Friends have been checking on us regularly to see how we’re doing. “How are you?” “Are you okay?” It’s hard not to look a little quizzical. What’s the answer to those questions? We couldn’t tell you. Am I okay? Well, no…and yes. Ken would be very disappointed in me if I were to crumble to the floor and it’s not really in my nature to do so. Therefore, I get up every morning, shower and dress like most people, eat regular meals (maybe too many carbs for my own good), focus on my job and daily chores and my children. That means I’m okay, right?

At the same time, I sleep poorly and I mean POORLY. Have you ever cried in your sleep? I didn’t even realize that I was until I woke up from one of my frequent nightmares with salty tears dried on my cheeks and crusting my eyes. My eldest told me that his worst recurring nightmare is that his dad is still alive … because he has to wake up into a world where Ken is gone. What hell is that to endure?

But as with all who experience loss, we have good moments, good days. We use the grill every nice evening.  Recent culinary achievements include chops, flank steak, and lemon chicken. Then we eat outside and laugh as much as possible (quietly so we don’t disturb our city neighbors!). We look for activities to keep us busy; the boys are currently playing Zelda Breathe of the Wild on the Wii U and really enjoying the time together. Over the weekend, while a dear relative helped me clean up the yard, my youngest made spears, bows and arrows from our yard waste with much more effectiveness than I would have predicted. I made inexpensive curtains to replace the sun-damaged blinds on our front window (also with the help of that dear relative who cut, pinned and kept me company). After I finished and hung them, I went outside to look at my handiwork and cried because Ken hated those darn blinds. He would have been so pleased that they are gone.

Some things are particularly difficult. We find ourselves the topic of whispered conversations whenever we see people who know us. One day, when we noticed no less than 6 different couples watching us at a school event, my daughter asked me why they were staring and I said they were checking out the hot, young widow. We both thought that was hilarious.

Shopping without Ken makes me cry EVERY SINGLE TIME, though I have gotten groceries 5 times since he left us. Breaking the news to people is awful; yes, I have a practiced answer but telling them hurts them and that hurts me all over again. Among the worst, though, is redefining myself: yesterday  morning I had to complete an online form that only offered a few options to describe my status:  single, married, divorced. I’m still married in my heart but the software rejected that status when I couldn’t produce a living spouse. Am I single? Certainly not but the software said I am. I couldn’t finish the task. I’m married, damn it, and no software is going to tell me otherwise.

This morning, I had a 9AM appointment at the social security office to complete Ian’s application for survivor benefits. There was a line at the entrance and just as I joined it, a verbal altercation began — racially motivated I am very sorry to report — but it was effectively stopped about 5 minutes later by the door opening at 9:01. They were all behaving badly but they also seemed to understand that the two security guards at the entrance weren’t putting up with any nonsense.

The first appointment of the day is a gift. As soon as people started streaming through the door, I heard a lady calling my name and stepped out of line, right over to “window 6 please.”  The process took about 45 minutes and I spent a good bit of that eavesdropping on various sad and confusing stories — a man who thought it would be okay to lend someone his ID, a woman who defaulted on her student loans and just got a second job to try to pay back the loans, an elderly couple who are married but living in separate apartments in the same building and trying to sort out their social security payments.

It made me think of that parable:  a storyteller offers to get rid of his audiences’ troubles. At his request, they all bag up their worries and carry them to the opposite wall. Such relief they feel that their problems are gone but the storyteller says to them all, “Go back now and pick up a bag. You can’t open it; just pick one, bring it back and own it.” Of course, people immediately realize that maybe, after all, their familiar set of problems wasn’t so bad.

Much love ….

It isn’t enough but what follows is Ken’s real obituary.

Much love ….

Ken Zuroski, 56, died on March 27, 2017, after a fierce, year-long battle against a rare and aggressive form of colon cancer. He was preceded in death by his parents and a beloved niece. In addition to dear siblings, friends, nephews and nieces, and other relatives, he is survived by his wife of 25 years, Deborah Ainsworth Zuroski, and by his three children, Tristan (21), Haley (18) and Ian (11).

Writer, rhetorician, photographer, artist, teacher, X-ray technician, marksman, cook, husband, father, brother, cousin, friend … there isn’t a label or a job title that effectively describes Ken. His interests were broad but also deep and his love for friends and family was infinite.

Ken’s appreciation for classical music began in the early ’90s and ultimately resulted in him spending years searching for the best recordings of 100 important classical pieces. The “Classical Music Project” caused him to seek the rare/hard-to-find recordings from libraries and music stores across the country but was a true labor of love, allowing him to share his passion with anyone interested in learning about classical music. He finished putting the compilation together just a few months before he began his cancer battle.

An intensely private man, Ken was also a deeply caring friend whose relationships — online and offline — lasted decades and spanned the globe. He traveled across the US to connect with friends he first met online and deeply mourned the passing of friends he never met in person.

Well-known for his ability to make people laugh, he was never prouder than when his children (and his wife) surprised a laugh out of him. His sense of humor ran to the corny (Why don’t cannibals eat clowns? Because they taste funny.), the absurd (aluminum foil bow ties), and the outrageous (there are many stories but they can’t be shared here!).

He loved a good riddle or puzzle and would spent weeks figuring out the answer. Many years ago, a friend unnamed here but much loved, posed a riddle that Ken literally pondered over for more than a year: two words, homophones, opposite meanings, one 5 letters long, the other 6 letters long. Of course he figured out the answer and was never prouder than when his eldest did the same.

Before he married, Ken traveled across the country with friends twice. Later, when his children were young, he took the family on trips to the state fairs in Wisconsin and Iowa, Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, the Finger Lakes in New York, and the National Seashore in Texas, among many others. The family loved camping and accumulated many wonderful stories, from drying out after torrential downpours to bundling up in August cold spells, from starting campfires with Doritos to fierce games of miniature golf (sometimes in a thunderstorm).

Poppy the Pitbull was Ken’s loyal companion on many long walks through the woods. His youngest son was their frequent walking buddy. They would hike for hours, exploring Pittsburgh’s Frick Park and finally returning home, exhausted and muddy, for the inevitable tick-hunt.

Toward the end, Ken wanted nothing so much as another walk in the woods with his son and their dog.  Unfortunately, the illness would not allow him that. He died peacefully with his wife and children by his side.