Mother's Day 2016
This was a Mother's Day like no other. For the first time in my 59 years, there was no mom.

With Kim gone, we all tried. I bought hanging plants, because it's what she liked to do on these type of days. To my surprise, so did Mikell, who also bought small potted plants for the side of our house. It was one of those odd rituals Kim had, and she had plenty.

Andy, Sarah and Juni did similar things in Traverse City, Michigan.

Kim liked these simple things. She would be pleased to know the kids have been checking up on each other, trying to get some sense of how everyone was faring this Mother's Day 2016. She was so proud of her six children. So am I, more than ever.

But it's not the same, nor should it be. And that's what we all wrestled with. There's this huge hole in our lives, more so than we'd ever have imagined. Mikey's post late Sunday night summed it up, I think:

To a woman who loved with everything she had, who wasn't afraid to speak her mind and enjoyed a cold beer.

I more than miss you mom. I ache for you, and I so wish you were here.. Every single day I strive to be the loving, caring, helpful, sassy, strong woman that you were.

Forever and always Mamma.

Happy Mother's Day ❤️

You try to be better prepared for these moments, but I'm guessing there's truly no way to be. I have always told my kids that no one day means any more to me than any other. Live for each one. Every moment is sacred.

The week began with the grandson's first birthday on May 1. It would have been a moment, a day Kim would have both reveled in and pretty much smothered Myles, and been almost too much to bear! It was a day that I knew, eventually, would become emotional. Oddly, it hit Bill and I when I danced softly with Myles, as he fell asleep on my shoulder, listening of all things to the Adam Levine version of Prince's "Purple Rain."

Myles and I had been practicing during a babysitting episode a few days earlier. Who knew he'd konk out before the guitar solo. But it was touching, and a day Bill and Jess so wanted Kim to witness.

The week also included the Saturday dance recital of grand-daughters Bryce and Brynn at Mankato West, of which Kim usually was the loudest to cheer of all mothers/grandmothers.

I sat in the auditorium with Ben (right) and Mikell and couldn't help but get emotional again. Every one of these highlights, be it a birthday or dance recital or next Mother's Day, she would no longer experience. And we'll keep planning for Matt and Krystal's wedding without her.

So she needs to be in us.

Ambryn, who is anxiously planning a move back to Minnesota this summer with wife Alex, set up a mini-shrine in honor of Mother's Day at her place in Seattle. There is now a different, even renewed love for Kim.

We are stumbling through these days as best we can. And they are still very good times. But Mother's Day, of all days, tests one's soul.

We will make it. And we will make it together.

Five months: The healing magic of music and dance

I've hit the concert and music circuit often since my wife Kim died Nov. 23. It's therapeutic and soothes my soul. I'm even remembering Kim's simple message to me when I'd get emotional listening to certain songs:

"Then quit listening to so many sad songs!" she'd tell me. Kim liked dancing to Aretha Franklin and Motown. Her final dance at the Seattle wedding of Ambryn and Alex in September 2015 was a classic. And it will continue to be one my family's cherished pictures.

Singer-songwriters simply write a lot of sad songs. While they can tug at your heart, the messages come from the soul. And it makes for great messages in songs, for most of us have gone through some heartache.

I love music. A couple decades ago when I took in a community leadership retreat, then called the Institute for Renewing Community Leadership, the question was asked if one had to do it all over again, what path might you take. I said singer-songwriter.

But I laughed a bit about it. Talent helps and makes that do-over easier.

For I grew up listening to Jackson Browne and others of that genre. Those '70s songwriters like Browne brought great lyrics to great songs. His "For a Dancer" is still among my all-time favorites, and when I spoke at my high school graduation back in 1975, I quoted from another Browne tune, "These Days."

"Don't confront me with my failures, I had not forgotten them."

Kim wasn't planning on dying just yet. So, while she and I talked very briefly about some funeral plans, the only thing I recalled was she wanted the Patty Griffin song -- "Heavenly Day."

It wasn't, however, an easy choice. Youngest son Andy and his wife Sarah had that song at their wedding. But after some family discussion, we opted for it to be played. And I'm glad we did.

Who to play it was a bit more difficult. We have some great singers and musicians in the Melius circle -- Tyler Polzin, Tom Womack, Jeff Melius. But they were too close. So I sent out a Facebook inquiry to my musician friends and, amazingly, three came through in short order.

Ann Rosenquist Fee found one; Mary Jane Alm said she would check within her network. But it was Lori Jean Mathiowetz who found Andrea Lyn Gehrke. We'd never met, but she didn't hesitate, played with such passion and depth, and her song will be forever etched in our family's history and souls.

Found out later she married the son of a high school classmate of mine, Dave Gehrke. A couple of months later, I attended a fundraiser of hers in New Ulm, one raising money for kids in the New Ulm school district without a permanent address, those who were likely couch hopping or living with relatives.

Music has that power. Always has.

That's part of the reason Prince's death -- and his tributes -- touch us so. I joined a couple friends Thursday night at First Avenue in Minneapolis. I was touched by the simplicity of action, for thousands joined in a peaceful, yet rocking tribute. It was special.

I was never a diehard Prince fan, never saw him live. But loved his music and "Purple Rain" was, and is, my favorite. Same goes for "Nothing Compares 2 U," which Prince wrote and Sinead O'Connor made popular.

But Prince's evolution and personal journey I found interesting. He had so many gifts to share and he seemed to be re-inventing himself, growing, and -- finally -- opening up to his fans. But the time of his death, he had also grown spiritually and was giving back to causes, those in need. Particularly our youth.

One of his lesser known songs, "Sometimes It Snows in April," touches both our heartache and the magic of music.

Sometimes it snows in April
Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad
Sometimes I wish that life was never ending,
But all good things, they say, never last

All good things they say, never last
And love, it isn't love until it's past

That truly sums up this journey. This thing called life.

Four Months...and a week on the Melius docket

I'm making progress. I passed one of the true benchmarks of being able to move on a bit from the unexpectedness of Kim's Nov. 23 death -- I was able to watch another TV episode of NCIS.

It's one of those funny things but so real. Kim loved NCIS. She'd watched the reruns on the USA network...over and over. And she remain quite pissed over Ziva David leaving.

But I had tried to sit down and watch an NCIS episode shortly after Kim's funeral, and it became too emotional. It didn't seem fair she wasn't there in the living room.

It was the same with the show Castle. Son Ben got Kim hooked on that one, and it did give me a bit of reprieve from NCIS.

Kim had these spurts, favoring certain series. The first was Star Trek: The Next Generation. She moved on more recently to rerun movie marathons, particularly the Harry Potter films and James Bond. Now, none of it seems right watching. So I don't. Maybe one NCIS episode will move me a bit further down this path.

And I am moving on. It's day-to-day and never quite the same. I immerse myself in work at times, lucky to have good friends in both the journalism profession and personal life. I keep reaching out to those I trust and who I believe are comfortable dealing with my thoughts. Not everyone is. Not everyone talks of death easily or openly. Kim taught me that, how different people deal with death.

I know each of my kids are dealing with it differently, as well. Ben is in Mankato and spending many weekends following two dancers -- Bryce and Brynn. They're both amazing in their own unique ways. Brooke, I think, is taking Kim's death as hard as anyone. But I appreciate her questions and glad Kim meant so much to her. Unique relationships often add to this amazing journey, and their's was.

Ambryn is hanging on in Seattle, anxious to move back to Minnesota. Her and Alex experienced Kim at her fullest during their 2015 wedding. Today, with Kim gone, that Seattle wedding seems almost magical in many ways. As I have noted before, it was the first time Kim and I had ever sat together in an airplane, after more than 36 years of marriage and four years prior. It surprised both of us when we realized it. We lived such different lifestyles, contrasting professions, often with separate friend networks. Those of us who made Seattle will never forget it.

Billy has become as proud a dad as I've seen. He and Jess live in St. Peter, so I've been able to see them often, babysitting some, watching our only grandson Myles admire the world around him. He's a serious little tyke, much like his dad. And a momma's boy. One of my fondest memories is seeing Kim and Myles gazing out their living room window, watching the simple things, both in amazement, surely in different views.

Matt took a new job as executive chef at the Henderson RoadHaus. I'm so happy for his change, for I've rarely seen a harder worker than Matt. And Henderson is such a grand community, with that historic downtown and dedicated leadership network. He's going to be moving there in June, and awaits an August wedding with fiance, Krystal.

That wedding is going to be emotional in many ways. It's the fourth straight summer of weddings for the Melius family, but the only one Kim will miss. We never imagined she wouldn't be around for it, so all of us need to keep that in mind as we move closer to that celebration.

Andy and Sarah are both special ed teachers and coaches in Traverse City, Michigan. It's a gorgeous place, and we're also fortunate Kim was able to see it. Granddaughter Juniper might just be the happiest little tyke ever. I'm proud of those two teachers, as I am of many of those in that underpaid, increasingly tough profession. And I'm more proud of their parenting skills.

And there's Mikell. She has been a rock of support for me these months. She's taken tons of time to spend it with me, living (most of the time) in Winthrop at the house. And she's joined me at the St. Peter Herald and has gained the trust and support of fellow co-workers in our demanding field, as well. She'll be settling into her own apartment soon. There are no ways to properly thank her for what she's given to me since Kim died.

Mikell now needs her own space; we both understand that. She just turned 24, remains adventurous, having spent time in Europe and more recently a hiking trip into some of the most amazing scenery in the southwestern region of the Grand Canyon.

Just as importantly, I need to move on. That is so difficult to put my arms around. It hurts saying it, it hurts typing it. I had been fully prepared to move on helping Kim in her health journey. And I was proud of her in many ways, for she was opening up about it and glad to finally come to grips with it all. As difficult as these four months have been at times, I am so fortunate to have been next to her during her challenges, just as she was for me.

March 24 would have been our 37th anniversary. It's also Billy and Grandpa Mel's birthdays. It was, needeless to say, a big day in the Melius-Polzin families. And, as always, we made it through with ongoing love.

I will do the same in the months and years to come. But, dearest Kim, it is time to move on. Just as you have. I miss you, but you will forever be in my heart and soul. And those grandest of accomplishments -- Ben, Ambryn, Billy, Matt, Andy and Mikell -- will hold you, as well.

Peace. Let us all find peace.

Three months

Three months have gone by since Kim's death. At times, it remains surreal.

But the reality of it now surfaces daily. I no longer cry every day. In a lot of ways, I liked it better when I cried.

I don't want to lose my grasp of Kim, her ways, her voice, her biting wit, her love for her children and grandchildren. This new reality is now the family's journey together. And there is a key missing ingredient.

Me and the six kids are dealing with the change as best we can. For each of us, it's certainly similar in ways, very different in others. We grieve differently, we remember Kim differently. But we do deeply remember.

Every day I slide my hand over Kim's urn, I look at her photo, smile and move on. That's both the surreal nature of it all and the struggle with the reality. I've been surprised by the depth of my grief, for we fought too much over 36 years of marriage. We disagreed often on important matters. We both made too many mistakes.

But we shared so much together. And we had become best friends again.

I also no longer struggle so at night getting to sleep. Kim's last day, last minutes, had been haunting me. I'm over that, thank goodness, and have left it in the hands of lawyers I deeply respect and trust. It's best left with them. But there still seems to be a bit of survivor's guilt living inside me.

There still are rough times. One of the worst was finding Kim's glasses. I had misplaced them for a spell, and daughter Mikell was thinking about filling them with her eye prescription. Taking them out of the case, I recalled Kim with those glasses, kitty-wampus on her head because of having to wear a beanie due to her brain tumor surgery.

Mikell had originally picked them up from a St. Peter eyeglasses place in preparation for Kim's post-surgery recovery; contacts weren't going to work for a time. And Kim was pleased with them.

It was even a tougher day when I received a call from the physician who performed Kim's hysterectomy to address her uterine cancer. She asked if I wanted to hear the final report, and I did.

The surgery had been successful; Kim was cancer free. No chemo, no radiation would have been necessary had Kim lived. Ironically, my wife was a cancer survivor...only briefly. We're still searching for the answers. Answers which likely will never come.

Still, my personal journey is blessed by my children and grandchildren. Mikell has moved back for a spell, which I have so enjoyed. And we're now co-workers at the St. Peter Herald. These unexpected windows of opportunity also close quickly, so I treasure them.

And while I try to maintain a healthy balance, not cause the kids to worry about me, yet also provide strength and guidance, our depth of love certainly grows. How can it not? There is so much ahead of us all. And Kim, while likely being darn mad that she's not going along for the ride, would want us to hold tightly to this love.

I have also been blessed with my work, which I deeply love. Getting back into journalism has been a gift. It's also brought me into an amazing new community, with people who care about me and I them. I can not thank them enough.

My new friends at River Rock Coffee and St. Peter Food Co-op, at Patrick's, at St. Peter Public Schools lift me daily. I'm proud to share a sense of community with such talents as Ann Rosenquist Fee and Nicole Helget. Dr. Paul Peterson, St. Peter superintendent, checks on me from time to time, It means a lot.

My passion for and love of music is healing and spiritual for me. It's initiated my new friendship with the talented Mary Jane Alm, prompted me to take in the sounds more often, to grow in new and different ways. This Saturday, I will see gifted Indianapolis singer-songwriter Carrie Newcomer for the first time in over 15 years, when she sings and spiritual guru Parker Palmer speaks in Belle Plaine.

But despite this renewed sense of purpose and hope, it's still a struggle at times, I remain somewhat lost.

It will be an ongoing roller coaster ride, I've been told. It's simply a ride none of us expected.

Two months

How you doing? The daily ritual following wife's death

Two months. It's been two months since my wife, Kim, died unexpectedly Nov. 23. Nothing's changed, yet everything's different.

My guess is only someone who's had to journey through such loss, such shock to the norm, can understand this dichotomy.

I sensed it almost immediately. In a heartbeat -- Kim's final heartbeat -- life had changed. In the hospital room where all hell broke loose, it had seemed both surreal and dysfunctional. My wife had made it through three successful surgeries in less than six months. Suddenly, she was gone.

I ushered everyone out, stroked her hair and left cheek, kissed her forehead and managed a tearful, "I am so sorry." It might seem an odd first thought, but we had gone through so much together, and now she was going to miss so much more.

Two new grandchildren. Three straight years of children's marriages, with one more in 2016. A daughter moving back to Minnesota from Seattle with her partner. Six children, four grandchildren. Likely more. She was so looking forward to tomorrow.

And a new furnace. The day after Kim died, the Melius house had a new furnace installed. Kim and I had managed through a couple weeks of no heat, huddled in the living room, staying cozy with a couple space heaters, thanks in part to a mild November.

The whole scene seemed rather symbolic of our journey. Managing to get by, yet always looking ahead.

Now, looking ahead is completely different. But there's a part of you which longs for nothing to change. As family gathered in those early days, I remember vividly son Andy saying how he worries he won't remember the sound of his mother's voice. You don't want such memories to fade.

Nearly every day since Kim's death, the question is asked by someone. How you doing?

Pretty good, I might say. Considering the circumstances. When the death is sudden, a shock, and when you have no chance to say goodbye, how does one truly know? Better than what? Better than yesterday? Certainly better than that final hospital scene.

I am moving forward. But I still cry nearly every day. Each night, often before I can sleep, Kim's final minutes of life flash before me again. Every night.

And we still have no answers. Probably never will. Kim's autopsy revealed no clear sign of what happened. No blood clot, which medical personnel at the time suspected. Her heart was strong. Respiratory failure, which caused cardiac arrest. What caused the respiratory failure remains a question mark.

So, how am I really doing? I'm OK. But there's this strong need to check up on my kids, see how they're doing and handling the emotions. We all grieve differently. I cry, sometimes at unexpected times. Sometimes at special songs, favorite memories. But moving on is also important to me, and it should be to all of us.

I'm not overwhelmed by it all. I'm not extremely bitter, even though every part of me believes Kim should not have died. Such anger could destroy one's soul. And I won't let it happen.

You know, I deeply respect people of faith. But I live with a comfortable balance of faith and reason. It's one of my deeply-rooted core principles. And it was not Kim's time. She was boldly moving ahead, dealing with a myriad of health concerns and happy about the direction. And she was still contributing mightily to society in the best way she knew, by being respectful to the aged and honoring them and their families.

None of us wanted that to change. So we hold on to her deeply, yet move on.  But it's so different. It seems almost like survivor's guilt. Every walk, every step, there's a memory. Even the ugly ones, as Matt and I have laughed about past Christmas shopping ventures with Kim. Painful stuff. But now I walk through River Hills Mall in Mankato and feel lost without her.

This feeling likely won't change for me. For it is all so different.

One month

My life partner of over 40 years died Nov. 23. Kimberly Ann (Polzin) Melius had just turned 58 and died unexpectedly following complications from cancer surgery. She loved Christmas with family and will be dearly missed this year and beyond.

Life’s journey can be difficult at times, and this is certainly one of those. But nobody knew better than her of life’s circle and the reality of it all. She was a gifted hospice social worker much of her life. Still, for our six children and four grandchildren, Kim’s death hit hard.

I promised myself I’d put together my thoughts one month later, for the days move by so quickly, and life tries to return to some sense of normalcy. But it will never be the same.

Kim was more than a gifted social worker. She was tough. Death isn’t an easy path nor very often welcomed. Kim was gentle and compassionate to those individuals and families, blunt and pointed at times when needed. Her days providing hospice care were her finest, and she touched lives from St. James to Waseca, Arlington to Mankato and beyond.

On the few occasions families allowed me to tag along, I was so impressed with her passion, her ethics and her advocacy for the dying.

A past co-worker of Kim’s said she could be as hard as a nail or soft as a marshmallow, often at the same time. That pretty much summed up Kim.

The kids understood both sides, too. Family life isn’t always simple or easy. Six children and their differing personalities add to the sometimes dysfunctional nature of a large family. We weren’t perfect in our parenting skills and differed often on the right touch.

Marriage, too, can be difficult, and Kim and I struggled at times. But love evolves; it rarely adheres to the same design through the years. As Kim battled through some health issues over the past few years, she and I again became best friends. That might sound raw, but it’s so important.

The kids noticed, too. Nearly every night, Kim would place her head on my shoulder and thank me for helping her through the battles. She had undergone parathyroid surgery in May, invasive brain surgery for a benign tumor in October, and was staring at a third surgery Nov. 23 to address uterine cancer. This one was supposed to be rather routine, if surgery ever is. We’re still waiting for answers as to what went wrong.

I had become her caretaker in many ways. And I was perfectly fine in that role. It’s what you do for your life partner. I had often joked with Kim, sometimes to her sharp eyes, that 36 years of marriage wrecks one’s search for a soulmate. The joke sounds harsh, but there’s some reality to it. And as we both came to understand it and accept such reality, we relaxed and enjoyed life together.

One’s life partner, the love of it all and the great experiences and journey, prompt change. Love evolves and changes with it. Such was our relationship and marriage. Through all the ups and downs, we grew close. And I am so damn grateful for that.

Our jobs through the years often placed us on separate paths, with different friend networks. But this diverse group of friends, as well as those unique networks of our children, surfaced at Kim’s memorial service in Winthrop, our hometown. This overwhelming support, as well as touching words and thoughts on social media, was so appreciated by my family.

My presence in St. Peter over the past 18 months has also brought me into an entirely new network of friends. It was, and is, becoming my community. Kim and I had been discussing a move to the area, our first-ever discussion of leaving our hometown.

You know, when you’re caught between communities, one can feel a bit disjointed. And a sense of community is so important. So I am pleased and humbled the St. Peter community has become such a key part of my life.

That life has been forever altered. But it remains an amazing journey. And there is a great deal of good ahead. Kim would want us all to know that and move forward. And she would remind you to hug your loved ones, tight and often, and never be shy to tell them so.

And we will. Peace to you, my dear.

Daughter’s Gustavus days remembered

My oldest daughter, Ambryn, graduated from Gustavus Adolphus College in 2003. It was not always an easy transition to start for her, moving from GFW High School in Winthrop to this new environment despite just 35 miles away.

Dorm life brings its challenges. And Ambryn only half-joked about being on a first name basis with those in the business office. Leaving her little sister at home also brought unexpected calls from then 7-year-old Mikell, who missed her big sister/roommate and was left with four brothers in the Melius household.

But Ambryn found her way, thanks in large part of her new friends, some great professors, and active involvement with the Gustavus Diversity Center. She and roommate Bethany Mueller of Little Falls became BFFs long before the acronym surfaced.                                        

And in the fall of 2001, Ambryn and other Gustavus students, along with professor Doug Huff, journeyed to India for a study abroad semester. Those global educational dreams grab many of our youth, and those experiences and memories shape one’s soul, principles and convictions.                  

But the Gustavus students’ India trip was cut short by the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. Most of us remember that day, where we were, the horror of it all, the utter disbelief.

I was standing in my living room that morning, having heard the news and quickly switching between news reports of a commercial airliner crashing into one of the World Trade Towers. And I vividly recall Bryant Gumbel’s expression when the second plane hit; not until then did the full understanding of the day’s events unfold – this was no accident.

Communications throughout the world were disrupted; trying to get in touch with loved ones scattered around the globe was nearly impossible. We didn’t hear from Ambryn for hours.

But that was a far cry from the sights and sounds of New York. The days and weeks ahead were grueling. A total of 2,977 victims died from the terrorist attacks. Nineteen hijackers downed four planes – the two which hit the towers, one into the Pentagon, one into the fields of Pennsylvania.

Those early days following the attacks brought international sympathy to Americans worldwide. Ambryn and her fellow Gustavians were initially safe and continued their studies. It all changed when U.S. bombers struck Afghanistan on Oct. 7, 2001. Pro-American sentiment – President George Bush’s approval ratings hit 90 percent – died quickly.

Gustavus was faced with a difficult decision – bringing the study abroad students from India back home. Ambryn and her classmates, for the most part, disagreed with the decision. But a few years later, Ambryn and Bethany returned to India, feeling a need to finish their work.

It’s all part of the learning process. Dreams and tragedy, friendships and heartache. It is, indeed, a remarkable journey.

And Ambryn’s journey takes a new turn on Sept. 19, when she’s set to marry her partner, Alexandria Kewitt. I’m thinking her days at Gustavus, the trips to India, growing up with four brothers and a baby sister in a Melius household which tried dang hard to allow for individual growth and discovery, all helped.

These words are how Ambryn framed her feelings, just days before the wedding:

“It struck me this morning, as Alex and I stepped up to the county recorder’s desk and asked for a marriage license, that I never expected I’d do this…you know, this marriage thing. Partly because I used to thing marriage wasn’t for me, and then again also because marriage was not allowed for me.

“But today, alongside the woman with whom I’m wildly in love and certain I want to spend my life beside, we walked on up, took up space, filled in spaces, and were provided a means for recognition and rights. Still so much work to do on so many fronts, but for today, I shall be grateful and oh-so-humbled by all whom have come before us.”

Well said, daughter.