Stage 15: The Broken Hearts Club

Day 511: Rosemary Gimlet: Oola Rosemary Vodka, Muddled Lime, Simple Syrup

It's easy, especially during times of grief, to suspect that you're alone in the world. After losing a partner when young, you can easily come to the conclusion that no one can understand the loss of a partner in their 20's or 30's. After all, you've either spent years with one person, back-to-back, knives drawn against some horrible disease, or had the person you've wagered your entire future on violently ripped away in an instant. That experience usually leaves a person adrift, seemingly isolated. The more you float, however, the more the currents converge and you find yourself floating with others.

It's interesting to have found my own Broken Hearts Club. I'm not sure if we're just drawn to one another or if probability alone has caused me to talk to so many widows and widowers in the last 16 months, but somehow I've met what seems like more than my fair share of drifting mourners.

For some reason or another, my flag football team has seen more than its fair share of tragedy. Though I haven't talked to him since Dahlia died, our former team captain, now living in San Diego, lost his wife in a car crash. Another team member lost her husband to cancer several years ago. She was the first to reach out to me to talk. We discussed last days and the aftermath for those left behind. We talked about dating after loss and she told me a lot of things that I wasn't ready to listen to and perhaps still haven't fully absorbed. Nevertheless, she's been a great reminder that grief is not a death sentence. She has a charming and handsome husband and two beautiful children. If I can get what she has after all is said and done, I won't feel okay with what has happened, but I'll probably be content.

A couple of months ago, Rose and I started going to a group for partner loss. I've been always been a little skeptical of group therapy, especially for partner loss. I was worried that it would be filled with 70 year old widows weeping over a life long lived. While their grief is valid, it's not one I can sympathize with. After Rose went to the center to talk to the counselors over at The Healing Center in Roosevelt and talked to them about the groups they run and surprising to me, anyway, their average age for their partner loss groups was early 40's. With that information, I decided to give it a try.

I'm not sure if, for me anyway, group therapy has the curative effect many people seek from it. What I do gain from it is an understanding of how similar yet diverse our stories of grief can be. Despite its public nature, group is a very private function, so it's against the rules to go into specifics of each person's mourning. I will say, that despite the details of each person's loss, there is a recurring theme of misunderstanding by the outside world. As much as friends and family try to sympathize with the pain of partner loss, there is a disconnect that cannot be remedied. It is in that disconnection that those grieving can unite.

Of the handful of times I've gone to group, there's been a few resonant moments during the sessions. None have rang more clear than something the facilitators, all widows or widowers themselves, said during one of the sessions. Directed to those members that were only a few months out, one of them said that in the future, they would look back with deep reverence on the pain they were experiencing. As someone 16 months out in a room of people much less removed, I suppose the most I gained from it was the connection to the pain I once felt. There's a lot of guilt involved in losing the connection with those left behind. The fading memories of a loved one, no matter how painful, bring you closer to the deceased. As those events get further and further apart, you tend to wish for them more and more. Despite the pain and loneliness they cause, I still long for the dreams with Dahlia. They only happen every couple months, and screw up my whole day, but provide a connection that I'm getting less and less.

About six months after Dahlia died, one of my best friends, Tom, had a good friend die of cancer. He was diagnosed shortly after Dahlia, so Tom had to deal with two of his friends slowly consumed by the disease at the same time. While he wasn't as invested in either person as I was in Dahlia, his pain isn't one that I envy nor can I hope to fully understand it. During difficult times, men seem to offer advice, women offer empathy. During times of grief, advice is can be the worst thing you can provide a person. Each person's loss is a journey and trying to short circuit that pilgrimage can have a lot of unintended consequences. Regardless, it seems to be my nature to see things as problems and solutions, and as a result, I told him to allow himself to feel the emotions to come. But perhaps the suppression of those feelings is part of the process in and of itself. Not only are the isolation, the anger and the survivor's guilt milestones on the path to recovery, but the suppression and delay of such feelings are also necessary markers on the same journey.

A month ago, I met the partner of Tom's friend. She came to Tom's birthday party. While she didn't know who I was right away, I had known her from the descriptions Tom had provided. After a great concert and a few drinks, several of us shared a cab home. She and I were left in the cab alone, but still unsure how aware of my identity she was, I remained silent. I wanted to ask the worst of questions of a mourner, "How are you doing?", but I restrained myself. Luckily, we were able to connect on Facebook and talk later about our grief. We met about a week later over coffee to talk about the frustrations of dealing with partner loss in a world that doesn't really understand it.

We had a really great, tear filled talk. We talked about the slow fade of cancer and the last days of the disease. We talked about how even the most well-meaning of intentions can quickly take a turn for the bizarre or offensive when dealing with grief. Coffee turned into drinks and more tales of inappropriate relatives, little things left behind and funeral planning. It's turned into a quickly budding friendship and I'm happy to have her as a fellow commiserator.

Then, of course, there's Rose. Rose and I have an amazing friendship that has grown into a relationship that's difficult to describe. What started as a short romance has turned into a deep and nourishing friendship for which I will be eternally grateful. We've ended up, hand-in-hand, guiding the other through this horrible journey called mourning. We've had to be each other's strength when the other was weak, a shoulder to cry on when the tears started flowing, and a calm listener when the emotions found words. In addition to the pain, there's been a lot of joy in knowing her. She's taken this introverted, broken man and got him out into the world in a way I wasn't sure I was capable of. I'm not sure where I'd be without her, but I'm sure I would be a lesser person.

It humbles me to step back and think about all the people that have entered my life as a direct result of Dahlia dying. Don’t get me wrong, I'd trade them all in a minute for a healthy Dahlia, but life would be far more difficult without them.   This Broken Hearts Club has been invaluable and while I can't say I hope to see it grow, I do hope we can continue to help each other when we need it.

Stage 14: Learning to Take a Punch

Day 484: Thirsty Puritan: Bourbon, Cranberry juice, Rosemary tincture, Meletti amaro

Over the past eight months or so, I've dated several women. For the most part, it's been two dates and one or both parties have become uninterested. I haven't had any truly unpleasant dates. I haven't had the horror stories I've heard from others, but to be fair most of those experiences seem to happen to straight women. On the whole, the failures have been those of mere chemistry, either physical or emotional.

There was one woman, we'll call her Mary; Mary was special. We dated off and on from March to August. She was smart, beautiful and had a sense of whimsy that I was instantly drawn to. She fascinated me with her passions for theater, cycling and music. While we dated, I found myself invested in her interests. I had a strong desire to join her in common experiences in a way that only Rose has done for me since Dahlia passed.

We went to her theater together. We'd bike across town and enjoy time in the park discussing our favorite musicians or podcasts. She found me interesting for some reason, and was actually willing to discuss my relationship with Dahlia. It may have been the thing that kept us together for as long as we were. She was a lost soul, as was I. In very different ways, we were both desperate to learn how to go about living, confused about how to carry ourselves in a world that didn't seem meant for us. We only differed in our ability to be honest about this fact. Though Mary may not have put it as bluntly, she was far better at admitting to her mental wanderlust. It was perhaps the thing that drew me to her the most and was certainly the thing that eventually pushed me away.

In between the trips to the park and beers at Brouwer's, I had become a literal shoulder for her to cry on. Her difficult job situation, a death of an old friend and her isolation from those she loved all made their way into a relationship I felt I needed to keep casual. She deserved someone to confide in, but as it kept happening my mind shut off to her needs. I tried to be a good companion, but part of me feared another tear. I had seen a lot of drama in the last four years. I wasn't in a place to be a support for someone else. I knew it needed to end but I lacked the courage to tell her.

Rose became a very good friend over this time, a better one than I deserved her to be.  She became a confidant and a fellow commiserator. Despite the differences in what we needed out of a romantic relationship, she tolerated my complaints and mental ramblings. We united in our grief and formed a unique friendship. During this time, we discussed the differences between being "nice" and being "kind." A nice person tells someone what they want to hear in order to prevent hurting someone's feelings. A kind person tells someone what they need to hear, despite the consequences. Rose, in no uncertain terms, declared me as a nice person.

There's a bravery in being kind, and it's one I lack. If there's one thing I wish I could change about my personality, it would be my ineffectual state of being. I find it difficult to affect change in my life, even when that change would be overwhelmingly positive. In a case such as the one with Mary, where kindness would result in very immediate emotional pain before eventual relief, I really had no chance of choosing the right course of action. Rose and I talked about my situation in terms of harm reduction. A break-up, or whatever you call stopping a non-committal relationship, would cause less harm than letting it continue, but I was too afraid to call it off.

Mary saw the writing on the wall. While I have a difficult time expressing painful emotions, I'm also a horrible liar. That was my saving grace, if it can be called as much. My actions made it clear I was avoiding something, even if my words didn't. One morning after waking up, Mary confronted me about my distance. She asked what we were doing and why we were together. I froze. I couldn't answer the simplest of questions about our relationship. I couldn't say the words which were necessary to end things. After waiting to hear them for what must have seemed like an eternity, Mary stormed out of the house.

I don't have a ton of experience breaking up with people. Before this, I had broken up with two people, and one of them was Dahlia, who luckily took me back. I know it's never supposed to be easy, but it has to get easier. Left without the experience necessary to end a relationship, I kept Mary waiting for days after she had stormed out. After 4 days, I finally called her back.

I'm pretty sure she didn't want me to call her at that point but I needed finality, especially after not giving it to her earlier. I called her up and told her we shouldn't see each other again, which of course she knew. I spent the next 20 minutes receiving mostly deserved abuse. There are things I could have said to her, but it wouldn't have been useful to either of us. Her words hurt me, but it was necessary. I needed to hear a list of my failings out loud, true or not. Perhaps that's all breaking up is: just learning to take a beating. I probably have a few more to take in my life.

Stage 13: Permanence

Day 392: Lallands. Auchentoshan Scotch whisky, Amaro Abano, Morlacco cherry liqueur, Moondog bitters. Available at the Uva bar in Vancouver.

One thing this whole mess has taught me to do is embrace change. Very few things in life are permanent, especially life itself. We tend to fight for stability over all else. We punch clocks at jobs we hate. We stay in decaying relationships. We vote for the same assholes in congress. We do these things not because there are no better alternative, but because we fear the dynamic.

That said, I do believe in universal constants: the ratio of circumference to diameter and the ineptitude of Congress, to name a couple. I also made a commitment to my wife that didn't end just because she died. That permanence needed a physical reminder, one that would last as long as I do.

A tattoo seemed an appropriate reminder. Dahlia had ideas that she wanted to get, but other priorities prevailed. She had wanted to get a compass rose. She'd filled Pinterest boards, as she often did, with ideas for it. The other idea, one she held for years was for a tree of life, a tree where the roots come up and intertwine with the branches. It's a symbol for the cyclical nature of life.

Despite the fact that the idea of the tree had faded as her prognosis worsened, it’s held clear in my mind since her passing. I may not believe in the spiritual side of the symbolism, but all life gets recycled in a very physical sense that has stuck with me. The concept has morphed and changed in the months since her passing, but the core concept has remained: a tree with exposed roots. I like the idea of exposed depths, of an anchor growing into something new.

With the idea of the tree solidified, I needed to fill out the concept in my mind. I liked the idea of growth and the concept of an image that changed over time, a reminder of what roots me and what can change. I also wanted some direct tie to Dahlia, so I decided the image needed a squirrel, her "spirit animal," resting in the tree.

After deciding on a design, I allowed for six months to myself out of it. I'd have to live with it for the rest of my life, so I wanted to be sure about it. During that time, the position shifted, but the core concepts of the design remained certain. The position went from my leg to my back shoulder to finally my forearm. After half a year, all that was left to do was get the damned thing.

After getting some recommendations from friends, I settled on Under the Needle tattoo parlor. They had a couple artists who had good work, so I scheduled an appointment to get a sketch done. Walking in, I was nervous and excited, like a teenager getting his first car. After a few minutes of waiting, my artist, Siobhan, comes out from the back. She was amazing. She was calm, professional and put my mind at ease. We discussed the individual parts of the tattoo and what I wanted each one to look like. I tried to be as minimal with instruction as I felt comfortable, because I wanted some amount of personal touch. That said, it's hard to balance the desire for certainty with the need for artistic expression.

After the discussion of concepts was over, we scheduled an appointment for three weeks later. She told me that she'd work on the sketch, but I wouldn't be able to see it until I came in to get it applied. She found that seeing it beforehand led to second guesses and uncertainty in her clients, and showing them the sketch the day of tended to work much better. So in a few weeks, I showed up with a a good friend of Dahlia's to get it done. Siobhan showed me her proposal, we made a few minor adjustments and got to work.

People with tattoos try to convince the uninitiated that they don't really hurt. Don't believe them. It's a recruiting tactic. They want more people to suffer to join their little club. The pain, while not unbearable, was significant and made it difficult to focus on anything else.

Dahlia's friend, however, was an absolute godsend. She kept me talking through the entire hour and ten minutes of getting voluntarily stabbed over and over. She kept the dialog going, even through the most mundane of topics. We talked about cars, dogs, club nights, and charity 5k races. All of it in the interest of keeping my mind off the fact that someone was dragging a needle over my forearm.

At the end, I was pretty impressed with the results. The tree was wispy with deep, forking roots, a squirrel sitting on its forking branches. Four tiny leaves mark the beginning of a long, slow period of growth. There's some slight discoloration on the tree, but it almost looks intentional, like bark. I'm still finding myself staring at it a month later. It's starting to sink in, but when I catch it out of the corner of my eye, it still seems like someone else's arm.

I'm very happy with it, all in all. A few years ago, I never would have thought of getting a tattoo, but it's seemed to be a necessity over the past year. It's a great piece of art, and has been the occasional conversation starter. It has a story and I'm not sure I’d be comfortable getting a tattoo without one. I may not have been sure about the arm at first, but it's ended up being an ideal placement. Friends with tattoos on their back have told me that they sometimes forget they have them since they aren't in their field of view. Having it on the arm is a reminder of the permanence I hoped to represent.

Stage 12: Waves

Day 366: Juice Springsteen: Red grapefruit juice, gin, cardamom bitters

Grief comes in waves: cyclical in frequency and varying in intensity. At times it comes slow and predictable, gently pushing against psychological barriers. Every once in a while, completely unexpected, a big one comes in and hits hard.

Dahlia's best friend came to visit and stayed with me for a week. It was equal parts rejuvenating and draining. We talked about the good times and bad. We talked about Dahlia's dinner parties and her sharp tongue, her chemo appointments and hospital trips. Between the cocktail bars and the visits to pho joints, we packed up Dahlia's clothes from the attic.

It's strange what memories clothes evoke. Dresses, of course,  bring up memories of formal nights on the town, but I was caught far more by surprise by the mundane. Packing up her pajamas brought back some memories of lazy Sundays and radiation appointments.  T-shirts were remembrances of trips and TARDISes. The one piece of clothing that hit me the hardest though, was a too large pair of denim overalls. What Da Vinci did with a paintbrush, she did with a hammer, a power drill and those overalls. Her canvas was our house.

A couple of days ago, I had her friends over to go through her belongings one last time before sending them off to charity. The party didn't hit me as hard as I thought it would. I spent most of the time filling people's hands with drinks instead of focusing on her possessions. It was a surprising small wave.

Joan Didion discussed, in The Year of Magical Thinking, the idea of needing to hang on to her dead husband's clothes because he may return. Over the past year, I've had several dreams that Dahlia returned. They've all been comforting, a respite from the loss and grief. Somewhere, in my subconscious, there was the idea she could still be alive. Two weeks ago, I had another dream that she returned. While I was happy she was back, something wasn't right. For the first time, it felt unnatural. She wasn't supposed be there. When I woke up, I was almost relieved to wake up alone.

Maybe that's growth, but it sure doesn't feel like it.

Stage 11: Desiring the Undesirable

Day 254: Lucatini, Gin, Vodka, Lillet Blanc, Lemon Twist

Dahlia's birthday was a while back. I celebrated with some friends by going to brunch in her honor and imbibing a number of mimosas. It was an appropriate tribute, but left me wanting something more somber. The sun began to peek out of the clouds, so I went to Sunset Hill Park, where we held her funeral. While I was taking in the breathtaking views, the occasional family would walk by, enjoying the weather.

It made me think of where we would have been if I hadn't heard the words "I have cancer" four years ago. Dahlia would have graduated college around 2012. She would either be pregnant or we'd have a newborn child. I could have been one of those fathers playing in the park. It's a future I'm not sure I want anymore, but I wanted it when I was with Dahlia. As I sat there in the cool spring sun, I wanted it more than ever, but only with Dahlia.

If there's one thing this mess should have taught me, it's that the universe doesn't often give you what you want. For three years, all I wanted out of life was comfort, an assurance that in the future the realities of a common existence, the wife, 2.5 kids, trips to the coast in a station wagon, were possible. Now that that future is far less certain, I've found myself desiring the 20's I never had. When all I had was heartbreak, all I wanted was solace. Now that I've started dating again, a situation most entering desiring some kind of status quo, I just want the highs and lows of a quick fling.

Rose and I have gone on several dates. I like her a lot. She's witty, cute, and a wonderful artist. Things with her have gotten to a comfortable point and I feel like it's getting to a place where I have to make a decision I'm not ready to make. I like her, but it's starting to feel too much like a relationship. It's a place of comfort when I'm unready to be comfortable. I want the nervous energy, the pain of heartbreak, and the Joy Division song of dating. It's a ridiculous ask when being happy is within my reach, but it's something I feel like I need.

After several long talks, Rose and I decided to take a break as I continue to explore dating. I've met a few interesting women in the meantime, and it felt wrong to be keep her waiting for me to get my head on straight. It may be months or years until I'm ready for a relationship. It felt bad to hurt her, but I had to choose between a small pain now or a potentially larger pain later.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting to find out, and I don't really know what I want out of this endeavor. Rose thinks that's a lie, a convenient falsehood I'm telling myself to avoid having to make decisions. Perhaps she's right, I've really felt overwhelmed by it all, and perhaps being overwhelmed is more desirable right now than taking a step back and focusing. Maybe, just maybe, not getting what I want is exactly what I want right now.

Stage 10: Skeptical Fatalism

Day 208: Cherry Heering Manhattan: Bourbon, Cherry Heering, Bitters

I don't believe in fate. If some controlling force put into motion what happened last night, it would have a lot to answer for. Fatalism is an all or nothing proposition. If it's responsible for the joys, it's responsible for the sorrow. It would be responsible for my anxiety and depression, the outright theft of an amazing woman before her time and a hole in my heart which will never be filled. Oh yeah, there would probably be other things like the Holocaust, the Inquisition and the slave trade fate would have to answer for as well. Sometimes, though, chaos works in such strange and interesting ways as to question that belief in coincidence, if ever so briefly.

My date with Rose was going well. She's being interesting, I'm being charming. We're about an hour in and ordering our second drink. I had only brought up Dahlia once, briefly. We discussed a lot about art and travel and the Southwest. We had discussed writing and she asked what my blog was about. I think, "Here we go. This is the point where the date goes off the rails. I'll pull the band-aid off quickly and get back to talking about the weather."

"My wife died seven months ago." Those words are barely out of my mouth when she starts laughing a sort of disbelieving laugh, the kind of laugh that implies an inability to process the new stimulus presented. "My boyfriend died seven months ago," she replied. Then it was my turn with the awkward laughing.

All the nerves and worries melted away. Those mines I talked about earlier, for the night, they were all diffused and we danced on top of them for the rest of the night. We spent a lot of time talking about grief and how it affects the creative process. The different tragedies and horror stories turned the strangeness into a magical evening.

Despite it all, I'm not sure if Rose and I have much of a romantic future together. She's an amazing, interesting and intelligent woman, but a lot of desire is not so much a choice as a factor of body chemistry and the subconscious. I suppose the subsequent time we spend together will determine how that factors in. Besides, the whole point of this adventure is to figure out what desire means to me, a task requiring a modicum of restraint. If I can avoid falling in love, I should. I'm just not ready to care deeply yet.

Stage 9: Synchronized Minesweeping

Day 207 - Cider, I guess. Maybe more, I suppose we'll find out.

So I've decided to start dating. The decision, personally, feels rash on my part. I'm not "over" Dahlia. Six months and twenty-three days have gone by without her leaving my thoughts for long. It seems disingenuous to pretend that coupling is a good idea at this point in time. I can't say I haven't been thinking about it, though. If I'm honest, I've been thinking about it for a while now. Long before Dahlia passed, I was anticipating and fearing this moment.

To put it mildly, I don’t have a lot of experience dating, and the experience I have is about 12 years old and very Midwestern. That puts me about three decades behind the times in Seattle. I consider myself a feminist and internalizing both the theory and practice while rotating around the posturing involved in dealing with the opposite gender can be maddening. While I've got a lot of good advice from my friends, the only way to bring my knowledge up to date is to date several women and be awkward in as many new and different ways as possible.

Dating kind of requires that I know single women near me, and I don’t know very many. I know three, and the number interested in cisgendered, straight men is less than that. As someone in that position, I did what I suppose lots of people my age and younger do, and signed up for an online dating site. While the rest of it hasn't been quite as easy sledding, I do have a date tonight.

Part of me is really worried about stepping on a landmine. I'm worried about mentioning Dahlia in the wrong way and closing off for the rest of the date. I'm worried about the awkward silences. The other part of me hopes the date goes horrendously. I have a lot of awkward silences to get through. I have a lot of stumbling over mentions of my dead wife. The sooner it happens the better. It should happen while I don't know what I want out of dating.

This woman, let's call her Rose, seems like a very good candidate for a trial run. We're meeting for a drink at Capitol Cider. If that goes well, we may head to Sun Liquor. The date can end whenever we'd like to declare it. She seems like a nice and interesting person, but I'm not convinced there's going to be a spark. If it goes well, great. If it doesn't, there won't be much lost.

That said, a lot of thought has gone into exactly how much of my life I've made public to Rose. It seems impossible that mentioning Dahlia won't occur, especially if things are going well. I'm still having difficulty finding a way to talk about myself outside of the context she provides.  So it's clearly going to stumble out of my mouth sometime, but how much of a topic it becomes can affect how the rest of the night goes.

But I suppose all that is the point. The whole goal of me dating is to try not to be awkward, be awkward anyway, and try the process again. We'll see how it goes.

Stage 8: Assessment

Day 200: Rye, Aperol, Simple syrup, blood orange bitters. I don't have a name for it yet. A "Blurred Reflection," perhaps.

Six months, half a year since Dahlia left… left isn't the right word. Left implies intent. Active rather than passive; subject rather than object. She was taken, stolen, robbed from the ranks of the living. In some respects, six months is a milestone. A point in time to reflect, and determine personal progress. A period to look back and determine what going forward means.

Looking backward involved watching the funeral service. It was difficult to get through. I cried on and off for the first 20 minutes, pretty much entirely through my eulogy, even though it seemed relatively light hearted at the time. Around the time her friends began discussing the stories of her life, my parents called. It gave me a break, time to gather my thoughts. By the time I was done discussing some asinine topic or another with my lovely mother, I had time to put things in a little more perspective.

The rest of the viewing left me in a state of somber joy. Her friends spoke so well of the joy Dahlia brought to everyone's life. Instead of sadness, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. The thirteen years we spent together are irreplaceable and were cut short, but moving forward would be impossible without them. I ended up more grateful than sad, which is as good as things could have went.

Looking forward meant figuring out what the next six months looked like. It's a scary, blurred proposition. I don't know what a lot of it will look like, but the one thing I know is that I need to accept failure better, especially when it comes to other people opinions and certainly when it comes to my own.  It's amazing how willing we are to forgive our friends, but completely unwilling to forgive our own failings.

With that in mind, I decided to find something I could fail fast and spectacularly at. Considering my limited previous experiences, dating seemed like a good choice. I'll be sure to discuss all the failures in awkward detail as they happen.

Stage 7: Heartbreak

I've always known Dahlia leaving would break my heart. It would lead to the normal signs of any heartbreak: depression, anger, loneliness, etc. I've seen it all and it's been expected. Along with it came a physical feeling, a tightness in the chest and a racing in the veins. It was intermittent, but persistent. Now, five months in, it still persists.

Today, I went to a doctor for something completely unrelated and had by blood pressure read. It was high. Ridiculously high for a 32 year old. I made an appointment with my GP and he confirmed: I have a broken heart. It's almost certainly genetic, but the recent rise is likely due to changes in diet, sleep, and other behaviors. It's jumped about 30 points in a year.

I've got some medication that should slow the blood flow.  Along with some changes in behavior, it should help calm things down. I'll need to increase exercise, watch diet, and improve sleep as well, but...

I never thought a broken heart would be so literal. Even though it's likely more tied to my grandfather's aneurism than Dahlia's passing, every palpitation reminds me of her. It's a strange way to have a memory. I hope, in the future, reminders are a little more subtle.