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.

Notes

Hockey Players and God

I was half watching a post-game interview with a new Vancouver Canuck. He was discussing the struggles involved in being traded to our hockey-crazed market in one of the most livable cities in the world to play a game for millions of dollars. Feel the pain. He concluded that he could get through this with the knowledge that his being traded was God's plan. Well isn't that wonderful. Finally, an explanation of why Kirsten was afflicted by a cancer that no one could cure. Why she, we, suffered. Not to mention ongoing genocides around the world, AIDS epidemics, and bus crashes. He was up to His neck in the goings-on of hockey player trades and salary negotiations. I will rest easier.

Square Plates

Let's face it, if left to my own devices, there is every chance that I would not have invested in square plates. Kirsten, on the other hand, felt that she was ahead of the designer curve and the square plates became an important part of who we were as people.

As was the case with the square plates, I was more than happy to let most, the majority of, the vast majority of, purchase decisions be on Kirsten's square plate. And, as was the case with all but a few purchases, I'm not going to mention the wooden chicken, I loved them as my own.

So, what do I do with these square plates? I have used them a few times over the last few months. When I do, there is a strong sense of sadness, loss, nostalgia. I have given away several meaningful items and have been glad that I did. I feel these items can carry on a life, be appreciated, and possibly evoke a sense of Kirsten for others. I don't want to give away the square plates.

I also have some feelings to process with the round plates 

I use them sparingly now, the feelings I get are fairly overwhelming. Perhaps, after a time, I will use them and enjoy the memories that go with the square plates. Now on to the picnic basket.

Wooden chicken, paint color, and stick. All Kirsten.

Squamish

They say that a grieving person should not make any major decisions in the first year or two, which seems like good advice. I could be living on a boat right now trying to remember why I decided a 54-square-foot living space that tends to make me feel nauseous was a good idea. However, a major distraction for me is contemplating the idea of moving.

I suppose that if I'm not lying in the fetal position in a heavily sedated state, I'm “moving on”. Writing that term made me feel nauseous. I'm never going to “move on”. I'm never going to “heal”. However, I'm going to continue to live my life. I'll make purchasing decisions (wish me luck), enjoy moments and loved ones, have fun, work, play, and, I suppose, living with the grief will become easier.

So back to the distraction of looking at future housing and lifestyle possibilities. Squamish does have Kirsten connotations. I know, what a surprise. I enjoyed looking at some of the buildings that I could perhaps call home and was especially excited when I discovered an appealing little restaurant for sale (after all, buying a restaurant would be a great way to simplify my life). I shared my excitement with a few friends after returning from the road trip. 

Throughout this experience, I was aware of the sadness of not having Kirsten with me, but it was bearable. However, the next day I woke up with a feeling of dread. It was a sense of betrayal for being excited about future possibilities. I was also feeling sorry for myself for not having my partner to share the future with. I realize that there is no betrayal and that it would be Kirsten's wish for me to live my life and move forward. It's so difficult.

Squamish connotations

On how I'm doing….

Lately it seems that the reality of Kirsten being gone is hitting me harder than ever. A realization that she actually died hits me over and over again. It's very surreal and painful to write, say, or accept the term died. The finality of it means I'm not going to wake up from this, and it's part of my life always. At this point, it's almost all my life is.

Vegas

I've mentioned Kirsten's specific request regarding me not becoming a degenerate gambler and I want to assure everyone, especially mom, that repeated trips to Sin City should not necessarily raise red flags and involve an intervention. Yes, I'm going to the gambling mecca again. However, I'm still paying this month's mortgage and I'm still making sure I can buy my daily $5 dollar coffee. I decided on Vegas as my go-to place largely because, when I picture myself alone on the beach in Mexico, I get this sad, pathetic thing going on. Playing poker is a decent distraction and I feel less like a knob for being there on my own. As long as I remember not to get a table for one, I can get by. Also, I often feel like just getting away. That's a laugh.

Days before leaving I'm in that mode of “why am I doing this?”. This seems to be a feeling that I have with almost everything I do these days. Thankfully, I've been able to go through with various commitments and always feel better having done them.

The upcoming trip to Vegas just is. It's something I decided to do, so I'll go and be distracted, enjoy moments, and be sad that Kirsten isn't with me. Pretty much the same as when I'm not in Vegas, only more neon.

Vegas connotations

table for two in the Venetian

Supporter's Club

Well, I promised I'd write about puppy dogs and cotton candy in my previous entry - it's not going to happen. I'm sad. Profoundly sad. I'm getting through the days, but It's a struggle. Everything I do, see, hear and feel re-states that I'll never be with Kirsten again. It's so difficult, however I can't imagine this time without all of the incredible support that I receive.

Kirsten and I were always so appreciative of all of those who were there for us over the years. Knowing that people near and far were thinking of us, having food delivered, receiving thoughtful words and so many offers of anything we needed,  gave both of us strength. Many said that they wished they could do more or had the words to make things right. Just hearing those sentiments was very helpful. Of course, the only thing that could really have made things better was for Kirsten to be cured and no one had the answer for that. 

The encouragement that I've been receiving since Kirsten's passing has been inspirational. I am so grateful to so many. Thank you all. If I was to thank everyone individually or recall every helpful moment, this would be a blog entry of the epic novel variety. 

It was evident how much I needed support as friends and family surrounded me in those first moments of loss. As my mom and I have talked about over a cup of tea, of the few things in life that are actually important, meaningful relationships have to be the most significant. Such is the relationship with my son, Miles, who has been so loving, giving, thoughtful, and uncompromisingly compassionate. I'm so fortunate to have him. 

I have been trying to find a way to deal with the sadness. There is nothing I can do that truly takes away the pain though I do realize how important a laugh or a distraction is. It's also an important part of this process to talk about Kirsten and how I'm feeling. They say that grieving takes as long as it takes and that my experience is not unique. I'm going to need my family and friends to continue with Project Ian for a while longer.

By the way, if any of my family or friends needs my support, I'm available.

My amazing friend Kat sent me this quote: 


"Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief."

- C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Nailed it.

Back To School

Heading back to school is always an adjustment from the sweet freedom of the summer. This year I was looking forward to getting back to more structure in my day, the incredibly supportive staff (more like an extended family), and the necessity of being in the moment with the students. A paycheque would be nice too. However, just as I was anxious about starting summer holidays without Kirsten, I have also been anxious about this change. 

Entering September seems to have brought the pain and sense of loss to the surface. It probably has to do with going back into routines that I'm so used to sharing with Kirsten. The mornings before work, coming back to the house and talking about our days, and looking forward to all of our plans. Difficult. 

What also brings a heavy feeling is thinking back to this time last year. We had decided that I would only work three days a week for the dual purposes of taking off some of the pressure I felt and for us to spend more time together. 

Over the five years, I have had periods of time away from work and have had great flexibility to be with Kirsten when I needed to. Again, so much appreciation for my friends at work. Despite the flexibility, five years with the trauma that Kirsten, and those around her, had to go through took a toll. Also, one of the great challenges of supporting Kirsten was trying to find a balance between being there for her and dealing with “normal” life, such as making money to pay the mortgage. I was never able to find that balance to my own satisfaction. There were periods of time when I felt removed from Kirsten's health care.

Last year, it felt right, despite the added financial burden, to have more time at home. We had such amazing plans to take advantage of our extended weekends. Taking our laptops and books to coffee shops around town, small getaways, adventures in Suzy Spitfire, dog-friendly walks, kayaking, finishing touches on the house, photography jaunts, and so on. So, I feel deeply sad that we didn't get to do those things. In September, with the exception of getting her to appointments, Kirsten's health pretty much prevented her from leaving the house. 

I certainly have a feeling of being cosmically ripped-off from having a long life with Kirsten. I know that we only scratched the surface as far as our experiences together. Not to mention that the plan was for her to be wheeling me around in my twilight years. I feel specifically gypped that we didn't get those days together last fall as we planned. 

At this point, I'm really struggling not to feel crushed by the grief and somehow get enough strength to get through the fall. I'm overwhelmed with the sense of being alone. It's daunting to think I have birthdays, Christmas holidays, and a year of not having Kirsten all ahead of me.

My next blog will be about puppy dogs and cotton candy.

Cates Park/Ode to the Dog

There is no better setting to write about my grieving process than Cates Park. Of course, this is the place where Kirsten envisioned having all of us meet to remember her and to support each other. Her very thorough list of how she saw that day unfolded perfectly. So much love and such incredible tributes.

To be honest, as it approached, I just wanted that day to be over. I was barely able to function, let alone be somewhat responsible for such a monumental day. (I still don't know what to call it. Not a funeral. A celebration? a gathering? Cates for Kirsten? They all suck.) However, that day of love and support became an important part of the healing process.

Kirsten's previously mentioned list was a real gift. No guess work needed. You may read in to this that, no, Kirsten did not trust me to plan this thing. So what if I would have played a RUSH soundtrack? Of course, Kirsten did trust the right people for putting together her farewell (that's not right, either). In particular, Janie from the Callanish Society, the amazing writers and friends from Callanish, our friends and family were all phenomenal. Kirsten didn't actually have “sunshine in the middle of winter” on her list, but it made me wonder.

This park, which is only steps away from our house, is where I asked Kirsten to marry me. I know that there are more spectacular ways of going about it, but, on that day when we had the park to ourselves and the tide was higher than I've ever seen it before or since, it was magical. However, it has been a struggle to find comfort and happiness in such memories. It feels like I'm living in two worlds. One is where I feel so grateful to have known, loved, and been loved by Kirsten. Where there is hope that I can channel Kirsten to help me live my life to the fullest. The other, that co-exists, but often overshadows, is one of deep despair and emptiness.

Taking the dog for a walk in Cates was something I did on the day Kirsten died. I sobbed uncontrollably. As I walked on the beach that Kirsten and I walked on so many times, I wasn't sure if I would be able to keep moving. 742 walks later, I guess I kept moving. I give much of the credit to Finn for giving me a focus, a purpose for doing something healthy, and for being a presence in an otherwise empty home.

I assured Kirsten that, if she passed, I would not become an alcoholic or a degenerate gambler (define “degenerate”). Part of what helps me to keep moving is thinking about making Kirsten happy. Certainly, the mutual benefits of taking the Finn out would be one of the things that would make her the happiest.

I can't walk on the beach without having Kirsten with me, looking for the next meaningful rock to present itself to her. This is the most painful and the most beautiful place.

The ocean at Cates Park is where, when I was 10, my family and I spread the ashes of my dad. When we are ready, this will be one of the two places that we spread Kirsten's ashes. This was also on her list.

this rock travelled to the stone circle of Callanish, Scotland

The Dog

Thank you so much, Nic