Another moment with you.

Kirsten,

A few weeks ago, I was paddling my kayak in Indian Arm. I was on the return leg of a Cates Park-to-Deep Cove-for-lunch excursion.This felt very much like an ode to our one fully successful trip with Suzy Spitfire - that being a favourite memory of our life together.

I was paddling with an ease of rhythm and a strong sense of tranquility. I was in the moment. In that moment, not as a sudden realization or conscious thought, but as a waking dream, it came to me that you were there with me. It enveloped me and it was beautiful. I was happy and content.

As I continued to paddle, I considered why I was motivated to buy a kayak and be on the water every other day during the summer. This thought process gave me a new understanding of how you would never leave me - your spirit, your sensibility, your nature, what was important to you, who you were - I have those with me. We talked about owning kayaks many times and that would undoubtedly have happened. At that indistinguishable time of movement into awareness, we were together on the water.

I’ve always recognized your ongoing influence, presence, and connection, but somehow this seemed to resonate on a deeper and more significant level. No, I'm not going to go buy a double kayak. And, yes I know the kayak/relationship analogy of each having our own boat; to fully enjoy our journey together without interdependence - a sense of our own strength and control being essential to a healthy relationship.

It will always seem unfair that we cannot hold hands anymore, but it feels like I’m still sharing this life with you. Thank you. Having said that, I’ve made some questionable choices of late (mostly clothing-related) so, I will look for your further guidance.

Jesus, I just turned to see Finn staring steadfastly at me like he knew what I’m writing about… Or, he may just figure it’s dinner time. We miss you.

This Was the Day

Three Years

You never saw the school I work at now. Half of the staff never met you and may or may not be aware of my grief. I live in an apartment that you were never in. About half my coffee mugs you never drank from. The band is doing songs you've never heard. Miles has a girlfriend of two years you have never met.

You would have turned 40 last week. I tried to imagine what we would have been doing on the day. Probably the tradition of a family dinner at The Boathouse. 

I walked by our old house on the evening of your birthday. We may have been celebrating in that house. It’s harder to imagine what we would have been doing when there is so much newness between us. I feel strongly, though, that we would be enjoying life and growing together.

This is the first holiday season that I didn’t recoil at suggestions  of a  “Merry Christmas” and a “Happy New Year”. They weren’t such a personal affront. As I said last Christmas, this season has forever changed, but the change is ongoing. Such as it is with life, I suppose.

What hasn’t changed is that feeling of disbelief that you died. That deep untouchable sadness.

Lately, I have felt like I’m more awake - not just going through the motions. I think I needed to get to this place. Leading a life of going through the motions is not a great way to go. I’m sure you would agree. I may change my mind next week, but I don’t think so. It's good to have you with me.

An Update For You

Kirsten,

It’s coming up on two years and two months since we lost you - that is, you died. Not so much that you were misplaced. Perhaps stating that you died might be a cathartic thing for me. Most of my dreams of you, regardless of the scenario, have a tension - I become aware of the fact that you died and I don’t want to let you know. That’s when the dreams end.

 

Now that I’ve started down this particular path, maybe this is a new and effective way to deal with the grief. I could see you being strong enough to take the news and darkly humorous enough to be both laughing and crying.

 

I have many positive, even life-affirming, things going on. They give me a sense of accomplishment and fulfill fundamental needs beyond those for basic survival - such as having fun. What seems inescapable, however, is the accompanying feeling of emptiness, of being not-quite-happy. I feel like I need to be satisfied with the idea that I’m happy in theory. 

 

I have many examples of this state of near-happiness. For instance, the band is going into a recording studio for three 10-hour days starting tomorrow. This is an epic rock & roll dream-type moment in our young lives. I am planning on enjoying it fully and savouring the experience. That said, I am aware that I won’t be sharing this with you - reporting back on the day, having you come in and check it out, and you won’t hear these new songs.

At this point, my career is really fulfilling, which, as you know, was not always the case. There were some difficult times along the way when I seriously considered a job change. It was you who gave me so much support and the strength to go on, including your sincere OK to walk away from teaching. So, now that I’m at such a good place, it’s, again, bitter-sweet. 

This quasi-happy way of living isn’t just about the big things. I was downtown this morning and decided to have brunch at the new convention centre. The “having coffee, reading a book, doing some writing and generally having quality time at different places around town” experience was supposed to be one that we shared during that fall when I decided to work part-time. I will always feel sad that we didn’t get to have this time together. So, as you can imagine, even something simple like having a coffee at Coal Harbour is emotional. During my breakfast this morning, I thought a lot about you. I wondered if you would have been warm enough to sit out on the patio. I watched the floatplanes land and take off, remembering when you surprised me with a flight to Salt Spring Island. I thought of how great it would be for us to fly to Tofino for a long weekend. I figured you would have ordered the BC Benny. I know conversation would have included the nearby Olympic torch. I watched an older couple walk hand-in-hand and thought, “if only”. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about what our lives might have been like in other circumstances. I imagine that we would have sold the house and there is a good chance that we would have ended up in the same complex that I moved to. “Suzy Spitfire” would have been a major part of our lives - lots of motoring up and down Indian Arm (yes, we would have bought a new motor to avoid any more video of me paddling or us being towed). One of my favourite memories was when we actually got the boat going and went to Deep Cove for dinner.  We met Miles and we all motored back to Cates. I would have loved to have done that trip many times over. 

I found this prose of yours on your desktop:

I am

I am writing to you now from this place of strength. From this place of heart-thumping, heart-held tenacity. I am writing to you now to remind you of the spirit that lives and breathes, rises and falls, deep within and beyond these walls of the body. That lives out there, amongst the woodland owls, the ancient oaks, the cherry blossom petals that dance as if ballerinas poised in a slow curtsy to the ground. I am writing to you now so, should you need me in the future, at a time when struggle overtakes you, to say this: You are the owls, the oak, the cherry blossoms. You always were and you always will be, no matter the body that holds you now.

I’m not sure when you wrote this. Perhaps during that last summer we shared when you were feeling so good. I think that you wrote this as a message for yourself in anticipation of when you might need it. However, I’d like to use it for myself and offer it to anyone else who may need it. If you don’t mind. Thank you. Your words are beautiful, poignant, profound and comforting. They are you.

This is the "Suzy Spitfire" video snip before the infamous "1KM an hour" video:

'Tis the Season

It seems incredible that it's coming up on two years since losing Kirsten. Time passing is supposed to be the only real “answer” to how to deal with loss. It is true that, over the months, I have been doing more and crying less. However, the idea of distancing myself from Kirsten is hardly comforting. Even the thought of saying my wife died two years ago, as opposed to saying last year, seems strange. What hasn't changed is the feeling of disbelief that Kirsten isn't here. With the disbelief comes the profound sadness.

“Getting through it” was again my attitude when it came to the holiday season. Similar to the first Christmas and Kirsten's birthday without Kirsten, this second holiday break caused high anxiety leading up to it and a defensive shell during. December 24^th, Kirsten's birthday, was the most difficult time, but it was made more tolerable by Miles being with me. After a very nice lunch with mom, Miles and I went down to Cates Park to place tulips in the water. We had a moment of reflection that was punctuated by a brown dog, who shall remain nameless, charging into the ocean to inspect the flowers. Perfect. Miles had the thoughtfulness to stay over that night, so we watched those Christmas classics “Total Recall” and “Resident Evil:Retribution”. Perfect.

An interesting part of the holidays was doing a CBC Radio interview on how, for some people, Christmas isn't exactly “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”. It was an interesting process for several reasons. The first was the series of connections between the reporter, Pamela Post, the Callanish Society and Kirsten - Kirsten being a former on-air reporter for CBC, Pamela's ties to Callanish and, of course, our own experience with Callanish (on-going for me). Also, I spend a lot of my time in a state of cognition when it comes to the grief thing. I'm constantly analyzing, deconstructing, and generally pondering my process of grieving - trying to decide what to do, how to do it, what I'm feeling, what I should be feeling, how to cope best, how long before people start questioning if the trips to Vegas are really about grieving, and so on. So, to gather my thoughts enough to get across what I wanted to get across really made me focus on what the holiday experience is for me.

I've only listened to the CBC piece once. It’s a bit of a cringer listening to oneself on the airwaves. Having said that, Pamela did a wonderful job as a skilled editor and interviewer. More importantly, she is a very genuine and caring person. I also received a great deal of positive feedback from those who listened to the broadcast. So, the pressure I felt to get this right for Kirsten was alleviated.

Regardless, I think Kirsten would have had a good laugh at me being interviewed. When she was doing the reporting gig, she would often ask me questions as she thrust her thumb/microphone in my face. I choose to remember me being good-natured about this and not being annoyed in the slightest.

As I've mentioned before, the holidays tend to act as a focus for my loss. I have time on my hands and there are a lot of built-in triggers. It's more than missing Kirsten. It's remembering her last birthday when it was becoming clear that we were losing her. It's remembering the Christmas before when Kirsten, Miles and I went to Palm Springs. I'm so glad we had this trip and there are many great memories; however, a big part of that trip, and all of the five years of living with cancer, was an underlying sadness and despair. When I look at the photos from that California Christmas, I have mixed emotions. I love the photos of us hot-tubbing, racing around our Palm Springs resort in a golf cart and playing in the surf when we took a side trip to Santa Monica. Yet, looking at these images, I not only have a heavy feeling about missing her, I remember that she stumbled when she played tennis, she didn't have the energy to stay out late, she wasn't up to joining Miles and me on the rides -  the painful awareness that the cancer and the treatments had taken their toll. The unspoken question: “Will this be our last Christmas together?” was always a part of the holidays.

Speaking of heart-warming holidays, how about this new one coming up in February – Family Day. Awesome.

Perhaps I should spend it in Vegas.

As a side note (I did say I've had some time on my hands to do some extra contemplating), I have been thinking about food and its role in encapsulating the process. There are times when I decide that, because of all that I have gone through and the incredible perspective I have gained, I will eat only the healthiest of foods in a life-affirming gesture to be all I can be. After all, how can I now live life except in the most extraordinary manner?  And then, I'll eat a roll of cookie dough. After all, the consuming of cookie dough was a shared experience with Kirsten. She was a big proponent of the 80% rule. We generally had a very healthy diet with some exceptions. So, I go back and forth between The Phoenix Rising From a Bed of Kale to screw it, I just need to eat something easy to find comfort and get through the day. I’m not sure which one of these scenarios is closer to the meaning of it all.

CBC Radio broadcast

Christmas in Palm Springs

Santa Monica Pier

At Home?

Family, friends and acquaintances ask me how I’m enjoying my new apartment. This is a very good question. I have a nice set-up. As I sit in my living room, drinking a coffee as a freighter sails by on Burrard Inlet, it occurs to me that this scenario should make me feel good. I’ve always wanted a place with an ocean view. Often, the sound of an eagle complements the setting. And the apartment itself is just as I’d want it. Yet, when the question comes up, I have a very difficult time with it. I could just say “I love the place; thanks for asking” and be done with it. However, I can’t seem to bring myself to do that. This is something that I’ve thought a lot about. Perhaps the apartment has taken on the role of the Petri dish in which I consider the effects of the impact of losing a loved one to cancer. It sucks to be my apartment.

I look around my place. I watch the boats go by. I hear and see the beauty of nature all around me. I do want to feel that elusive happiness. I’m also very aware that 90% of the world’s population would very much appreciate any decent housing. Add to that the Buddhist teachings of life - your existence being what you make of it, happy or sad. All that being said, the apartment lacks a Kirsten. Perhaps it’s a matter of accepting that at this time I have a low ceiling of joy and happiness and to be present in the now is to just accept this space as is. My apartment just needs to hang in there.

Occasionally, I get glimpses of how I might live as someone who, despite or because of experiencing loss, comes out of it as a stronger, more focused person; the idea of having a new appreciation of life, living each day to the fullest, carpe diem, living la vida loca or “insert cliché here”. Admittedly, these fleeting moments of “seize the day” usually occur after a couple of India Pale Ales. I enjoyed the love of Kirsten; I have amazing memories; I have her influence; I have gained perspective. So, can I use these things to inspire a meaningful, enjoyable life?

I read Kirsten’s blog sometimes. It’s a powerful way of reconnecting with her. It makes me smile and cry, usually at the same time. Of course, reading some entries is more difficult than others. When I read her last entries, I do so with all of the feelings of Kirsten’s last moments. I read about how all she wanted to do in the end was to have the ability to take Finnegan for a walk. This encapsulates how life is for me after her passing. I’m living with both the debilitating sadness of losing her and the realization that I do have the ability to take the dog for a walk. Kirsten fought so hard and so well to live. My grief makes me question the reason for living. Kirsten would probably let me know that I’m over-thinking it and that Finn needs to go out.

Ocean, ship, no Kirsten

Kirsten

Nine Years Ago Today

August 23, 2003 Tofino, B.C. 

What would Buddha do?

It's been a while since I've submitted a blog entry. I've had many written in my head. Depending on what was going on that week, day, or minute, the entry could have read as acute despair or positive outlook.

Since the last entry, I have moved, bought a new truck, gone to Hawaii with Miles, been accepted for a new and exciting teaching position in September and been accepted into an SFU Masters program, and started making myself meals again. Overall, hard not to say I'm moving forward. So, with all of these things and more going on, is life without Kirsten easier now? The quick answer is no.

It seems that living life and coping with grief co-exist without one dislodging the other. When I was on my way to pick up Miles to go to Hawaii, I started having a familiar feeling of gut-wrenching nostalgia, sadness, and depression about going on a trip without Kirsten. It occurred to me to say to myself that I should see this trip as not without Kirsten, but as a trip with Miles. That thought helped and we had an amazing time. It's not that Kirsten was not on my mind, in fact, she was always on my mind and Miles and I mentioned her several times (the last trip on a plane was when the three of us went to Palm Springs). It's just that I decided to focus on enjoying the moment, being present, and realized that there was nothing more important than that trip with my son.

My experience as a father and Kirsten's as a step-mom were diluted as so much of our lives over that six years was about cancer. I have a responsibility to myself and others to not compound this loss by losing more precious moments. I realize that Kirsten's parents have lost their child and would give anything to have more time with her. I realize that Kirsten would want us to live. In fact, she would be pretty upset if we wasted our lives.

As I said previously, I suppose I'm learning to live with both having such a loss in my life and living my life. I refer back to C.S. Lewis when he talked about the "wound" inflicted by the death of a loved one being analogous to losing a leg. Yes, it “heals”, but you are forever changed. There are constant reminders of the significant absence; there is recurring pain; you may learn to walk again, but it's never the same, and so on. This analogy is certainly one of the greatest descriptors of how I feel.

I'm making the effort to live in the now and cope with my grief. It can be difficult to do when living in the now doesn't include the physical being of Kirsten. Buddhism proposes that we each make our own Heaven and Hell - that these are states of mind and how we feel, our happiness, is a choice. I really do love this concept and I believe it is a wonderful way of living. However, it's difficult to choose to be happy when I am not with Kirsten. Therein lies the dilemma.

Golfing in Paradise - not a bad way to process
This one is for you Uncle Ray

Notably, this is the first time without Kirsten
 that I wanted to capture the moment

This is an ode to Kirsten and her love of the feet shot

Moving

I've sold our/my house and will be moving into my apartment in mid-June. Up until recently, with some exceptions, I've managed the emotional side of the move fairly well. Most of the coping can be credited to a purposeful numbness. Almost out-of-body. I also like to think that I did some things right. My realtor, Colin Hall, knew me and my situation, I mostly avoided actually sorting through things, I had friends and family around me, I walked the dog a lot and I focused on what this move allows me to do, such as taking Miles on a trip to Hawaii this summer. I also made myself understand that, regardless of where I'm living, my loss and the process I'm going through is an internal one. I could live on the beach in Tahiti, stay in this house, or move to an apartment and I'd still have it all with me.

I do know that this move is right for me.

Lately, the emotions have made a comeback in a big way. I'm heartbroken. The disbelief and associated sadness that Kirsten is not with me hits hard. I think of what the experience of moving would be like with her. It's palpable and very painful not to have her with me. If we were doing this together it would feel more like an adventure. There would be a lot of excitement about the possibilities of where we would end up and how that would impact our life style. I do have feelings of excitement as I make my own decisions, but the bottom line is that, no matter where I end up, this is not what I wanted.

Along with the new apartment, I'm moving forward in my career and education. I realize these are good things and I know that it's OK to enjoy them. I do feel good about moving forward, but it's tempered by grief. I give myself permission to feel positive; however, the sadness and despair are not emotions that I can just decide I will not have.

backyard concert, summer  2010

Kirsten was in charge of both interior and exterior design

A Letter To Kirsten

Dear Sweet Pea, Soul Pea, Darling Face, Button, Kirsten Powell, Bun,

I miss you. I'm so glad we were together and always will be.

Oceans carry hopes, dreams, and wonder. Deep, powerful, beautiful, unpredictable. We were drawn to the water. It was who we were together. 

What does it mean that I love you so much and that you are no longer here? I know what you would want. I know what would make you proud, make you happy. I feel your presence in all of my thoughts and actions. The most difficult part is that every new experience I have is without you. Songs you didn't hear, places I visit alone, decisions I make, Miles becoming an adult, Finnegan staying a puppy, your parents’ new house, the possibility of my new apartment, life. Somehow, I need to reconcile that you fought so hard to live this life and I find it so hard to do the same without you.

Can I really, as I say to many, use your strength to go on and embrace life? Or, will I spend the years finding ways to manufacture something like happiness and meaning to slow the undercurrent of sadness and emptiness?

I wonder if you now know the answers to everything. I probably don't even know the questions, let alone the answers. Perhaps you have continued on your path. You may already be back in this world, or another. I can't believe that you are no longer. To misquote CS Lewis, if you don't exist now, then you never did. I feel strongly that you did (wouldn't you be proud that I'm reading books to help me process).

Is finding the point of life simply making a choice to do so?

If we were destiny, was your leaving a part of that destiny?

Sometimes I wonder what you would do if this whole thing was reversed. Firstly, I have the fairly strong idea that you would have been, how do I put this... not necessarily, always the best nurse. Secondly, you would have as much trouble as I do in coming to terms with the sense of loss. You would have had fewer trips to Vegas, but you would have been going down to Washington State and Oregon fairly often.

You would gain strength in looking after the dog. Possibly, you would have another dog by now. One which is less covert in its affections. Her name would be Beatrice.

You would look to the ocean for its timelessness, movement, and tranquility. You would write reams of poetry and prose dedicated to yours truly and other such deep, meaningful subject matter. You would be sad. Your family would be that much more important to you. You would feel that you have perspective in spades, but you would still get pissed-off when some idiot keeps his car running in the ferry line up.

You would spend a lot of time, thought and effort on animal rights, which would help ground you in a sense of purpose.

I know I would be with you.

Perhaps this experience would actually help you to see glimpses of clarity in the murkiness of life. You might find a balance between making life all it can be and removing the guilt associated with not making life all it can be. Not so much carpe diem, as let's see the diem for what it is. An opportunity to carpe without some perceived Universal pressure to carpe. Use the day. It's yours to use. I like to think that I'd often be part of that day.

You love me and always will. If it was reversed, I'd want you to miss me, to have me in your heart, and to take me with you through a meaningful life. There would be reminders of me. Sometimes as a subtle, gentle hint, often as a strong, poignant moment. I would want you to be happy. To live.

Kirsten, sometimes I will place tulips in the ocean and be with you. Though not on any particular day.

How should I feel about every sunset and sunrise that I experience without you? Should I feel sad and nostalgic? Or, should I cherish each one that much more?

I pulled into a small, quaint town on Vancouver Island to get lunch. With dog in the back, I circled the main drag to get an idea of the place. I understood that some of my trepidation going into this new experience came from my nature rather than just your not being there. After I was fairly satisfied that I had seen most of the locations that promised a meal, I decided to park and walk. I sat in the truck for several minutes. Calming myself. I was armed. I had a book, a writing pad, and a pen. I could go through the doors of a chosen establishment and sit down, by myself, with some purpose.

Walking around town, I found that I had to constantly take deep breaths and try not to cry in public, again. I was trying to balance my memories of you with being in the moment.

Your presence was felt. This was our wheelhouse. There was nothing better than our trips to new places. So many places, so many memories. One of the strongest feelings I had on this walkabout was the knowledge that we would have gone into several of the shops. I chose not to go in on my own, but I would have gone in with you almost as if it were a mutual decision. I would have enjoyed going in. Our lives were often a shared experience. Not in that unhealthy co-dependent way ( I know, I was the one who leaned more in that direction).

There was a reason why we did the “two peas in the pod” declaration so often. You were not perfect, I was certainly not perfect, we were not perfect together. What we were, however, was together in a darn-near spiritual sense. Soul peas.

We would have envisioned our lives in this town. Where we would live, our careers, our hang-outs, our way of life. I still imagine that with you.

I grieve for the life we had and could have had. The possibilities, the ups and downs, the spectacular and the mundane. Becoming stronger as individuals through our shared lives. As I walked through the town, I realized my life right now can be both in sharp focus and in a surreal haze. I can see some truths, but they slip away easily.

Getting back to the whole “I'm not perfect" thing, I wish I had been more perfect. You said many times, in your adorable way, that I was a good husband. That sentiment was the best thing I have ever heard (well, tied with being a loved dad). You know/knew my heart and I am content in knowing that I truly, deeply loved you. Having said all of that, I can't help but wish that I hadn't had those selfish thoughts of being tired of the whole cancer gig. I felt self-pity that this disease was a huge part of my life. I also want to have it all to do again and this time be absolutely present, to savour every moment with you. However, that's not the way life works. I know you would say that I did just fine. But, I still have these feelings of regret.

I am very aware that my time with you made me a better person (at least to myself). I realize too that this continues. Who you were will always strengthen me. Perhaps that is a reason for, at some time, being happy again.

I miss you. I love you.

Memories

When Kirsten's mom and I were talking recently, we both arrived at a potentially powerful realization. I say potentially because it's one thing to realize something and another to actually accept it. What we concluded was that Kirsten would not want us to remember her as someone who was sick. Moreover, the more our thoughts are of Kirsten dying of cancer, the more our thoughts of Kirsten being full of life are pushed out. Kirsten did so phenomenally well in dealing with the incredible challenges that the cancer and the treatments put in front of her. It would be a discredit to not think of her as the strong, creative, and beautiful person she was (have I mentioned how awful it is using past tense).

Having said all of that, it's very difficult to get there. So much of my life with Kirsten was concerned with all things cancer. Life decisions, vacations, celebrations, dinners, walking Finn, waking up in the morning; we were never without it. So, even when I remember the wonderful moments over the last five years, those times still have cancer.

I will find comfort and strength in remembering Kirsten as an amazing part of my life. However, I struggle with the loss. Most of the time I'm trying not to drown in depression and a sense of pointlessness. I do have moments when I feel strong and that's when I feel Kirsten's presence the most. She fought so hard to have quality of life. I do want to honour that.

I will, when I'm ready, look at our wedding video and photographs from before Kirsten's diagnosis. And, I will cherish memories of Kirsten throughout our relationship. I will remember her as the strong, creative, beautiful, and life-affirming person she was.

Much the same as it felt when Christmas and Kirsten's birthday were coming up, I've been anxious and very emotional as February approaches. Going to Calgary in December felt like the right thing to do, and it was. It also feels right to spend the week in February when Kirsten passed last year away from our house and on my own (with dog). Kirsten's friend, Zoe, and her mom were gracious enough to offer the use of their cabin on Vancouver Island, so, that's where Finn and I will go. I will be facing another ferry ride, a trip in the Jeep, driving on the same road we took to get married, walking on a beach, having a pint in a pub, watching a DVD, contemplating the future, making everyday decisions, all without Kirsten, yet entirely with Kirsten.


Sometimes I feel a need to look at photos or hear Kirsten's voice on video. It is mostly painful. Excruciatingly so. I cry, I feel sick, I feel the depth of my sadness. Yet, I laugh, I smile, I remember with such fondness. And, it's OK that I remember that I wasn't always totally receptive to her patented "slow panning/with commentary/ending with an often unflattering shot of Ian" videos. One of the hardest aspects of looking at these photos is that I know what Kirsten was going through when they were taken. A photo of Kirsten sitting amongst flowers was taken during our stay in Montreal. So much of that time was incredibly difficult for her and those that loved her.  However, what I can already see is how important it is to realize she was happy, we were happy, and she was an amazing part of my life.

Happy Holidays

Well, my Christmas break has started and Kirsten's birthday is coming up on December 24^th. It's the latter that's the most daunting. Leading up to the break, I've been really anxious. Usually, being at work demands that I'm in the moment and that I'm “on” as far as being together around the students. However, during the last few weeks leading up to the holidays, it was increasingly difficult to feel in control. The anticipation of dealing with the holidays without Kirsten has been rough. It's not that Christmas makes me realize what I'm missing; I already know that. I suppose it's just one more time, event, season that focuses my loss. Again, it's been critical to be surrounded by so many understanding, thoughtful, and caring friends and family. I'm very grateful for that.

Kirsten had her favourite store in Deep Cove where she encouraged me to shop for her presents. Something along the lines of it would be difficult for me to buy something there that she didn't like. This time last year, and for the last several years, I'd be heading down to shop with a rare confidence. Most likely, Kirsten would be getting something with birds, elephants, inspirational words, retro 20's imagery, or stars for her Christmas and birthday gifts.

In recent years, Kirsten organized giving gifts to a family in need. I was really happy that her mom carried on that tradition and know Kirsten would also like that we kept it going.

I don't know how I'm going to handle Kirsten's birthday. It helps reduce my anxiety knowing that I did get through our anniversary, Miles' birthday, and my birthday. It also helps that I'm going to be at my brother's in Calgary. With my brother and his wife, it will be a low-key time of watching movies and having a beer or two. It also feels right to be in a different setting.

Christmas holidays, birthdays, or any given Tuesday, I suppose it doesn't really matter. I'm feeling more and more a heaviness that Kirsten is actually gone. 

2007 

2008

A happy birthday PET scan - Yes, they booked it on the 24th.
Kirsten was amazing at keeping her sense of humor

2009 Christmas as is should be

What Happened In Vegas

The trip was as predicted. A distraction, fun, enjoyable and sad (ranging from mild nostalgia to overwhelming heartache).

Before I left for the airport, I had a morning meeting at school. I had an opportunity to share my vision and ideas concerning what the North Vancouver School District's alternative program might look like in the years to come. My opinions seemed well received and the discussion was affirming and exciting. I left the meeting feeling hopeful about the program, good about myself, and positive about my career path. All good, except for the simultaneous feeling of deep emptiness. I desperately wanted to share the experience of the morning with Kirsten and listen to her feedback and words of support. She was so good at being there for me.

This set up an emotional drive to the border and on to the Bellingham airport. In our Jeep, feeling the immense emptiness of not having her next to me, I was compelled to say out loud “I miss you Sweet Pea”. Seconds later, as I was trying to hold it together enough to keep driving, Eddie Vedder started singing "Hard Sun". This was the song that Kirsten requested to have playing while those that loved her placed flowers in the ocean in her memory. Nice one, Kirsten. I like to think that she was letting me know that she was still there for me and I could still use her strength and love to go on. Of course, there was the thought that she added, “Vegas again? Really?”

Perhaps not a typical passenger on a flight to Vegas, I spent my time thinking about my life's purpose, what I'm going through, Kirsten, not having Kirsten, how it is that my suffering can seem so immense when, universally speaking, I'm so insignificant, how much life and death occurs in a relative blink of an eye, and what the point of it all is. Yay for vacations.