A Ken-sized hole

On the anniversary of my father-in-law's death.

A year and a day ago, my father-in-law died suddenly. We were with him — on a spring break ski trip in Colorado.

He was utterly healthy one day. And gone the next.

His loss, like all losses, was a blow. But, it goes much deeper than that. Because Ken Fenoglio was not just a good man. He was a great man.

When he died, I wrote about him in this space. Here’s a little bit of it (though I sincerely hope you read the whole thing):

This was a man who lived to inspire others to their best, to make sure they knew they had someone on their side who was solely concerned with them succeeding in whatever way they sought to define that.

And as I have thought about Ken over these past few days — and he’s been on my mind nearly all the time — I’ve realized how much it meant to me to have someone like him in my life.

He didn’t want anything from me. He wasn’t helping me to boost himself. He didn’t need any recognition or shine from our relationship. He just cared about me and rooted for me — unquestioningly.

It’s been a year now. I’d like to tell you we have all successfully processed our grief from Ken’s death. That things are back(ish) to normal.

Some days they are! Some times we can tell a story about Pop (as his MANY grandkids called him) and have tears of joy rather than of sadness!

But, death and loss isn’t a linear process. Each day doesn’t get better. Some days are fine. Some days are even good. But bad days are still there. And they don’t just go away because it’s been a year (or 5 years or 20 years).

What I’ve noticed in my own life as this year has passed is that there is a Ken-sized space in my life that no one else can fill.

Yesterday morning, for example, my younger son, a baseball player, had a doubleheader. We had to be there at 8 am. We left the house at 7:20.

As I groggily settled into the deeply uncomfortable bleachers — my kingdom for a set of bleachers that doesn’t make my butt numb and my back seize up! — I thought to myself: Ken would have LOVED this.

This was a guy who dreampt about working on the grounds crew for a Major League Baseball team when he retired. A guy who, when he drove to our house in Virginia from Texas(!), would bring a mobile batting cage to set up in our backyard. A guy who spent weeks every summer visiting different baseball ballparks with a friend.

The boys talking with each other as they warmed up. The lines being laid on the field. The exchanging of lineups between the coaches. All the little stuff that we as sports parents barely tolerate, my father-in-law ate up.

My son was the starting pitcher in the game yesterday. And as I sat alone on the bleachers — my wife was taking my older son to a soccer tryout — I could almost hear Ken sitting next to me.

“Attaboy!,” he would shout after every strike my son threw. “Way to go after him!,” he would urge. And, when the last out of the inning was recorded, he would have probably gone with his trademark: A loud “Wooooooodoggie.”

Ken wasn’t just good in good times. When my son struck out on a high fastball yesterday, I know Ken would have taken him aside after the game, told him that even the best players strike out sometimes and then gently reminded him to “lay off the high cheese.” And my son would have listened. Because he loved the hell out of Pop — and because he knew how much Pop loved him.

God I miss him.

I feel that Ken-sized whole every single time I think hard about my life and my career too.

Ken spent his life in human resources and executive leadership. He understood — way better than I did — about layoffs. About how to think of your next act. About second chances.

I find myself wishing I could just text with him. “Hey, I got this opportunity, what do you think?” Or: “Am I crazy to want to stay in journalism?” Or: “Am I doing this — all of this — right?”

I always relied on his wisdom and counsel. But, I took it for granted too. He would call me sometimes to talk and I wouldn’t return the call for days. (I am not a good phone person.) I assumed he would be around forever. That there would be plenty of days where I could pick his brain — about work, sports, kids, being a husband, faith, almost anything where I was uncertain.

But now he is gone. And I don’t have that person anymore. I notice the loss so much more acutely than I ever noticed his presence. Which sucks. Like Cinderella (the band not the princess) says: “Don’t know what you’ve got/until it’s gone.”

It’s selfish, I know, to want someone back in your life solely because you need them — need their support, their love and their advice. Ken’s family believes deeply that he is in a better place now — and I want to believe that too. Because if there is a Heaven, Ken Fenoglio went straight there 366 days ago. No question in my mind.

Selfish or not though, I have a Ken-sized hole in my life. And one year on, I realize I always will. That’s what happens when someone great is gone. They are, quite literally, irreplaceable. There isn’t another Ken Fenoglio waiting out there to come into my life. I realize now I am lucky I got to spend as much time with him as I did.

What I would wish for every single one of you is that you have (or will have) a Ken Fenoglio in your own lives. They are rare. The exception to the rule. If you do have one, hold tight to them. Spend time with them. Talk to them as much as you can. Soak up being with them.

Because, one day, they will be gone. And you will have your own Ken-sized hole.

I’ve started lately to think of my missing Ken as a way to honor him. When I find myself thinking “Man, I wish Ken were here” or “Ken would have loved this” I am keeping him alive in my memory. I can hear him. See him. Feel the hug he gave me every time we came together after a while apart.

In his absence, I feel his presence. I love you Ken.