I’m pretty ardent with the attention I pay to my calendar and to my journal (and to my blog, for that matter), marking it with momentous occasions—both good and bad.

Ken’s cancer and death were sort of the “Big Bang” for my life as I know it now. It’s somehow at the center of my universe. I’m connected to it. It gave birth to this version of me. Yet I travel further away from it every day–which is both sad and blissful at the same time.

When I looked at the calendar and saw January 18 was the 10-year anniversary of Ken’s momentous hemipelvectory (surgery to remove his remaining left leg and pelvis where cancer had been found), I was a little stunned. How could it be 10 years since the day that we hoped would buy us more time to have together?

I can remember that day so clearly. How we both slept like shit the night before, uneasy about the unknown that was to come. How freezing cold it was that day. How I shuttled Ken, his folks and me to the hospital in the early morning darkness in our little Prius. How stoic he was with the family, yet how vibrant he was when he was placed in a bed and dealt with the hospital staff. That was always very Ken. He performed for people. He was amazing at it. And I think it’s what kept him sane and calm.

It was a compliment that I got to see the scared or edgy Kenny. He wouldn’t show that face to anyone at the hospital. I learned to take it as the honor it was—with a little help from my therapist.

One of the most remarkable parts of the day—apart from the surgery itself, of course—is that it was the first time our parents met. In the waiting room. It was wonderful to have them all there, but I fought a sour feeling in my gut. It’s most definitely not how we wanted them to meet. We wanted it to be at a family gathering. Or at our wedding.

I think back to the me who was just beginning a journey into a strange land of uncharted perils. Naive and hopeful. Trying to be the buoyancy that would lift Ken up when he needed it. I think I was successful for the most part.

When I finally got to see him in Recovery, nine hours after they’d wheeled him away—smiling…always smiling, I’d never been happier to see him. And like many more times in my future, I was surprised to see him sitting up, cogent and in no pain. (They had sawed off his left leg and pelvis, for cyin’ out loud!)

I left the hospital that night with mixed feelings. Exhilarated that he’d come through the surgery so incredibly well (typical Ken). Terrified of everything else that was to follow. I stopped at an Italian restaurant nearby–one we used to order from when our lives were easy. Normal. I had a houseful of well-intentioned guests, but before I returned to what my life had become, I took some time for me. Alone time was something that I would only find in small doses in the coming months, but I took it when I could. It was essential self-care for my battery and my sanity.

That day was a flashpoint for so many things. I think that’s why it sticks in my memory so vividly. It was the beginning of bumpy road that wasn’t very well lit. But we both buckled in to ride it out together, surrounded by the most impregnable support structure ever: our friends and family who came through for us time and time again.

I’d only have Ken for another 18 months. Not nearly long enough, but when I think of the time that remained, I remember that the laughter and joys we celebrated far outnumbered the difficulties we endured or tears we shed. And somehow the enlightenment of that experience is something I choose to remain attached to. It bettered me.