*sigh*

September 25, 1989. That is the day I started dating my husband. September 1, 1996. That is the day I married my husband. March 24, 2009. That is a day I want to erase from our life.

We met so long ago and have spent more than half of our life together. I find that fact utterly amazing. We've been through so much together and love each other with all of our being. Ken is such an incredible man, father, husband, friend, and just a wonderful person. Which is something impressive considering the crap he's been faced with.

His dad died from cancer when Ken was only 17. Three short years later he lost his mother, also to cancer. Most people would crumble if they had to endure these events in their life. Many a man has been driven to drugs, alcohol, crime and worse when faced with such devastating circumstances. Not Ken. No, he instead focused his energies on his schooling and career and me. Instead of falling into a deep hole and struggling with demons, he choose to make his parents proud. He knew they would be watching over him and he wanted them to know he would survive, even thrive, and that he would be a successful and compassionate person. He wanted to fulfill whatever dreams they may have had for him.

And he has. He is a fantastic person. He is caring. He is loving. He puts me and our four children ahead of everything. He is so responsible and he is my whole world. I don't know what I would do without his support, companionship, love. I need him in my life. I want him in my life. He is my family.

We celebrate Sept. 25 and Sept. 1 as our anniversaries. Those dates are precious to me. The March 24 date? That date can bite me. That is the date that we found out Ken has cancer. Freakin' stinkin' testicular cancer. I HATE that this is happening to him. So many fears have seemed to erupt in an instant. The emotional turmoil, the uncertainty, the unknown, have swept over us and left us feeling scared and pissed and drained. Trying to remain positive is challenging. We know the statistics are in our favor. This type of cancer is curable. The success rate is 95%. The doctors said that if you are going to get cancer, this is the one to get. woo hoo.

So we are trying our best to be positive. We know Ken can beat this. I will fight this fight with him. I will support him and love him with all of my being, as he has done for me these last twenty years. I know he will survive, and thrive. I know he will make his parents proud. I'm proud of him.

In Memoriam

It is hard to put into words how I'm feeling right now. I've never been much of an animal person, didn't have pets when I was a child, and don't go gaga over other people's pets. But I married a dog lover and soon we had pets of our own. And my dogs...well they're part of my family. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. And all that jazz. So it is hard for me to adequately express just how sad the past couple of weeks have been.

Twelve years ago Samson came into our home. He was just ten weeks old and such a cute little salt and pepper miniature schnauzer. He loved to wander, chase squirrels, explore. He loved to warn the deer that they were too close to his territory and he loved people. He was so not the watch dog (well, expect the time he REALLY didn't like the guy installing our security system...he was growling and sneering and pretty much freaking me out). He was curious and LOVED sniffing the air as we drove in the car. He loved to go for walks and piss on anything and everything. He loved hanging out in the yard, basking in the warmth of the sun. During the winter months, he curled up in front of the fireplace or pellet stove. He was amazing around children and never hurt a fly. He was a wonderful dog and perfect for our family. He was never, ever sick.

If you haven't noticed, I'm referring to Samson in the past tense. It is hard for me to do as it makes me well up with tears. A year ago Samson seemed to be having some problems with his balance, and it seemed to appear pretty much over night. After a long day driving all around Connecticut getting x-rays, CT scans, and MRI's, we discovered that Samson had a brain tumor. An inoperable meningioma that was sitting on the base of his brain, on top of his nerves, and crowding into his brain stem. This was just devastating news. After all, he was never, ever sick! After a little more running around and phone calls, we found a place in Yonkers that did a specialized canine radiation - cyberknife radiation - and Samson was a perfect candidate. There were no promises about the treatment's success or Samson's longevity, but we were optimistic that everything would be great and *poof* the tumor would be gone. So last April, Samson had his cyberknife radiation.

The year was good. Samson was soon back to his normal self. He was chipper and alert, playing with Rocky (our other dog), chasing squirrels, barking at the wind, rolling round in the dirt and who knows what else in the back yard, and living the good life.

And that is how I want to remember him. I want to forget the past few weeks of him getting increasingly weaker, falling over all the time, not being able to move, not being able to breathe normally, not being able to eat or drink, whimpering, not being himself. I want to forget the pain of having to make the decision to put him down so that he could be at peace. I want to forget driving to the vets to pick up his ashes today. I want to forget the day my kids cried, screamed, wailed.

I want to remember Samson's happier days and blissful moments. Like these.