feeling is content. I appreciate the mundane in a way I wasn’t capable of before.

As the photos show, it’s truly the beginning of fall and this weekend demonstrated it in stunning visuals and brisk temperatures. As I ran errands I found myself on Bowmanville Road. It’s a road that runs on the south end of Rose Hill Cemetery (home to some pretty famous Chicagoans and second only in that regard to nearby Graceland.) Like so many places in Chicago, I discovered Bowmanville Road with Ken. It was near his apartment when we met. It’s an unremarkable street in most respects. But there is a beautiful community garden that runs along side it. And though there are many community gardens that grace many streets around the city, this is the one we drove down so many times on the way to his place–and it was the first time I’d been on the street in years. I drove slowly and admired the garden and the neighbors who were out working in it. It was nice, but also strange. To be on that favorite road for the first time without Ken and rather than a cinnamon Chow in the back seat, a small black one sat.

Sometimes I see these snapshots of my life and still find them surreal. But they don’t sting me with guilt or overwhelming sadness anymore–or at least not right now.

And with tremendous gratitude, I’ll take it!

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Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Firsts, Grief, Ken, Life, Love, Memories and tagged , , , , , ,

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