I put up the sparkly pink tree the other day and watched "Love, Actually" while decorating it. This Christmas is extra special because it's the last Christmas I'll spend in this apartment--the last place I shared with Ken. Though moving forward is ever-important, I can't help but look back on the memories with this tree this time of year. Here's the story of my beloved pink tree...

After Ken died, I didn't dream about him for months--though I desperately wanted to. Then when I finally started having dreams starring him in those early months, I woke up feeling like I lost him all over again. They wrecked me. And it took some doing and time to right myself. Of course, it makes sense to me now. My subconscious was smart enough to withhold him from my dreams for several months, and only allowing it when it knew I was somehow "ready." I dreamt of him the o

Examining my life--observing it--and writing about it have been a staple for me since starting this blog in 2010. I think it's what writers do. We tell stories--whether fiction or our own. For so long it's been second--almost, first nature--to document my journey. Oddly, it was Ken's illness and death that acted as a lens of sorts, focusing my writing. It's a gift that is so very "him." As a writer, I'm certain I spend too much time in my head (and at my computer)--as was po

Today is Ken's birthday. Of all the annual milestones throughout the year, this one hurts the least because it's said in the present tense. It  is Ken's birthday. Not was. I welcome any opportunity I can speak of him in the present tense. It will always be the anniversary of his birth on September 21, 1965. And--luckily for both of us--some thirty-odd (very odd, some would say) years later our paths crossed--setting us down an amazing and important path together. Part of th

As I wrote last week , bad stuff happens. But just a couple of days later I was reminded of something quite the opposite. I received an email about an essay I'd written for the "Extraordinary Healer" Award competition for CURE Today Magazine. I knew I hadn't won, but was happy to present the subject of the essay, Blanca--Ken's most beloved oncology nurse during chemotherapy--with the essay to give her an inkling of what she meant to him and what she still means to me, our fa

There is part of me that has great appreciation for easy, quiet days--particularly bright, early summer mornings. It's these kinds of mornings when it's never clearer to me how lucky I am to be who I am and to have what I have and to love whom I love. I greedily devour times like this and steep in all the goodness in my life--which, of course, includes Kallie. She has her own way of expressing the same types of feelings: It's always striking to me that when I'm up and out-

I forgot to mention in my previous entry something else that struck a "Ken chord" with me that contributed to my "ken-do-it-iveness" last weekend. In the alley where I found my new (and fabulous) coffee table, I saw a shiny penny gleaming up under the reflection of one of the alley lights. It made smile and shake my head as I reached down to pick up. Filthy, no doubt, but something Ken did unfailingly. It long pre-dated me, but after we got together whenever we'd be walking

After dinner on Friday night, I decided to indulge myself with a sundae from Margie's Candies , an old timey ice cream shop is a few blocks away. All their treats and ice creams are homemade, super decadent and delicious. I hadn't been there in years. I walked down a less-traveled side street to get there. It's the same little street Ken and I used to take to walk to the little neighborhood bar where we first met and used to go to on occasion. I couldn't remember the last tim

I love my neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. Walking with Kallie down the quiet--sometimes hidden--streets has been one of my favorite things this summer. (She was too young last year for a walk of any distance.) And though we are at least a month out from long walks this year, as she recuperates from her knee surgery, I can't wait to get back out to the late-dusk walks that are always my favorite. The city--the world--is lying down to be still for the night. And we g

Writing my previous blog and looking at the photos I inserted into the post reminded me of our first year in LA. And of the first home Ken and I ever shared together. We didn't live together in Chicago for the year-and-a-half before we moved West (thinking of now makes me wonder how I could stand not waking up next to him every day), but it's something we were both looking forward to. Having access by default to each was a concept we both were very interested in. No more bri

During Kallie's recuperation, her physical freedom has to be limited to ensure she doesn't injure her newly post-op knees. Crating her is preferred, but my girl never appreciated being crated. The only time it worked was when I brought all 9 lbs. of her home from the breeder as she snuggled quietly in the crate in the backseat on the three-hour ride home, making only intermittent squeaks. After that, time spent in the crate was anything but quiet. Being 80% housebroken when I

My life lately--more than usual--is very dog-centric. Kallie had surgery on both knees on June 26 to alleviate stress on her tearing crutiate ligaments. It's a serious procedure, but one that my surgeon commonly performs on dogs. I think one of the most challenging parts is the recovery time: 10-12 weeks of low or little physical activity so as not to damage the healing knees. But the light at the end of the tunnel is pretty close to a 100% recovery. Though almost two weeks

It feels like I'm standing on the edge of a great precipice. And I've stood here before. As I mentioned in a previous blog , my pup Kallie Kismet is scheduled for knee surgery tomorrow. (Coincidentally, date happens to fall on what would have been Ken's and my fourth wedding anniversary--in Iowa). She'll be in the hospital overnight, and when she comes home the following day will need a lot of TLC as she heals and regains strength in her legs over what I'm told is an eight-w

Yesterday I turned 45. It's my third birthday since Ken died, and it's also a date that will forever fall two weeks after the profound date of his death. The dates have been so emotionally intertwined, it had been difficult to get excited about my birthday. I figured it may never happen. But this year I felt differently about it. For the first time in a long time I got really excited about my birthday weekend, and the plans I'd made. I wanted to celebrate. And it felt really,

June 1 will always be a mixed bag for me. Like a bully looming at the edge of the playground of my month, I know I have to take the path that leads in his direction and somehow face him. May was draining for me in that respect, full of dread for a date that forever changed me: ending one life I loved and shoved me down the craggy path of another. "Be kind to yourself" was some advice my friend Claire gave to me in the month's after Ken's death. And I never forgot those word

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

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 wond

Spring has finally sprung in Chicagoland--after a long and crappy winter. The uptick in the weather coincided with a week-long staycation. And gnawing on my work-free agenda has been getting the garden planted--something Ken looked forward to and planned for every year. It was a true rite of spring in our house. Though it wasn't my thing, he'd ask for my opinion and help  in planning for and caring for it. It's my third consecutive year of planting and maintaining the garden

Spring is slowly awakening in Chicago. Finally. Although it's always such a tease. 70 one day. 30 the next. Rain. Wind. By the time it stabilizes, it's practically summer and we're just grateful for it--for anything over 50 degrees with some sunshine once in a while. I think we're all eagerly awaiting to blow the dust off the window locks and open them wide for some fresh air. For me, Spring means something else, too. And it didn't "click" with me until the other day. Springt

There are so many fun things to do in Chicago I'm ashamed to say I don't take advantage of what the city has to offer nearly often enough. True, winter is typically a time for Midwesterners to cocoon, and truer, Ken was the driver behind most of our excursions. Even in the weeks before he died getting out of the house was always on his mind--even if it was just to sit in the backyard to smell the fresh spring air and look at the life returning after a long winter's sleep. It'