Stage 19?: Divergent Paths

Year 6, Day 1: James Joyce:  Jameson, Cointreau, Orange Blossom Water, Orange twist

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.

Stage 18: Falling

Year 3, Day 7: Jameson Vintage, neat

This time of year is a tricky one. For no greater reason than convenience, we place importance on tying remembrances of events to the arbitrary act of the earth travelling around the sun another time. Should grief be heavier for a week every 365 days? Should the burden be greater when the calendar hits August 3rd again, even if this August has little to do with the ones before it? I suppose it happens this way because sadness needs an outlet and annually is the easiest way to ensure it has its out.

This timing is never easy, but this year has seemed to be a convergence zone. Throughout my life, I've gone through cycles of depression. When they happen, it's hard to see the forest for the trees: I can't really see I'm in one until I'm almost to a meadow. Of course, once you're out, you start to recognize the path that got you there, and this one had so many causes: a close relative of mine has been diagnosed with cancer, a dating schedule that, while absolutely worth it, has not left time for self-care, and for reasons that are still unclear to me, I've been exiled from the life of one of my best friends.  All of these have been important aspects of the last few months, and each of them is worthy of its own blog post, but the reason the depression hit its nadir was by far the most bizarre: I've fallen in love.

Ann and I have been seeing each other for about three months now. Neither of us entered into this arrangement looking for love. We both were recently heartbroken and looking for something simple, but we ended up gambling our hearts without intending.

Ann was easy to fall in love with. I could go on about her beautiful eyes or her gorgeous smile, but what draws me to her most is her absolutely remarkable emotional intelligence. She certainly understands my new bisexual identity and is helping me explore it, but she also understands my needs as a widower, sometimes better than I do myself. She's bright and caring and witty and energetic. She had my heart before I knew what was going on, and falling in love without knowing it can be a scary thing for a widower.

About a month ago, we went to the wedding on the shores of Guemes Island for an old friend of Dahlia's and mine. He lived with Dahlia and I several years ago and help us renovate our house. He had known Dahlia since high school and she deeply admired his mother, who would also be in attendance. During the ceremony, we had a moment of silence for the departed loved ones. Dahlia's name punctuated a list of grandfathers and great aunts.

We danced the night away and basked in the support of old friends. Many of them mentioned to me about how happy I looked, or to Ann about how happy she made me. We drank summer punch, smoked weed and caught up with long lost acquaintances. We danced to old Motown hits and new pop anthems. We danced caught up in the torrent of lust and alcohol and the budding love of a new romance. Then a song came on that hit me hard, a song I had requested when I sent in my invitation.

It was Dahlia's and my wedding song. I danced it with Dahlia's best friend, up from Arizona. We both failed to keep it together by the end of the first verse. By the end of the four minute song, there wasn't a dry eye among those who knew Dahlia. When the song ended, we all embraced, finding community in our sorrow. I went back to the table to see Ann, my eyes red from the tears and earlier pot smoke. She saw me at my most vulnerable and returned my gaze with one of admiration. It's something I didn't fully recognize at the time, but we were falling in love.

I was completely overwhelmed. During and after the song, I could feel Dahlia's presence. Not in any spiritual sense, but her memories were very forward in my mind. I thought about all the people at the wedding who cared for her and what they must think of me lustfully dancing with another woman. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced of my own wrongdoing. I was flaunting my desire in front of a group of mourners.

I kissed Ann and apologized as I left the wedding to sit on the beach and clear my head. I thought long and hard about what Dahlia would think of all this. As I returned to the wedding, I dismissed my relationship with Ann as harmless pleasure seeking. That it was a brief phase of hedonism that the wedding-goers may not be able to understand, Dahlia most certainly would. What I didn't recognize was clear to everyone else at the wedding, I was falling in love with Ann.

It took me another month to say the words to her, and by that time the anniversary of Dahlia's death was nearing. I think there's always a fear in saying "I love you," but for a widower there's something more; there's the fear of moving on. I never fell out of love with Dahlia, so falling in love with Ann has required holding two conflicting desires in my heart.  As soon as I told her I loved her, I burst into tears. I cried for the fear. I cried for the lifted weight. I cried for the deep, strong desire for Dahlia to be there in her stead. I cried and she didn't shy away. She leaned into it and I only loved her more.

It’s taken me some time to realize that my love for Ann isn't a conflict. I can love her for different reasons than the ones that drew me to Dahlia. Falling in love again doesn't have to be about moving on or finding closure. If anything, Ann is precious to me precisely because Dahlia died. She respects my need for distance at times. She wants to help me explore my new queer identity. She opens herself up to me in a way Dahlia rarely did. This whole thing, perhaps, is not an exercise in replacement, but rather one of creation.

Stage 17: Currents

Day 725: Mai Tai: Light Rum, Amaretto, Pineapple and Orange Juices, Dark Rum Float

I am a child born of water. From the day I was brought into this world, I have not lived more than 30 miles from a major body of water. It has defined me. Regardless of where I go, the chopping water and endless horizon of blue remind me of home. It centers me and travelling to Maui, 2500 miles from the Puget Sound, was no exception. As I floated in the
Pacific, the waves pushing against me, I resolved to let them take me wherever they would.

Loss, among the pain, anger and aimlessness, is a learning experience. One of the more prevalent lessons has been that all things in life are dynamic. The ability to embrace change is a necessary skill for the widower and one of the hardest one to learn.

I've tried dating now for over a year. Each little bit of it has had its own failures, though rarely the ones I expected. Each of them has had a core of an inability to stand still. I spent 14 years mostly in the same relationship, I don't want to enter another until I've tired of being single, until I've explored the joys and heartache of not being paired.

For the past year, it's meant dating multiple women, but not really willing to commit to monogamy with any of them. It's not that any of them were undeserving or that I couldn't see myself in a relationship with them, I just wasn't ready for that type of thing. Just as things would get close with someone, the waves would push me away.

It took me quite a bit of time to recognize the pattern and the reasons for it. Dahlia was my anchor. Without her, I am ungrounded. I am incapable of being stationary. After too many tears and break-ups, I'm starting learning to embrace it. I'm learning to like where the waves take me.

It's taught me to reject the ideas of the past. It's led me to two very different, but somehow interconnected ideas. The first was that traditional ideas of romance and gender are not for me. For most of my adult life, I've been attracted to all sorts of people, but it's not something I've pursued since Dahlia and I were in love. Nothing else mattered.

It's easy enough to be closeted as a bisexual man when you’re married to a woman. The state of denial can even reach internally. Thoughts and desires which arose in college or on a drunken escapade with friends are dismissed with little fanfare due to cultural ideas of fidelity, homophobia and bisexual erasure. Despite mentions of male attraction to Dahlia over the years, it took almost a year of dating women before I was comfortable enough to admit to myself that it was the person, not the gender, I was attracted to. It took me another four months to get over my own anxieties before I started actually seeing men romantically.

Realizing the at same time that this need to explore needed to come with lower risk of hurting those I cared about, I decided to learn more about polyamory. Despite being explicit about my inability to commit to a relationship with those I've dated, I've realized that information has come after there's been emotional investment by both parties. It's one thing to say it on the fourth date, it's another to say it before the first. It's caused me to adopt the term polyamorous, though I'm not sure it’s quite appropriate, but commitmentphobic doesn't have the same ring to it.

Right before I left for Maui, I made plans to see a woman seemed perfect for these new revelations. Ann is queer, polyamorous and very charming woman when it comes to convincing others to join those particular groups. Plus she's from Michigan, so at the very least, I could get a good game of Euchre out of meeting her.

So there I floated in the welcoming waters of the Pacific, I resolved that all that all that kept me still would be washed away. While I don't feel cleansed, the last three months have been revelatory. I'm just trying to figure out what those revelations mean.

Stage 16: Sex and the Modern Urban Widower, Part 1

Day 576: Negroni: Gin, Campari, Sweet Vermouth, Orange Twist

Sex is a dangerous topic for anyone. The remnants of a Victorian society have kept discussion of it out of polite company for generations. It's made it so the simplest of discussions of desires are delayed and built up to such a degree that relationships are destroyed rather than be honest with a partner about what we need in the bedroom. It's probably the first topic I wanted to talk about in this blog, and yet it has taken 18 months to actually broach the subject.

No one knows this better than cancer patients and their partners. The disease and the treatments given can affect every single physical function of a survivor and the realm of sex is no exception. The chemo and a deteriorating body took its toll on Dahlia. Our lovemaking was always deliberate by the necessities of how our bodies operated together, but as the disease progressed, even taking things slow didn't help. By the end, several months would pass between intimate moments.

Of course, on top of all the physical ailments came emotional issues from the thousands of intricacies of living with cancer. All of these failures in the bedroom led to frustration and remained a contributing factor to my depression. For me, at least, a waning desire to have sex didn't come with worries about the state of our relationship. For Dahlia, who had seen cancer tear apart relationships, had a worry in the back of her mind that I would leave. I laughed off the idea when she brought it up. I still think it was a ridiculous notion, but I get where it came from. Cancer can destroy weaker relationships, but I meant my vows when I said them and I still did the day she died.

After she died, I found her Kindle and started looking through it. I was just looking for something to read, not expecting to find some insight into my recently deceased wife. Nevertheless, while I was flipping through her collection of books, I found a title called "The Sex-Starved Wife." It honestly shouldn't have been a surprise. When Dahlia saw a problem, she read up on it and attempted to find a solution. It was one of her most endearing characteristics. That said, it's a little different when you find out you're part of the problem she was trying to solve.

Of course, I knew that there were several extenuating circumstances to my fading libido, but it's hard for me to not think of myself as personally responsible. I could have tried harder. We could have tried different things. I suppose we did, but every failure, everything that caused Dahlia pain instead of pleasure, was a setback that pushed me subconsciously further away.

I'm not trying to absolve John Edwards or anything, but sometimes I wonder if opening up the relationship in these cases would make things easier or harder. For the survivor, it might remove some of the pressure of trying to please their partner, but it could be yet another reminder of your own mortality and cause even more worry about your partner leaving you. Maybe all that jealousy and guilt is inevitable, so perhaps things could have been easier for Dahlia and I. I don't really know.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it as her condition deteriorated. It's human nature to think about the future for anyone. As much as the Buddhists would like to say otherwise, it's not really natural to just stay in the present. For a partner of someone with a terminal illness, this means thinking about what you want out of the next partner. Despite all of the remorse and the pain associated with doing so, I couldn't avoid looking at other potential mates out at the bar and on my bus ride into work.

My wandering eyes didn't go unnoticed either. Women starting approaching me in ways that either didn't happen or I didn't notice in the past decade. When they did, I nervously fumbled over my words and dismissed them in the politest ways I could think of. After one of these encounters, the usual cardinal sins would flood my mind: lust, pride, envy and all the mental self-flagellation associated with them.

A couple days after she died, I was filled with emotions: loneliness, relief, survivor's guilt, anger, etc. It was difficult to separate one emotion from another or to recognize the reasons for them. On the Friday following Dahlia's passing, I had friends over for our usual game night.  It was an amazing and emotional night, lots of hugs and reminiscing and support. It ended up being a lot of close friends and a few less frequent mourners. It was a strange night. Around midnight, the sky opened up and we had the rare Northwest thunderstorm.

I'm not a religious or spiritual person, but a powerful rainstorm is as close as I get to a metaphysical experience. Standing out in the warm summer rain provides me with a simple calm, a euphoric state in which I can let go of my anxieties and let the water wash away any sins, real or perceived. And petrichor, it seems, is a powerful aphrodisiac. It was in this storm that I first felt a deep and powerful longing for another human being that was not Dahlia.

He was a beautiful human being who had often been the target of my aforementioned drifting gaze. To be fair, I probably wasn't the only one with a crush on him. He stood squarely in the gap between genders in such a way that attracted the attention of all sorts of orientations. That night, with a million emotions running through my head and all my defenses washed away in the storm, I needed his touch in a way I was completely unprepared for six days after losing my wife.

Looking back on that night, I wasn't being very subtle about my affections, and he knew it. If I had been single for longer, I would have recognized his reciprocations. He returned the furtive glances. He sat next to me so bare skin touched. It drove me crazy. In another time, I would have been bolder. Instead, every touch of his made me more shameful about my feelings.  Six months later, things would have been clearer, but then, there wasn't a way to separate remorse from lust, an absence of contact from desire for an individual. The night left me with a confusion that I'm still trying to figure out.

After talking with several friends, I decided to discuss the matter with the object of my affection. Nervously, I invited him out for a drink. We talked and joked. I suppose I did some amount of flirting, though I'm not sure I could have recognized it as such at the time. After some time, I told him that I was attracted to him and completely unsure what to do about the situation.

He responded politely. He said he was attracted to me, but wasn't ready for another sexual partner. I'm not sure how much was truthful and how much was polite, but I'm not sure how much it mattered. To be honest, I wasn't ready. If anything happened between us, it would have ended in a panic attack and tears, mostly mine.

I've learned a lot since then, and the tears and panic attacks weren't really avoided, just reduced and delayed. I'm still trying to figure out how to be intimate again, both emotionally and physically. It's been a long journey and I have a feeling it's just beginning.

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.