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.

Death of a friend, a classmate, a great one

Death changes a person. It should. One should reflect on a loved one's life, what it meant to you. What it meant to others.

When I was editor-publisher of The Winthrop News in the '80s, I would often write about a close friend's death. It would often trigger a rush of emotions, from me, from family of the deceased. I didn't write such columns often, but enough to try and bring some sense to death, to the inevitable end we all face. To try and make some meaning of life.

When I was young, I wanted to save the world. Today, I just want to save myself, save my soul. That's difficult enough. And part of saving one's soul, I believe, is to reflect. Search deep. Find some meaning to the madness. Maybe through it all, you'll manage to save your soul, and maybe one or two others along the way.

But some deaths are so much more difficult. When my dad died at 93, he was still sharp, still thinking, still talking politics and baseball. Puddy had become a close friend. And I wasn't yet ready to let him go, so despite his age and a body that failed him, he had much more to give. When my mom died a few years later, her mind had left. Karen's was no life to live. So we were ready to let go of mom.

Losing the first high school classmate, well that's something much different. From the Winthrop High School Class of 1975, all 54 of us were still around...until Oct. 31, 2014. Josef M. Yonkovich of Outing, MN, had battled cancer too long. It was time.

(Right, left to right: Joe Yonkovich, Mark Trebelhorn, me. These guys showed for my dad's funeral. Mark and I made it to Joe's.)

I always described Joe the same way: "He had the brightest smile and an even better hug." I had known Joe in many ways, like playing ping pong in the basement of the Yonkovich home on Hwy. 15 just north of Lafayette and shooting baskets in the loft of his barn, usually with his Lafayette area neighbor, Jim Youngblom. We were golf teammates. Joe had this beautiful swing, which contrasted harshly with my baseball grip.

But while I found success on the high school basketball court and golf course, Joe never really found himself during those times. He had not yet grown to his 6-5 frame, and he was living in the shadows of two older brothers, long gone from the Yonkovich home. I journeyed on my first cross country venture with Joe, visiting his brother Gene and wife Janice in Phoenix, Ariz. when we were just 16.

Joe and I flew to Phoenix together, met up with Gene and Janice who had been hosting Big John Yonkovich, Joe and Gene's rough-around-the-edges father. The three of us turned around and drove a car back to Minnesota and, at 16, learned a new vocabulary. Big John had those massive hands of a farmer and a temper to match. Joe told me the story of Big John tossing a pitchfork into the side of a disrespectful Holstein. I wouldn't have been a very good farmer.

I don't think Joe liked it all that well either, at least not as much as Big John. And when Joe left the family farm behind and headed into the Twin Cities, my visits with him slowed. But the annual treks by Joe down to Winthrop's annual alumni basketball tournament were treasured.

Joe had the dubious distinction of being one of only a couple basketball players ever cut from the WHS program. Increasing participant numbers among boys in the '70s, the advent of girls basketball, and the lack of facilities at old WHS prompted Coach Lyle Muth to reduce his squad. Coach told me many times since then that it was one of his deepest regrets in coaching. In those soon to be discovered alumni tournaments, Joe proved Coach Muth wrong about the cut, right about the regret.

Joe Yonkovich turned into one very fine basketball player. His shooting touch along the baseline was a treat to watch. He had this odd little kick of both legs when he shot his two-handed jumper, ball just a bit above his head. As a teammate, he was great. As a friend, he was unrivaled.

It can sometimes be sad when time and distance pulls friends away. But with Joe, he had found himself. He seemed to enjoy the Twin Cities, found meaningful work with Medtronic and later Boston Scientific. But mainly, he found Susan Olson. They married on May 23, 1997 in Brainerd. The couple had one daughter, Sydonia, still a junior in high school. And Joe embraced three step-children.

Joe also rediscovered the outdoors and loved it. His obituary made that clear: "He enjoyed fishing, four-wheeling, boating, snowmobiling and was an avid sports fan. He especially loved spending time with his family."

I had only met Susan once before the funeral, that years earlier at one of those alumni basketball tournaments. When I hugged her after the funeral, I didn't want to let go. I tried to tell her just how much Joe meant to me, how special he was to my wife, Kim, how my kids remembered how fondly I spoke of him. But the tears returned. So I hugged a bit more.

I hugged like Joe would hug me. With that brightest of smiles and the deepest sincerity.

But what struck me most was Susan's strength and message. She said despite the pain and suffering Joe battled these past few years, it made their marriage stronger. It gave her a deeper sense of his love and commitment to family. Without the cancer, she said, she would have never felt Joe's true spirit.

That is the message Joe leaves us all. Peace, dear friend.

Henderson's allure goes beyond the classic cars;
it's about leadership and a love of Main Street 
by Dana Melius

Henderson, a town of just 886, saw its numbers swell by the thousands at last Tuesday's "Classic Car Roll-In" finale. A record 320 classic cars and another 200 motorcycles lined the streets of this small, eastern Sibley County community.

But it's more than just the amazing, restored old cars that draws them in to Henderson. It's an old-fashioned fun night that one rarely sees in these parts any more. It's a historic Main Street that has taken to preservation like few others. And it's about a vibrant leadership network that doesn't slow down and constantly is thinking both outside the traditions of small town and in a bold, "can-do" attitude.

Granted, Henderson's close proximity to the Twin Cities and the riches of the western and southern suburbs helps immensely; but any small town in close proximity could do the same...and hasn't. And the bluffs of the Minnesota River and its Scenic Byway routes into Henderson don't hurt either.

But this is special in so many other ways. Henderson discovered its niche long before its Chamber of Commerce began encouraging classic car enthusiasts and bikers to come to town. Historic preservation of Henderson's Main Street, along Hwy. 19, and the revitalization of the community's educational roots helped springboard this growing excitement and pride of small-town living. Henderson is what small-town, rural life should be about -- a commitment to education, civic engagement and volunteerism, and a renewed desire for a simpler way.

In Henderson, it's not just a pipe dream or dying vision. It's a reality show worth watching.