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.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
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.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Stage 6: Drowning in Pink
Day 74: Raspberry 5 Hour Energy! Yum!
Ah, October. Who doesn't love the turning of the leaves, the return of rain to the Seattle skies or the overwhelming degree of slacktivism in the air? Nothing gives makes you feel the cold bite of winter quite like seeing a bunch of shitty pink crap everywhere you go. Plenty of ink has been spilled on how silly and ineffective corporate America's masturbatory pinkwashing campaigns have been. I'm not going to say much about that. I'll just say that of all the money exchanging hands for pink crap, little of it goes into hands of the charities they claim to help, and even less goes into helping the women (and men) they claim to be doing it for. This amount becomes incredibly miniscule if you look at the recent studies showing that mammography is far more likely to do harm than good, especially in young women. All of the pinkwashing is little more than thinly veiled targeted marketing. It's condescending and sexist.
Dahlia hated all the pink. While others (usually older survivors) saw the pink ribbons as objects to rally behind, she saw them as a series of platitudes. It's a feel good solution to a problem which has been solved for the last 25 years: Breast Cancer Awareness. We are aware of the threat of breast cancer, but mortality rates have bottomed out. Very little money is being spent for a cure, and several companies lined their pockets. The pink ribbon was a declaration of aid from the unaiding, ignorant of the actual problems that threatened her every day. It was air dropping sandbags in the desert.
When she was alive, I tolerated all of it because it seemed unavoidable, not to mention that there were more important things to deal with at the time. Now it's impossible to see a ribbon and not think about all of the campaign's failings. I've just done my best to avoid it this year. It's been difficult.
The two closest grocery stores, for example, are both Safeways. Last year every cashwrap was covered in pink streamers. The aisles are filled with yogurt containers congratulating the purchasers for helping women in need. It's just a little much for me right now. I've been avoiding it by going to the Red Apple in Madison Park or the Central Co-op in Capitol Hill, so my grocery shopping experiences have been even more filled with rich white people as of late.
Even football has been difficult to watch. The NFL has found an ingenious way to sell football jerseys to women. Make everything pink! Use pink penalty markers! Make the players wear pink! Fine them for wearing something else! It's all gotten a little ridiculous. While I haven't been avoiding it entirely, I've been listening to more of it on the radio then I've been watching and frankly, it's nice to have my Sundays back for a little while.
Look, I don't know what the solution is here. Cancer is a hard problem. The pink ribbons made a lot of amazing things possible 30 years ago, but they've become part of the problem. We need cures, not awareness. In the meantime, all the pink is just a reminder of what I, and far too many husbands and wives, have lost to breast cancer.
Ah, October. Who doesn't love the turning of the leaves, the return of rain to the Seattle skies or the overwhelming degree of slacktivism in the air? Nothing gives makes you feel the cold bite of winter quite like seeing a bunch of shitty pink crap everywhere you go. Plenty of ink has been spilled on how silly and ineffective corporate America's masturbatory pinkwashing campaigns have been. I'm not going to say much about that. I'll just say that of all the money exchanging hands for pink crap, little of it goes into hands of the charities they claim to help, and even less goes into helping the women (and men) they claim to be doing it for. This amount becomes incredibly miniscule if you look at the recent studies showing that mammography is far more likely to do harm than good, especially in young women. All of the pinkwashing is little more than thinly veiled targeted marketing. It's condescending and sexist.
Dahlia hated all the pink. While others (usually older survivors) saw the pink ribbons as objects to rally behind, she saw them as a series of platitudes. It's a feel good solution to a problem which has been solved for the last 25 years: Breast Cancer Awareness. We are aware of the threat of breast cancer, but mortality rates have bottomed out. Very little money is being spent for a cure, and several companies lined their pockets. The pink ribbon was a declaration of aid from the unaiding, ignorant of the actual problems that threatened her every day. It was air dropping sandbags in the desert.
When she was alive, I tolerated all of it because it seemed unavoidable, not to mention that there were more important things to deal with at the time. Now it's impossible to see a ribbon and not think about all of the campaign's failings. I've just done my best to avoid it this year. It's been difficult.
The two closest grocery stores, for example, are both Safeways. Last year every cashwrap was covered in pink streamers. The aisles are filled with yogurt containers congratulating the purchasers for helping women in need. It's just a little much for me right now. I've been avoiding it by going to the Red Apple in Madison Park or the Central Co-op in Capitol Hill, so my grocery shopping experiences have been even more filled with rich white people as of late.
Even football has been difficult to watch. The NFL has found an ingenious way to sell football jerseys to women. Make everything pink! Use pink penalty markers! Make the players wear pink! Fine them for wearing something else! It's all gotten a little ridiculous. While I haven't been avoiding it entirely, I've been listening to more of it on the radio then I've been watching and frankly, it's nice to have my Sundays back for a little while.
Look, I don't know what the solution is here. Cancer is a hard problem. The pink ribbons made a lot of amazing things possible 30 years ago, but they've become part of the problem. We need cures, not awareness. In the meantime, all the pink is just a reminder of what I, and far too many husbands and wives, have lost to breast cancer.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Stage 5: Dealing with the Grieving of Others
Day 66: Drunken Architect: 2 parts Lemon Juice, 2 parts Fernet Branca, 1 part gin
If there's one thing I've learned, and hope to get across with this blog, grieving is a strange process. It twists peoples' perception of the living and the dead and the entire world around them. They withdraw and lash out in the strangest way possible. These reactions are understandable, but they're also at times inexcusable. Learning how to react to these situations is one of the hardest things for me about being a widower.
I'm an introvert. I could show you about 500 animated GIFs on Buzzfeed to tell you what that means, but I'll save the platitudes for a Facebook post. In this case, it means I don't always react to others in a way which is socially acceptable. I laugh when I should act serious and I sigh when I should smile. In my interactions in the last two months, strangers, coworkers and acquaintances have reacted in ways that represent an amount of grief which, in my estimation, they have not earned. Dahlia was my world, the entirety of my being. I had countless emergency room trips and held her hand as she died. I'm doing okay, trying to move on with my life. Complete strangers should react with a less shocked and terrified response than I feel on any given day. I get it. They just found out someone they never knew died, and I've known this thing was going to happen for the last two years. Outside of that perspective, though, their reaction seems... laughable.
And I laugh. I laugh a nervous laugh, and in response, they never know how to react. They ask why I'm laughing when my wife just died. I just shrug and tell them i don't know. It's a partial truth, but for the most part it's because I don't want to tell them I'm laughing because I don't know how else to respond to their overreaction.
The reaction of the strangers is frustrating, but understandable. The reactions which seem absolutely mind-boggling are those of my former in-laws. Dahlia had a strained relationship with both her parents. She stopped speaking to her father shortly after her diagnosis. His tendency was to make her diagnosis a reason to act out. Dahlia needed a parent, not a child, and as a result decided to no longer put up with her father's bullshit. She still loved him, but her diagnosis left her with no mental energy to put up with outside stress.
Her mother was a good parent. She came when required and helped her when she was ill. She gave me a break from the day to day caretaking, for which I am grateful. Her flaws arose from her religion. Her mother is an evangelical Christian. God has an answer for everything and He has a plan for everyone. God's plan was to take away Dahlia in her early 30's. Her mother has to come to terms with the fact God wanted to kill her daughter and make her feel an immense amount of emotional pain.
Both of them reacted to Dahlia's death in difficult ways for me to process. Her father didn't show to her funeral. He scheduled a colonoscopy for two days earlier than he was to fly out to Seattle. For one, he knew about the date a month in advance, and could have scheduled the scan for whenever he liked. Number B, there is no way he couldn't have flown if he wanted, despite the amount of the gas he was dealing with. His decision not to show at Dahlia's funeral was selfish and frightened, but I'm happy he made it. It's much easier to have a selfish and frightened father 3000 miles away than it is to have one at a funeral.
Her mother's reactions were much more discomforting. I can only imagine the anger and fear going through that woman's mind. Her entire faith was put into question by her daughter's death. I knew it would cause her to mourning to be front and center when she was out here, but I had no idea the amount of vitriol that would spill from her when she was out here. During Dahlia's wake, she ended up telling my sister-in-law that it was good of her to come out despite the fact that Dahlia hated her.
Let that sink in a bit, because it took me a while to wrap my head around it. She told a woman she never met, a woman related to a grieving widower who would no doubt hear about it, the most vile, despicable thing you could say to a person at a wake. Dahlia had frustrations with certain people at certain times, and voiced them a little too loudly to the wrong people on occasion. I've been the victim of this, and I know her friends know more of my faults than I'd care to admit. None of it meant she hated anyone, and her mother knew this. Besides, even if it were true, that would never be an appropriate response to any sort of conversation. To top it off, she planned on telling me, before she was talked out of it, that she would be glad to take Dahlia's ashes when (not if) I remarry.
After being told these things, I felt an emotion, one of the five stages, I don’t feel very often: anger. I wanted to take this woman and destroy her very core. If she called, I wanted to take her faith and shove it down her throat. Her God had killed her daughter. She was so angry at Him that she lashed out at anyone she saw. She was angry at the one entity she could not be angry at. If I talked to her in the days after the wake, I would have told her that God was the only needed target for her anger. Her faith made her bitter and manipulative, and she backed the wrong horse in this race for eternity.
In the time since, I’ve calmed down a bit. I still believe all the things above, but I'm lucky enough to have a choice to just never speak with her parents again. I can walk away from the parts of Dahlia that caused me the most stress: the memories of ER trips, my in-laws, etc. If there's one thing I fear about this whole thing, it's ending up, a year from now, unable to adjust and move on. A confrontation would just cause things to linger. Besides, I'm a Seattleite. Passive aggression is how we cope and it's what we do best, and I can't think of anything more passive aggressive than airing this stuff out on a semi-anonymous blog.
If there's one thing I've learned, and hope to get across with this blog, grieving is a strange process. It twists peoples' perception of the living and the dead and the entire world around them. They withdraw and lash out in the strangest way possible. These reactions are understandable, but they're also at times inexcusable. Learning how to react to these situations is one of the hardest things for me about being a widower.
 |
| LOLz. iknowrite? |
And I laugh. I laugh a nervous laugh, and in response, they never know how to react. They ask why I'm laughing when my wife just died. I just shrug and tell them i don't know. It's a partial truth, but for the most part it's because I don't want to tell them I'm laughing because I don't know how else to respond to their overreaction.
The reaction of the strangers is frustrating, but understandable. The reactions which seem absolutely mind-boggling are those of my former in-laws. Dahlia had a strained relationship with both her parents. She stopped speaking to her father shortly after her diagnosis. His tendency was to make her diagnosis a reason to act out. Dahlia needed a parent, not a child, and as a result decided to no longer put up with her father's bullshit. She still loved him, but her diagnosis left her with no mental energy to put up with outside stress.
Her mother was a good parent. She came when required and helped her when she was ill. She gave me a break from the day to day caretaking, for which I am grateful. Her flaws arose from her religion. Her mother is an evangelical Christian. God has an answer for everything and He has a plan for everyone. God's plan was to take away Dahlia in her early 30's. Her mother has to come to terms with the fact God wanted to kill her daughter and make her feel an immense amount of emotional pain.
Both of them reacted to Dahlia's death in difficult ways for me to process. Her father didn't show to her funeral. He scheduled a colonoscopy for two days earlier than he was to fly out to Seattle. For one, he knew about the date a month in advance, and could have scheduled the scan for whenever he liked. Number B, there is no way he couldn't have flown if he wanted, despite the amount of the gas he was dealing with. His decision not to show at Dahlia's funeral was selfish and frightened, but I'm happy he made it. It's much easier to have a selfish and frightened father 3000 miles away than it is to have one at a funeral.
Her mother's reactions were much more discomforting. I can only imagine the anger and fear going through that woman's mind. Her entire faith was put into question by her daughter's death. I knew it would cause her to mourning to be front and center when she was out here, but I had no idea the amount of vitriol that would spill from her when she was out here. During Dahlia's wake, she ended up telling my sister-in-law that it was good of her to come out despite the fact that Dahlia hated her.
 |
| She said what? Okay, maybe I'm spending too much time on Buzzfeed |
Let that sink in a bit, because it took me a while to wrap my head around it. She told a woman she never met, a woman related to a grieving widower who would no doubt hear about it, the most vile, despicable thing you could say to a person at a wake. Dahlia had frustrations with certain people at certain times, and voiced them a little too loudly to the wrong people on occasion. I've been the victim of this, and I know her friends know more of my faults than I'd care to admit. None of it meant she hated anyone, and her mother knew this. Besides, even if it were true, that would never be an appropriate response to any sort of conversation. To top it off, she planned on telling me, before she was talked out of it, that she would be glad to take Dahlia's ashes when (not if) I remarry.
After being told these things, I felt an emotion, one of the five stages, I don’t feel very often: anger. I wanted to take this woman and destroy her very core. If she called, I wanted to take her faith and shove it down her throat. Her God had killed her daughter. She was so angry at Him that she lashed out at anyone she saw. She was angry at the one entity she could not be angry at. If I talked to her in the days after the wake, I would have told her that God was the only needed target for her anger. Her faith made her bitter and manipulative, and she backed the wrong horse in this race for eternity.
In the time since, I’ve calmed down a bit. I still believe all the things above, but I'm lucky enough to have a choice to just never speak with her parents again. I can walk away from the parts of Dahlia that caused me the most stress: the memories of ER trips, my in-laws, etc. If there's one thing I fear about this whole thing, it's ending up, a year from now, unable to adjust and move on. A confrontation would just cause things to linger. Besides, I'm a Seattleite. Passive aggression is how we cope and it's what we do best, and I can't think of anything more passive aggressive than airing this stuff out on a semi-anonymous blog.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Stage 4: Undoing the Compromises
Day 52: Bourbon Buck: Bourbon, Lime Juice, Ginger Beer, Bitters
So I've returned. I've dove into the fray of funeral planning, relatives, in-laws, speech writing and a general sense of overwhelmedness, and come out the other side. The business of planning a funeral has certainly has given me a lot to write about, but I'm not quite ready to write about it yet.
I'm probably having a few revelations which are likely obvious to many, but along with the death of a spouse, I'm dealing with the first breakup of my adult life. In addition to all of the heartbreak and grief, there are number of practical concerns that have arisen in the last couple months. A lot of these are, perhaps, mundane to some, but they've been fascinating to me.
Any relationship, especially one involving co-habitation, comes down to a series of compromises. Ideally, this is minimal. Hopefully, it's more which side of the bed to sleep on and less conversion to Scientology. To be honest, Dahlia and I had very few disagreements in our relationship. No one converted their religion or moved to a city that they didn't want to, so in the long run, we made things easy on each other. Compromises can be far more subtle, far more subconscious: from what TV show to watch to who gets to use the car any given day.
Compromises can be as small as where to put the compost bin. There are things I had no idea I cared about have now become front and center because their main use has become... I suppose irrelevant is the right word. I have a room, that was up until two weeks ago, was filled with quilting supplies. With my fine motor control being what is, dealing with a bunch of small strips of fabric and sharp objects is pretty much out of the question. I had Dahlia's friends take everything they could use and eventually I'll throw out or donate the rest, but even before that, I've got a lot of empty space to use. All the clothes, junk food, fabrics and nick-knacks that were once important parts of Dahlia's life are just things taking up space. All of the removal has made for a pretty empty house. Filling it all will take time.
Beyond the empty space and the quiet house, there's how the days are filled. I'll play a video game instead of watch a movie. When I do watch something, it's more likely to be comedy than period dramas now. I'll order Indian instead of Thai. Each of these things will remind me of the absence in my life, but I do them anyway because it would be silly to do the opposite. Frankly, the opposite would just remind me more, and be just silly. To do something because of a dead woman is ridiculous and Dahlia would be the first to say it.
Of all the things about learning to be single, doing the shit you wanted to do in the first place should be the easiest one. Perhaps it is, but it doesn't make it easy.
So I've returned. I've dove into the fray of funeral planning, relatives, in-laws, speech writing and a general sense of overwhelmedness, and come out the other side. The business of planning a funeral has certainly has given me a lot to write about, but I'm not quite ready to write about it yet.
I'm probably having a few revelations which are likely obvious to many, but along with the death of a spouse, I'm dealing with the first breakup of my adult life. In addition to all of the heartbreak and grief, there are number of practical concerns that have arisen in the last couple months. A lot of these are, perhaps, mundane to some, but they've been fascinating to me.
Any relationship, especially one involving co-habitation, comes down to a series of compromises. Ideally, this is minimal. Hopefully, it's more which side of the bed to sleep on and less conversion to Scientology. To be honest, Dahlia and I had very few disagreements in our relationship. No one converted their religion or moved to a city that they didn't want to, so in the long run, we made things easy on each other. Compromises can be far more subtle, far more subconscious: from what TV show to watch to who gets to use the car any given day.
Compromises can be as small as where to put the compost bin. There are things I had no idea I cared about have now become front and center because their main use has become... I suppose irrelevant is the right word. I have a room, that was up until two weeks ago, was filled with quilting supplies. With my fine motor control being what is, dealing with a bunch of small strips of fabric and sharp objects is pretty much out of the question. I had Dahlia's friends take everything they could use and eventually I'll throw out or donate the rest, but even before that, I've got a lot of empty space to use. All the clothes, junk food, fabrics and nick-knacks that were once important parts of Dahlia's life are just things taking up space. All of the removal has made for a pretty empty house. Filling it all will take time.
Beyond the empty space and the quiet house, there's how the days are filled. I'll play a video game instead of watch a movie. When I do watch something, it's more likely to be comedy than period dramas now. I'll order Indian instead of Thai. Each of these things will remind me of the absence in my life, but I do them anyway because it would be silly to do the opposite. Frankly, the opposite would just remind me more, and be just silly. To do something because of a dead woman is ridiculous and Dahlia would be the first to say it.
Of all the things about learning to be single, doing the shit you wanted to do in the first place should be the easiest one. Perhaps it is, but it doesn't make it easy.
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