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.
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