Day 15 drink pairing: A Power Outlet. Horchata flavored Rum, Fireball, ice, the blood of a virgin, unicorn tears, a bunch of other stuff... I have no idea. Stefan is a genius.
Do you believe, brothers and sisters? Do you believe in our lord and savior John Coltrane and his apostles, Miles, Dizzy and Ella? I believe, dear readers. I believe in the holy powers of those first five notes of Blue Train. I believe in the curative powers of the crooning of Sarah Vaughn.
I'm mostly joking. What I do believe in, however, is the take-me-to-the-river-and-drop-me-in-the-water, honest-to-God healing powers of a drink shared with good friends. For that purpose, there are few places better than Jazz Night at Barça. The music is great, the cover is non-existent, and the bartender is a mad genius.
This particular night, everyone at the table was carrying a heavy heart. The three of us all were close to Dahlia and the wounds are still pretty raw. To add to it, one of us is going to lose another close friend to cancer soon, and the other has a grandmother in the hospital. We all needed a few drinks and Stefan, the aforementioned genius, was willing to supply them.
A lot of people use "weight" and "burden sharing" as metaphors for talking about grief. These try to apply physical qualities to non-physical emotions. Grief does not follow the law of conservation of mass. By transmitting it, grief is, in fact, reduced. As the night went on, and the alcohol flowed and the cigarettes burned. Eventually, the talk turned to thoughts of grief and confessions flowed as easy as the cocktails. As time went on, sadness turned to relief and eventually a few hours of brief lightness. The grief and sadness were still there, combined with a million other emotions, but for a while none of it had to make sense, because it sure as hell didn't make sense to anybody else.
Day 12 Liquor pairing: New Amsterdam martini, extra vermouth, with a twist
Losing a loved one means having a lot of free time. Leaving any relationship means fewer dates, weekend trips, furniture shopping, etc. Losing Dahlia meant fewer doctors appointments, hospital visits, medication reminders, and trips to the pharmacy. All-in-all, that's about 40 hours a week to fill. I'm not up joining the management team at my neighborhood Applebee's, so I need to find other things to fill the time.
In the short term, that's honestly not too hard of a proposition. I have a funeral to plan, bank accounts to transfer, car titles to put in my name, and about a 100 other completely banal tasks to fill up my time. Getting back to work has proven ineffective. So far, that's meant getting about 5 hours through the day then completely zoning out. Staring at a computer screen thinking about data structures and distributed systems brings on a desire to be home in bed quicker than anything.
All of it has made me think about the person I was before I met Dahlia. I was quiet, nebbish, a poor dresser, and a teetotaler. Then again, very few interesting people think that high school was the epitome of their existence. So that might be a bit to far back to go. College is a different story; college is when people really find themselves. In college, I stopped listening to shitty music, learned to cook, and wrote ham-fisted, silly stories about lesbianism. It's when I started truly being comfortable with who I was. Perhaps there's some creature comforts to be had by reminiscing about Ann Arbor.
First thing was to buy a bunch of music. I've been a little obsessed with synthpop lately, so I picked up a bunch: M83, LCD Soundsystem, and some Kate Bush to bone up on the classics. Being frustrated that Chvrches album isn't out yet, I went to Sonic Boom and picked up Camera Obscura and Rhye's latest album. So, in summary, I spent more on music in the last five days than I have in the prior six months.
Music just reminds me of her though. I mean, how can someone listen to this and not think of their dead wife:
Next, I started picking out some recipes out of some cookbooks we had lying around. There were a few recipes I wanted to try. Cooking meals was one of the most frustrating parts of the caretaking process. Dahlia's palate changed on a seemingly hourly basis. There was little time to shop for ingredients and so a lot of meals were bland and boxed, or take out. When I would cook meals, her appetite would allow her to have a couple bites before pushing them aside. I don't blame her for this, but it was nonetheless frustrating. Part of grieving seems to be focusing on newfound freedoms regardless if they are cold comfort for the things lost.
I made lamb piccata last night. I made it because I couldn't find veal chops in the entire city after calling 15 different grocery stores and butchers. It was good for a first try. The problem with cooking for one is that fine dining is meant to be a shared experience. It's meant to be about shared plates and discussions of flavors. Perhaps it's time for a dinner party.
While I pursue these hobbies that seem to only provide me more evidence in why my wife is completely irreplaceable, there's one old habit I found comfort in: phone conversations with good friends. I spent an hour talking about all this grieving crap to someone on the east coast while it was completely irrational to be awake there. She still indulged me, however.
While the topics were certainly different from the prom dates and schoolgirl crushes of old, it still felt familiar in a very comforting way. The banter was knowing and the silences were calming. For a brief hour, things felt lighter. I suppose at this point in time, brief reprieves are all that's to be expected
My wife, the love of my life, died nine days ago. At 5:00am on August 3rd, my first kiss and my only love, took her last breath. I'm not sure what's next. How do you move on from the most important aspect of your life for the last 12 years? How does one learn to be single and adult for the first time at 31? Widower is an adjective for a 65 year old, not someone who still wears Chucks and listens to the Magnetic Fields. So... What the fuck is next?
Conventional wisdom says there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. There are at least two falsities there. First, five emotions are woefully incomplete. In the last nine days have found me adding Overwhelmedness, Forgetfulness. Regression, Fear, Sexual Desire, Nostalgia, Alcoholism, Humility, and Impatience. I'm sure seven or eight more will show up in the next week. Secondly, stages imply distinct phases, each occurring at a certain interval, before moving on to the next. Any given point in time has contained two, if not three of the five stages. I bargain with my depression, I accept my anger, and I certainly deny that I should be depressed about my bargaining. In summary, all I've learned is that convention is bullshit.
I miss her. There's a vacancy throughout my soul, and the only one who can lead me through this is gone. Instead, all I have is the ether. My only option is to type this out until I can find a solution. We'll just have to go through the fourteen stages together. Thanks for coming along.
