Stage 1: Old Hobbies

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