Fake it till you make it. . .

This is how I get to spend the better part of my Tuesdays and Thursdays, with my dear little nephew, Otto. He is the coolest baby ever, and I can say that with pretty accurate certainty, being the (favorite! ;) auntie of 13 nieces and nephews. NOT that the others aren't cool, awesome, amazing—all of the above, x 100!—because they are, but there is something undefinable about this newest kidlet . . . as a baby, Otto is so full of Zen, so loving, so peaceful, so awe-inspiring, beyond what a beautiful yet simple baby should be able to convey (and let's be real—not many babies are like this, ever,

I have never been in the company of a baby who gazes dreamily into my eyes, for minutes on end. . . an old soul in the heart of an adorable little boy, so evident in his eyes, his spirit. I have a hard time taking my eyes off him, my green-blue eyes gazing deeply back into his own baby green-blues (though I do recall thinking this about each of my nieces and nephews as I held their tiny bodies in my arms). Still, Otto is different. Can't explain it, just different. Not a bad thing, to be different.

And one of the sweetest things he does, is babble, "Bob bob, bob, bob, bo-bo-bo-bob," over and over. Jill swears he never does this anywhere else but at my house, or when I'm around. He often does this while gazing off, beyond my shoulder, or above my head, with the sweetest smile on his face, as though he's talking to someone . . . I like to imagine he sees Bob, is talking to him in a way babies only can, letting me know all is right where Uncle Bob is . . . I truly believe babies see angels, speak to angels, because their little baby spirits are so pure, so untainted by all the shit of life that gets in the way of that which is pure. . . either, that, or Otto thinks my name is "Bob." I'll take the former . . .

I am still "settling" into my new digs in St. Paul. It doesn't feel like home, nothing will feel like home, for a long time, maybe ever. A stranger in a strange land. But, I am inundated with visits/calls/e-mails from friends, near and dear, near and far, old and new, and it definitely has increased in frequency, since I moved closer to the masses, and I embrace it, feel very connected, very loved, if not at times, overwhelmed. Went to the Selby Avenue Jazz Festival with a dear friend a few weeks or so, have had numerous lunches/dinners out with family, friends, even strangers whom I've just met (that isn't as weird as it looks in writing . . .). Walk the dogs endlessly, weaving in and out throughout the blocks that tie the neighborhoods together. . .

Bob's cameras have sat unused for months, and a few days ago, I hopped onto National Camera Exchange's website, to see if they offered any novice photographer's classes. . . saw one that was being held that very night; called my sis, Jill, and after a flurry of conversations/phone calls/craziness, her husband, Jade (who works at NCE), I was signed up for the class. I lugged Bob's beloved backpack, full of camera and lenses, and got my first "real" photography lesson. Elementary as it was, I felt fully enveloped with Bob's spirit, hearing the "technical" insights to all the things that Bob knew, inherently. . .as the instructor explained various techniques, I could picture endless photographs Bob had taken, using the same technique . . .

Next day, I proceeded to snap endless photos of beloved Otto . . . it's going to take me a while to get a "handle" on these intimidating, impressive pieces of photographic equipment, but when I pick them up, I feel Bob reverberating through the metal frame of the camera; I am slowly learning why he chose nature over churches, as religion. And love him even more than ever. And am more sad than ever, with his loss.

(the picture to the right was Bob's last stay at the U, when he had the GI bleed right after Christmas. He was never prone to kissing babies, despite the many nieces and nephews we have. . . love the way Otto leans into Uncle Bob as he kisses. . . )

A journey that won't end till I take my own last breath

For every sweet memory I want to share about my time on earth with Bob, I'm flooded with countless images that I will never be able to share with anyone, that will forever be imbedded in my head, in my heart, a 1:1,000,000 ration of good to bad, at any given moment, and the astounding thing for me is that people live like this all the time, very minute of every day of every year, and we have no idea how many and to what extent. . . an inexplicable world to be living in, going through the motions with everyone else while your mind is anywhere but . . . I'm continually amazed that I move right along with life, as though I'm a part of it, but feel anything but. Over four months since Bob's passing, I am continually, daily, by the minute, bombarded with thoughts, memories, images, flash-backs of the past year and a half (October will mark the two-year "anniversary" of the onset of his cancer, though we weren't given the diagnosis until nearly three months later), that refuse to vacate, and yet I "function" damn near as good as most others walking the face of the earth. Fucking astounding. . . no two ways about it . . .

The season changes are especially hard, maybe that's why I've had some rough days of late. This time of year, we'd be camping, hiking, traipsing the trails of the north shore, camping with Penny and Jim, dogs in tow. The smells, the sounds, the sights of each season tear through me like a bullet, and every day, I'm astounded that I get out of bed and do something. Last year at this time, Bob was still at the U, in the very beginning stages of "recovering" from that cursed, god-awful, torturous 13 hour surgery he'd endured a few weeks prior, endless complications ensuing. . . But, a year ago, he was still with me.

Went to a bbq at my cousin, Erin's last weekend. Was talking to a couple, somehow Bob got brought into the conversation (how can he not? He was my husband and everything I am doing now is because he is no longer with me. How do I explain just up and moving from Stillwater to St. Paul and not explain why my husband is not with me . . . just an example of how, in multitude of layers, this loss never leaves my side, continuing to define every action, every word. . .)

The wife of the couple stood in wide-eyed disbelief as I fed her the condensed version of Bob's story. "My god. . . " she slowly whispered. "For all you've been through, you are so, ummm, well, I don't know the right word—so put together?" I stared back at her in equal wide-eyed disbelief. Is that how people see me? I think. Put together? Maybe I need to break down in public a little more frequently. . . Who really goes around sobbing in public, at bbq's, in Target, at the grocery store, ? (well, there have been times . . .Tootsie pops always do it for me. And Dr Pepper. And Trader Joe's frozen fruit bars. . . and . . .) How do I tell someone I've never met that every waking minute of my day, at this point in my life, is immersed in memories of my husband, of our lost lives together, of all he went through for a year and a half, and I have no fucking clue how I get through every day? I simply don't.

A few days ago, I ran into neighbors of ours from Stillwater. More than once in the conversation, the husband of the pair said, "I don't think I could ever do what you did for Bob, for as long as you did, Jen . . ." Again, I am the one in wide-eyed disbelief. How do I tell the neighbor that I hope he will never have to find out if he has "what it takes" to do what I did for Bob, for as long as I did? All I can say to that is, you'd be surprised at what you're capable of, given the circumstances, I tell him. And that's all I can say with any certainty.

That, and that I truly believe that the sole purpose we are here on earth is to care for one another. Doesn't matter how we do it, whether one by one, or in droves and throngs. Just take care of one another. However you can.

A slow motion dance with my new life . . .

I took a walk in my new neighborhood with my sister, Jill and her kids last weekend, a long stroll down Summit Avenue, oooh-ing and aaaaahhh-ing over the gargantuan mansions we passed along the historic boulevard. No sooner would we decide on the one we liked best when we'd come upon another, even more opulent and dramatic, if that's possible. The architecture of the homes on Summit is the real-life definition of breathtaking. Truly, I could waste an entire day, gazing at a single edifice and still not see all there is to admire. . . kalidescope stained glass . . . intricately detailed Victorian "painted ladies". . . ornate yet stately carved stone. . . even chimneys are spared no elaborate attention—one home (even calling it a "home" sounds insulting) has towering chimneys with wrought-iron calla lilies imbedded in the masonry. . . and that doesn't even begin to touch the grounds and gardens . . . this alone could become a full-time job, admiring historic buildings . . .

Our meandering brought us to a party gathered on the lawn outside yet another grand residence, a wedding in full-swing. I immediately recognized the location—Bob and I had attended a wedding here ourselves, and suddenly, I was whisked away with the memories of a good ten years prior, sharing them aloud with Jill and the kids, though I was talking more to myself than anyone. . .

That beautiful fall night, Bob and I dazzled the wedding party with newly acquired ballroom

dance skills, waltzing, two-stepping, jitter-bugging and polka-ing, sometimes cheek-to-cheek, sometimes whirling around like tasmanian devils, like a scene from a movie movie—the crowd parted, including the bride and her father, and circled around Bob and me, as we danced the night away, in perfect time to the music swirling along with us . . .

Jill interrupts my story. "Wait a minute— Your Bob? Danced? Really?" More an accusation than a question.

A few seconds pass, and finally, Not willingly, I confess.

Bob and I had been married maybe four years the summer of the wedding of conversation. Shortly before the wedding, we'd embarked on a camping trip to northern Minnesota. Camping, as in, in a tent. Trip, as in, a whole week. Northern Minnesota, as in, no hotels this time, Little Miss Flat Iron Dependent. This wasn't our first camping trip together, but it was the longest, with no "buffer" night in a cabin or hotel at the half-way point, to ease the pain of "roughing it." Buffer, as in, appeasing Jen. Hardcore, in my book.

Bob decided we should explore north central state parks this time, and painstakingly planned our trip to include Itasca, Lake Bemidji and Hayes Lake, damn near to Lake of the Woods, mapping out our trip based on seasonal wildflowers in bloom. The morning we departed, it had started to rain and increased in intensity as the day went on. It not only rained all day but continued the entire week. And not just little sprinkles or soft drizzles. No, we were subjected to full-blown soakings, downpours—torrential deluges—as in, Each. And. Evey. Day. We had a "two-man" tent, as in, if you're lucky and happen to be African pygmies, and a smelly, sopping wet Alaskan malamute sharing our sleeping quarters. Smelly, as in, a vat of sweaty football players' post-practice laundry. The tent leaked, our sleeping bags were soaked, we couldn't cook a thing because it was too wet to make a fire. Bob, the eternal Ranger Rick at heart, said, "It's not that bad, Jen! We have Power Bars and Dr. Pepper! The rain'll quit soon!"

After three days of huddling in soggy, smelly quarters, gnawing on granola bars, I snapped—I tore open the tent, screaming, "I hate this—I'm going to go sleep in the van!" and stomped through ankle-deep mud puddles, yanked the passenger door open and slid into the blissfully dry interior of our van and slammed the door. And flipped the switch to lock. Bob sloshed through puddles after me, dragging Gaia behind him, but was too late. Doors were locked and I sat in the front passenger seat, crying. He pounded on windows, "Let me in, Jen! It's pouring out here! Let's talk!"

"No! NOt until you tell me we will do something with our time together, other than camping! I am done camping!It's not fair! It's all we do on our vacations—we never do anything I want to do, and I'm finally done with it!"

Rain streamed down his face as he continued to pound on the window. "Let me in, Jen—I meanit! I want to talk to to you, but I can't out here in this goddamned rain! Let me in, and we can talk! Please!" The genuine desperation in the emphatic please got me. Reluctantly, I flicked the switch on my door handle to unlock the doors and continued my sob fest as Bob quickly ledGaia into the back of the van before hopping in behind her. He slid his rain jacket off and slipped into the driver's seat and faced me.

"What the hell was that all about?" he sputtered as soon as he got into the van, grabbing an old dog towel to dry off. "What—are you five years old or what—we can't just talk, can we? You had to resort to dramatics to make your point?"

I was in no mood for logic. "We always do what you want to do for our vacations!" I interrupted. "For five straight years, all it's been is camping, camping, camping and I'm sick of it! I hate it, in fact, and as of this vacation, I've decided no more camping until you do something I want to do! Period!"

"Fine, fair enough! All you have to do is say the word—just tell me what you want to do."

Ballroom dancing.

"What did you say?" He stopped rubbing his head.

You heard me just fine. Ball room dancing. I want to take balllroom dance lessons. And I want you to take them with me.

"Oh god, Jen, please. Anything but that—and I mean anything. I can't dance! I don't have rhythm—"

You're a liar! You do too have rhythm—I know you'd be a total Deney Terrio! You'd love it, if you just gave it a chance. I gave camping a chance. . .

"Is there anything else you'd want to do?" his voice was weak and thin. He knew he was done.

No.

Anything at all? A cooking class? A language class?

Nope.

Heavy sigh. Defeat. "Okay. Fine." Another heavy sight. Dramatics have taken a turn. "Fair enough. Dance lessons it is."

I signed us up for dance lessons through Community Ed in Roseville, from a man whose hair was a little too greasy and seemed to pay a little too much attention to the little redhead in the class, according to Bob. I didn't care. I was happy, he was Fred Astaire, in my eyes, and a month later, we were able to show off our newly-acquired skills at a wedding on Summit Avenue. . .

Hours after I shared this story with Jill and her kids, I got the following e-mail from Jill:

Tonight, while walking with my you and my kids, it was moving as we passed gorgeous homes on Summit, to hear you talk of lovely times you and Bob had at a wine tasting benefit here, or how you two showed off your newly honed ballroom dance skills at a wedding reception there. Later, when we stopped into one of Bob's former wine clients, Solo Vino, the wonderful memories continued. Since his illness and his passing, this was, for me, the first time in a long time where I felt so connected to that healthy, energetic, hilarious, hard-working, uber-intelligent man who loved you with all his soul, and whom you loved and will continue to love with all your soul. He's so greatly missed, but hearing these stories, stopping by SV touched me so very much. Thank you, Jennifer and Bob.

Benefit Account for Corey Harder. . .

I just wanted to take a moment to share information about a benefit account set up for a dear friend and his family, Corey Harder. I went to high school with Corey and his wife, Ronda (Duerksen—Ronda's family were neighbors of ours, amazing family in their own right), and they have been and continue to be, such awesome supporters on this this long journey . . . recently, Corey, a cancer survivor himself, found out that his brain tumor had returned, and his prognosis is critical. . .

The parallels of Corey and Ronda's story to Bob's and mine are uncanny: Corey, like Bob, is a many-years survivor of cancer (his, a brain tumor); Ronda, like me, is a hairdresser. Corey was interviewing for his dream job when his cancer returned (Bob had just started his "dream job" back at Surdyk's when his returned); Ronda has taken a lot of (unpaid) time off from work, to be with Corey on this journey, and will likely be taking more time off as their journey continues . . . the frustrations, roadblocks and endless hair-pulling events they've experienced mirror what Bob and I faced a lifetime ago. . . I could just scream along with them (and I do . . .)

Ronda and Corey live in Kansas with their adorable son, Zane. They've been to their local hospital, have traveled to the Mayo, for more tests/treatments/input on Corey's situation. They are now on the road to Texas, to MD Anderson in Houston, for another opinion on treatment opinions, as the tumor is growing fast and initial treatment plans are no longer an option.

I am now on the "offering" end of a crisis; I feel helpless, yet desperate, in what I can to do help them, especially being so far away. I recently learned from Ronda's sister Kendra, that a benefit account has been set up at Corey and Ronda's local bank. I can't even begin to tell y'all how much the benefit account (and subsequent rockin' benefit event) helped Bob and me, in endless ways. It helped in making the decision to quit my job, to be by Bob's side full-time as we traveled the horrific journey together . . . for that, I am endlessly, forever grateful to everyone, and that our friends had the foresight (and persistence) to set up the account (and bugged me endlessly, till I eventually conceded to the benefit event), which helped to make that decision possible. Jump, and the net will appear . . . faith, personified. . .

But, I also get it, too deeply, that the events at hand take precedence to any benefit account—the crisis that Corey and Ronda are facing right now is all-consuming, and when I say all-consuming, I can't even begin to explain what that means, other than that a benefit account/event, along with pretty much everything else in life, is the LAST of their concerns. It's all they can do to focus all their time, energy and emotions on the immediate situation, and even then, they are grasping for beyond what they feel they are capable of . . . and that's where friends and family step in . . .

Please—if you are able—help this beautiful family. Anything you can do is welcomed and so appreciated. If there is one thing I have learned on this nearly two-year journey of Bob's and mine, it's that we are here on earth to take care of each other. Simple as that.

Checks can be made out to "Corey D Harder Benefit Account," the "Corey and Ronda Harder benefit account," the "Ronda Harder Benefit account," or any variation of the aforementioned. Any amount that you might be able to share, I know, will be gratefully accepted.

Midland National Bank
527 N Main St
Newton KS 67114