(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.

(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.