Five years. Five years ago to the day Candice Bailey, previously referred to here as Dahlia, passed away in a hospital bed at Swedish Hospital. It's hard to admit, but I suppose it's inevitable: I spend less time thinking about her passing now than I have in the past. It's on these anniversaries, though, that I set aside to remember what I, and many others, lost on that day.
And as way to remember I have rituals. On our anniversary, I make her favorite dish. On her birthday, I throw a party with all of her friends. Today, I get on my bike and travel to places that remind me of her. Currently, I'm writing this from Sunset Hill Park, the place we held her funeral. From here, I'll travel to Ballard, then down to the bar in Belltown that I sarcastically, two days before we were actually engaged, put an orange twist on her finger and told her, very sincerely, that I would marry her right then and there. On each of these days, put on my wedding ring and wear it the entire day. Today, I also wore her charm bracelet that had a charm for each city she traveled to. It carries on it the Eiffel Tower for Paris, a New Orleans manhole cover, and many more, including a canoe from a trip to the Olympic peninsula in which she went "douchecannoeing" with her best friend. It's those types of memories of her whimsy that make me cry more than others.
In thinking about what she meant to me and what I had when I was with her, the thought inevitably goes to how my life would be different if she were never diagnosed. She'd have graduated with her degree in Non-profit Management. We'd have a child, who would be four or five years old. We'd probably discussing what schools would be the best fit for them. I'd probably be working somewhere other than Microsoft, but not at the place I'm currently working. That thunderstorming night obviously would never have happened, so it's very likely I still would have no idea to explore my queerness. I certainly wouldn't have been sleeping with men. I wouldn't have faggy purple and blue hair or have eye shadow, lipstick or beard glitter that I wear on occasion. I also wouldn't have been as good of a partner to Candice as I am to Colleen. The last five years have provided me with ample opportunity to screw up relationships in new and interesting ways that have been opportunities for growth.
Would I trade it all? It's taken me five years to come to this conclusion, but I don't think the answer to that question matters. It's impossible to answer with any honesty. I mean, I would give up so much of my life and body to have Candice back, but those sacrifices are easy to make in the hypothetical. It took me years to find out who I am without her. It was hard fought and painful and now I'm comfortable with myself in a way I've never been. It's a journey I could never made with her, and the journey I would have made with her, I can't do without her. They aren't qualitatively better or worse, so I can't say which I'd prefer. That said, it doesn't make me miss her any less.
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