One year: A lasting love letter

I made it. Kim died Nov. 23, 2015, and I vowed to write a monthly blog about this journey. Today, it ends. But will it ever?

It still seems like yesterday. Yet, the memories are fading. It's that odd roller-coaster of emotions and feelings which consume you, battle to push you on, restrict you from letting go.

The nightmares are gone. Guilt is easing a bit. But this sense of remorse, of knowing what she is missing, remains strong. Kim was meant to be a grandma.

That might be the most difficult of all. I know how she would have loved the grandkids already here, those yet to come. She would be embracing that role with vigor.

That's what dominated my thoughts standing a year ago in that hospital room. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, darn near everyone on the floor seemed to have packed into that room. Nobody really in charge, nobody with an answer. Nobody. And I watched efforts to get oxygen to her fail.

I asked them all to leave. Kim's head was tilted toward the door side of the room, where I stood. I kissed her one last time on the head saying, "I'm so sorry." She was gone so very unexpectedly at the young age of 58. I was stunned. Finally, after watching efforts for almost 45 minutes, I was alone, I was able to cry.

The many calls home, to kids, to Kim's sisters and friends, to my siblings, to Pastor Bob Miner, were the most difficult thing I've ever experienced. We were all stunned. This was supposed to be the simple surgery. She had passed in flying colors the brain tumor surgery six weeks earlier. And now my wife of 36 years, companion for 40, was gone.

Marriage is not easy. It sure wasn't for Kim and I. But as I said several times over these past 12 months, we'd become best friends once again. In that hospital room, and now, I'm so thankful for that.

But it doesn't change the fact that one regrets not being a better husband. I should have told her more often how I loved her. I should have kissed her more often. I should have held her more often. I should have argued less. There's so much more I could have done, could have been. I could have, and should have, been a better husband.

Love changes over time. The early passions often turn to the reality of parenting and how damn hard work it is. But it was an area where Kim and I had tried our best -- we wouldn't have had it any other way. Our kids were Kim's life, and mine. And they remain her legacy.

There were times in our marriage when both of us wondered where the love had gone. Kim and I often went different directions and developed separate friend networks. It pulls one away from each other. Often, there's little time for one another.

I think both of us took way too long to understand how love evolves, how it's shaped by the events, good and bad, through the years.

But we loved. Deeply.

I've turned to some close friends during this past year, asking for guidance and advice and support. And that support has been amazing. I've shared my pain, how surprising the depth of it hits the soul. Many have stated simply that the amount of pain correlates with the amount of love lost. I now smile when I say this, for tears tell that story of both pain and love.

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Over the past 12 months, there have been some key moments in my attempt to move forward. My move back into community journalism at St. Peter and Le Sueur meant the world to me. I was blessed by great co-workers who became special friends. I can't say enough what fellow journalists Suzy Rook, Pat Beck, Alex Kerkman, Nancy Madsen, Philip Weyhe, Dan Ring and others along the way meant. Thank you for your support, patience, understanding and friendship.

Leaving the company and them was tough, but the right thing to do, at the right time. But I will never forget them or what good journalism means to the common good.

After Kim died, I knew a departure loomed down the road. I just wasn't sure when. After a week off for the funeral, I was back at work and logged some pretty long hours. It was my sanctuary. But there were also special people I met along the way. First, I was able to rediscover a special St. Peter community. It's hard to put a finger on, but it's this island of progressive, diverse thinkers who made my years there so special and contributed mightily to my heart and soul.

When a rural Minnesota native stumbles upon such special places like River Rock Coffee, the St. Peter Food Co-op and the Arts Center of Saint Peter, it adds to the blessings.

I also found a bit of family and community in the Le Sueur-Henderson softball team. That might sound odd, but at a time when I was drifting, I saw a program which cared both about direction and purpose beyond the playing field. And I vowed to follow them through another state tournament run.

After the Giants softball team wrapped up a disheartening final two games, I watched some special people tearfully end their amazing journey. And I was honored to have covered it.

On my walk back to the car, I broke down. I had made this benchmark and knew I was closing in on the end of my work at the newspapers.

Following a three-week break in July, I targeted the November elections. And that would be it.

What's next? I'm not certain. But it's sure to include family. I have Kim's legacy to hold close.

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When I gaze at the picture of Mikell and Kim shortly after her brain tumor surgery, it pretty much epitomizes what we now can only hold in our thoughts. Kim was changing, going through some tough medical times, but still embracing a love of family, and hope.

I remember vividly how she approached her final surgery, a "simple" hysterectomy to deal with uterine cancer. I asked her if she was ready, and she was. I pinched her toe, of all things, and said I'd see her after the surgery.

I did. Only for minutes. Weeks later, the pathology report came back: the surgery itself was successful and had removed all Kim's cancer, which she had been fearing. It was a tough call to handle.

Not being able to say goodbye is a difficult part of this journey. Not officially knowing what happened is an equally difficult burden. Still, truly understanding what she is missing remains the most difficult.

But Kim's history of hospice/social work service, in its own way, prepared us. Her dedication to the field was respected and admired. And those professionals who worked with her and beside her during those years brought such meaningful messages to my children in the days and weeks following Kim's death. It might have been their first deep look into their mother's work. It made them, and me, proud all over again.

Kim was a great hospice social worker. It was a gift, for it's difficult work. She was soft when she needed to be, tough when it was deemed necessary. I can't begin to count the people who've come up to me since her death and told me what Kim's service meant to their families.

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So, this is it. This was our Kimmer. She had eyes of gold. And a spirit I could never quite figure out.

But that's OK. Love isn't supposed to be easy, with no pain. Living together is even more difficult. Shared space and community doesn't always connect well.

Yet, there hasn't been a day since Nov. 23, 2015, in which I haven't looked into those eyes and wondered a thousand different things.

I wonder what she'd be thinking about our growing family. About what I should do next. About that damn election.

I wonder what lies ahead for all of us.

But I don't wonder what role she played in my life and in the lives of our children. She was hard on all of us at times. Yet, we can still share those experiences with smiles and laughter and love.

We can also share that love over and over again. The diversity of the Melius children -- Ben, Ambryn, Bill, Matt, Andy and Mikell -- is something friends have admired about our parenting. I think they're just giving us kind praise, for there's always been this element of dysfunction in all our journeys. Maybe that's what makes it all so right.

This journey moves on without Mama Melius. Kimmer, we will continue to look into those eyes, ponder your guidance. And we will never forget your love.

All my love, Dane

P.S.: I finally watched another episode of NCIS. It contained a great message, one which would have made you smile. But it wasn't the same without you. I'll keep working on these things.