Tears
Any of you who have gone through the process of losing a loved one will know that this is not straight-forward, there's no guidebook, at times life will go on, and at other times life seems to stand still and your whole body aches with the injustice of it all.
I have cried almost every day since June 27th. Sometimes for a long time, sometimes for a few seconds. I've cried at work, at home, at the hospital, while driving, walking, at church, pretty much anywhere and everywhere. I've cried with family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, people who were all of the above to Ken. There's also been a lot of joy, laughter, remembering, stories, looking at pictures, staring blankly into space, and wondering how on earth this can be.
Stuart McLean is one of my favorite people in the media world. I love his quirkiness, his spirit of discovery, his delight in people, the way he speaks, how he relishes letters from listeners, and of course the stories. I love how he pauses when he gets to a part where we are all laughing in anticipation. I love it when I just happen to be driving somewhere on SAturday morning between 10 and 11.
It happened today. And today happened to be Arthur awards day. This is so classic Stuart. One of the awards today went to a couple of guys who started playing chess when they were stationed in Burma in 1944. On the days they weren't flying, they played chess. They are still playing chess. Stuart got them both on the phone. One guy is 90, the other 86. One lives in Manitoba, the other in Ontario. They last played chess this last Sunday, at their airmen's reunion.
Both these men had an easy way about them, talking, laughing, remembering pranks they played on each other and their many games of chess. Sunday's game winner got ribbed by the loser.
I drove, smiled, laughed out loud, and then started to cry. 60 years of chess and friendship is something worth celebrating. I cry for my brother who won't have that chance. I cry for his wife who won't be throwing a 60th wedding anniversary party. I cry for his kids who won't sit with him 20 years from now and laugh about childhood memories. I cry for his friends who don't have that casual everyday contact that makes great friendships.
We celebrate what we had. Who Ken was. Who he is, and will continue to be in our hearts. We cry for the memories that could have been, but were intercepted by cancer.
Tears. Often unbidden, sometimes unwelcome, always another step to healing.
I miss you, Ken.
I have cried almost every day since June 27th. Sometimes for a long time, sometimes for a few seconds. I've cried at work, at home, at the hospital, while driving, walking, at church, pretty much anywhere and everywhere. I've cried with family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, people who were all of the above to Ken. There's also been a lot of joy, laughter, remembering, stories, looking at pictures, staring blankly into space, and wondering how on earth this can be.
Stuart McLean is one of my favorite people in the media world. I love his quirkiness, his spirit of discovery, his delight in people, the way he speaks, how he relishes letters from listeners, and of course the stories. I love how he pauses when he gets to a part where we are all laughing in anticipation. I love it when I just happen to be driving somewhere on SAturday morning between 10 and 11.
It happened today. And today happened to be Arthur awards day. This is so classic Stuart. One of the awards today went to a couple of guys who started playing chess when they were stationed in Burma in 1944. On the days they weren't flying, they played chess. They are still playing chess. Stuart got them both on the phone. One guy is 90, the other 86. One lives in Manitoba, the other in Ontario. They last played chess this last Sunday, at their airmen's reunion.
Both these men had an easy way about them, talking, laughing, remembering pranks they played on each other and their many games of chess. Sunday's game winner got ribbed by the loser.
I drove, smiled, laughed out loud, and then started to cry. 60 years of chess and friendship is something worth celebrating. I cry for my brother who won't have that chance. I cry for his wife who won't be throwing a 60th wedding anniversary party. I cry for his kids who won't sit with him 20 years from now and laugh about childhood memories. I cry for his friends who don't have that casual everyday contact that makes great friendships.
We celebrate what we had. Who Ken was. Who he is, and will continue to be in our hearts. We cry for the memories that could have been, but were intercepted by cancer.
Tears. Often unbidden, sometimes unwelcome, always another step to healing.
I miss you, Ken.
posted by Carlotti at 9:07 AM
6 Comments:
the loss of what could have, what should have been-- that's what makes me cry now.
Oh Carlottie, Carlotti......thanks for writing something, anything about Ken. We sure can't go see him anymore. All we can do is talk, not talk, think, remember, cry, not cry and stuff like that. These days I'm craving anything about Ken, I just want to try to remember everything. That's all we've got now. I REALLY enjoyed your post. Love all of you, Kettie
Carol and Kettie, that's how I feel too. I keep checking the blogs to see what else has been written about Ken. I still have hardly cried about Ken. Am wondering at what inappropriate moment that's going to happen. I cry for other strange things. Like thinking of not being with the people from my old job anymore. Not having Ken is still just so unbelievable. I feel numb.
Now crying in the Dauphin library.... Thanks, sisters
hey, did my crying yesterday. esp when I saw another relative drive past my house, very slowly. I wanted to call Ken to ask his advise, or just have someone to bounce the pain off of. Phoned living brother instead. It certainly wasn't for my pleasure, but it seemed right.
Carol, Well said. And sisters, yeah. I just feel... well... wierd... almost apologetic for carrying on with my life.
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