the xanax diary

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

Archive for the tag “Ken”

23 May 2013

Trudging through the Melancholy of May


A journal I gave to Ken for Xmas 2010.

A journal I gave to Ken for Xmas 2010.

I had the coolest dream last night. I was part of an elite espionage team on some kind of dangerous mission to stop some bad guy from doing something…well…bad. Unfortunately, our team of assassins wasn’t getting along and during the mission we broke up, each of us going our own way and trying to get out of wherever we were without getting killed. It was one of those rare dreams that is so unusual and different and fun, you can’t help but remember it–even be excited about it–as you wake up. And as I was rising out of the drowsy mist of slumber, I couldn’t wait to tell Ken about this amazing dream.

Ouch.

Those sweet, flirty milliseconds between sleep and sentience had fucked me over. Yet again.

These past couple of weeks have been tricky. In typical fashion, it took my out-of-sorts self longer than I can believe to realize it has to do with the time of year–leading up to the second anniversary of Ken’s death on June 1. It was this time of year, watching his once-razor-sharp brain spring leaks, letting long accumulated knowledge begin to slowly drain away was one of the most frustrating and humbling aspects of his decline those two months he was home for hospice. Unlike me, Ken was a compulsive lover of crossword puzzles, Sudoku, and learning of any kind. His brain was a sponge. He loved learning new things. And of the things he already knew, he was so highly skilled.

It was a difficult time, watching his once-steel-trap-of-a-mind grow more and more unfocused. On the other hand, I was silently grateful and sincerely hopeful that he didn’t fully grasp what was going on. Although I do remember painful moments when he’d surrender a remote control, or his iPhone to me to carry out a task, remarking “I used to know how that worked.” In my memory it was more a statement of fact than a lament. As if he wouldn’t give up completely. He may not remember how it worked, but he sure as hell remembered that at one time he did. He knew how  everything worked around our apartment. Fact is, I’ve only used the DVD player a few times since he died because I can never get it to work right with the speakers.

This time of year I can’t help but think about our last great adventure together to get his tattoo. I wrote about it last year, but it’s been on my mind all week, and was the first thought in my head when I woke up on Sunday morning–which was the actual anniversary. I can’t help but think about his single-mindedness in accomplishing his desire to get a tattoo–even if he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it for long. It was his beautiful journey-oriented mind that drove him. And though he was having occasional mental lapses by then, he blew past my cautious roadblocks, calling his oncologist behind my back to get the medical “thumbs up” to proceed. It shocked me that he’d done that–in a good way. It took mental prowess to be sneaky.

He wanted that tattoo and he figured out a way to get it. But it wasn’t just the tattoo he wanted, it was the adventure of getting it–with me at his side–that I think we both loved the most. The experience is chock full of beautiful metaphors as much as it is drizzled in sadness for me–much like the month of May itself.

I miss not needing to know everything. And having someone to roll over and tell me crazy dreams to. But for now, I’ll settle for vaulting my feelings into the ether, and taking the joy each morning offers in finding my pup, rubbing her belly as she stretches and trying to remember how grateful I am for all that I have.

She never ceases to surprise me with where I find her in the morning.

She never ceases to surprise me with where I find her in the morning.

Posted in "New" Normal, Gratitude, Grief and tagged , | Leave a Comment
15 May 2013
4 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 ,
07 Feb 2013

Missing the Rituals


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Courtesy of Google Maps and Munstah’s legal team.

Posted in Grief, Memories and tagged , , | Leave a Comment
15 Dec 2012
4 Comments

Music to My Ears


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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope you do too. Enjoy.

Poop Your Pants

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

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

Posted in Memories, Writing and tagged ,
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 , , , ,
21 Jun 2012
2 Comments

Birthday Bling


One of the activities I had planned for my birthday last Friday was a visit to the salon for a mani/pedi. I’ve only had a handful of them in my life and all but one of those were with Ken we lived in LA. He loved to rock some nail polish and–man, how he rocked it. Ken had a big “rock star” vibe that was so easy for him to tap into. His personal style was unique, inventive and fearless. By our first anniversary a little of that had rubbed off on me so I boldly painted my nails to wear on our planned night out to celebrate one year together. It felt decadent and freeing. And he loved it.

Toward the end of his life Ken was all about the nail bling. He received innumerable, loving manicures and pedicures from family and friends. When I took him out in his wheel chair through the neighborhood, many times we ended up at the CVS picking out some new colors or decals to try. He made getting a manicure somehow manly–and something that wasn’t a gender bending issue. I loved that: his freedom of thought and how he always challenged convention. And he was so handsome and kind and charming, he never faced any opposition.

For his soiree last year, I invited anyone who wanted to bling out their nails as a fun tribute to him. My sister-in-law Katie and my close pal Mindy and I headed to a salon and got the full monty for the occasion:

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So after I took myself to brunch for my birthday this year I walked up the street to a salon I’ve seen a billion times but had never gone to. But it was convenient and got some decent Yelp reviews. After enjoying the pedicure and foot massage, I seated myself at the manicure station and pulled out the nail polish and clear coat (I soaked up a lot of manicure knowledge from Ken and his eager manicurists). The woman–50ish Russian–looked confused. “I want to use this color,” I said, holding up the bottle of Revlon “Ocean.” I had to repeat myself three times before she looked at me incredulously, eyes bulging “You want color on your nails?” It annoyed me asked me that. Clearly, that is what I wanted and was perfectly willing to pay for.

“I could go somewhere else. And tip someone else.” I wasn’t going to be shamed about something so ridiculous on my birthday. It’s her job to paint nails, not evaluate reasons for doing so.

She dutifully pressed on and did a great job. “Oh my God,” she whispered gravely as she applied the first brush strokes of the blue/green metallic polish. Along the way she kept probing me. “You go to some kind of party?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied. I mean, really?

After that, she managed to somehow infer I was going to a costume party and asked me what outfit I was going to wear. “Acid washed jeans and a Members Only jacket,” I offered. She nodded knowingly–like this ensemble really seemed to pull it all together for her.

Ken would have enjoyed the exchange, and I have no doubt he would have improvised a much more elaborate story for her to think about, but I was pretty proud of myself by the time I left.

For my final birthday gift I went to the beach with my buddy Beth and her little boy Ian. While they played in the water, I soaked up the sun, people watched, and snapped this pic of my “beach blanket blingo.”

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Now when I look at my fingers as I type on my Mac–or play with Kallie–they make me really happy, and I think of Ken.

They remind me of his whimsy–and of mine.

Posted in "New" Normal, Family, Feelings, Friends, Life and tagged , , , , , , , ,
12 Jun 2012
2 Comments

LOA Update #1


My original intent for my LOA was to blog every single day, but that hasn’t happened. Then I meant to post an update of week 1, but I was just too drunk to get to it. But now as I am in the midst of week 2, I feel I have enough to report. I promised myself I would stop thinking about work at the end of the work day on May 31. And I did. It happened easily as I focused on the next three months and all I hoped to accomplish within this expansive–yet somehow tiny–window of time.

Today has been what I hope a typical day will look like. Up by 7, a walk in this gorgeous summer weather and a short work out (don’t laugh, it wasn’t pretty). This won’t happen every morning, but if I shoot for it every morning, then I should accomplish it at least half of the time. After a quick brekkie, I hopped in the car and drove to one of my current favorite coffee shops/writing spots where I spent a few hours, working on the supernatural novel I wrote for NaNoWriMo in 2010. It’s fun and light and is a good counterpoint to working on the book about Ken’s and my journey over the last couple of years of his life–which has received the most amount of attention over the last week.

Chicago’s summer so far has been ah-MAH-zing with clear days ranging from the 70s-90s with little or no rain (unfortunately, as I would enjoy not watering the garden so copiously.) Speaking of the garden, my next destination after finishing up at the coffee shop was to head to Lowe’s to pick up some more seeds and a couple of hanging annuals for the garden. After that, I think I’m done and will just work on maintenance for the rest of the summer. The herbs I planted have taken hold and are growing like crazy. And the wild flower seeds I planted just a week ago are already sprouting through the dirt (or maybe it’s weeds. I have no idea.)

Being the complete master of my day and schedule feels incredibly freeing and heavy at the same time. Finding balance between productivity and fun (destination vs. journey, of course) has been an interesting exercise. It’s a feeling I hope everyone can experience at one time or another in their lives. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t considered how lucky I am to work for a company and with people who have so much heart to allow me to abandon my duties for three months to focus on myself and my passion for writing. Last night I spent the evening working on the novel and even at 1 a.m. was positively giddy–just that I could be up so late writing.

I had some super sad dreams last night about Ken. I thought about him today as I left home, wishing he was sharing this journey with me. Both of us not working and spending all day writing and gardening and cooking would have been an ideal for him–as it has become for me. And though know he is, indeed, on this journey with me, but I’m still getting used to the context.

I love how beads of water cling so beautifully to the petals of these day lilies (?)
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I thought I cut myself somehow, but realized I had been just “kissed” by one of the lilies.
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I planted two new potted plants (can’t remember their names) and added the hanging baskets of petunias (?). I scattered California poppies over a barren part of the garden. Ken and I, along with our friend Rebecca, took a drive to the real California poppy fields north of LA years ago. Ken and I both had an affection for them since then, so I decided to re-add them to the backyard landscape after a couple-year absence. Likewise, in keeping with tradition, we used to have sunflowers every year–which were great because they attracted yellow and red finches (Ken’s ornithological expertise at work). I have many memories of sitting in the backyard with him, marveling at the finches–a nice change from the robins we normally saw.

As I planted the sunflower seeds in a hard-to-reach area in the corner of the garden, I noticed a wasp or hornet or 9 lb. flying demon hovering low around the garden–mostly over the moist areas I’d watered. I watched him closely and didn’t make my move to stoop in the secluded corner until it had flown away. While planting each seed, I caught a glimpse of its shadow zipping in and out of my periphery like a skilled specter. Then as it zoomed around me, criss-crossing like a kamikaze attack. It was then when I heard the shrill screams of the six-year-old girl who lives next door–then realized there is no six-year-old girl who lives next door. It was me! Screaming and running around eschewing anything that might have landed on my person, preparing to bury a stinger into my flesh. It was like a hilarious exercise class–though I was pretty much ready to move in the heat of the moment.

Final result with the two new hanging pots and newly planted pots at the end. The empty spots will fill in with wild flowers (I’m told.)
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Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Humor, Ken, Leave of Absence, Memories, Moving Forward, Writing, Zen Gardening Therapy and tagged , , , , , , , ,
05 Jun 2012
6 Comments

Great Expanses & Blank Canvases


As I sat on my sofa Sunday night, peering forward at the three months of time I have to write and process and think about what parts of my life might need to be reconfigured, the excitement was palpable. And as I sat there soaking it up, I reveled in that I had something so boldly exciting to look forward to. It marks the beginning of something. I’m not exactly sure what…but something.

Though June 1 was my first official day of leave from work, it was a day dedicated to celebrating Ken’s life and legacy. It’s an odd coincidence that they took place on the same date–if you believe in coincidence, that is. It didn’t really feel like l was on leave until Monday morning, when I blissfully rolled out of bed at 9.

I’d walked out into our back yard on Sunday night to look up at the cloudless, starry sky. As I stood in what used to be Ken’s colorful, well-tended garden, a single lightening bug appeared and danced across the yard. I remembered how many times Ken and I had been in the back yard each year and witnessed this event, taking great pleasure in seeing these little harbingers of summer. I took it as a sign: my first day of leave would be spent getting the garden in shape.

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with the garden since Ken got sick and could no longer care for it. Gardening was totally and completely his thing. There was something too unpredictable about it that never appealed to me. Plus, it was just really hard work. I enjoyed the garden walks Ken would take me on, as he told me about the flora and in turn quizzed me on them. I rarely got a passing grade.

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(For example, anyone know what these are called? I planted them last year and have no clue. Royal Something is all I can remember.)

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(Yet I remember this is a hosta because it sounds like “hostile.”)

After he died, I felt an obligation to do maintain the garden. People kept asking me about it, knowing how much it meant to him. So, I weeded it and planted some “stuff” last year in addition to the perennials that were coming back already. Last summer I spent as much time back there at our table as I could, but it was–hard. In a place where Ken and I spent so much time together, surrounded by the stunning beauty and scents from the garden left me feeling a bit lonely and, frankly, embittered.

But each day as I passed through it from the parking pad to the back door, it served as a constant reminder that it was patiently waiting for me to work through my issues and get out there. And after seeing the lightening bug, I knew it was time. So Monday morning I headed to Lowes to buy the necessary accouterment, came home and got busy.

It was sunny, mild day–perfect for working outside. There was a breeze that kept me cool–though my literal red neck serves as a reminder as to just how sunny it was. I spent about six hours in total weeding and planting herbs. Garden or no garden, I have gotten used to growing herbs for use in cooking–thanks to Ken– because I’m certain it would never occurred to me to do so on my own. There is nothing more satisfying than going out and plucking fresh basil or thyme or rosemary from the plant.

It was a peaceful, wordless experience. It was just me, dirt and plants. It even pushed me to do some yard clean up and de-vine the side of the building from the neighbor’s encroacher. I was in my head, remembering our yearly garden and yard clean up in preparation for summer. In stark contrast to last year’s garden endeavor which felt more desperate, this year’s was more relaxed and a little more “for me.”

I’m not done, but–like me–my garden is prepped and ready for whatever comes next.

Before:
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After:
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Posted in "New" Normal, Feelings, Ken, Leave of Absence, Memories, Moving Forward, Zen Gardening Therapy 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 , , , , , , ,

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