Let’s Treat Heartbreak Like the Serious Injury That it Is
A broken heart is an injury of the highest order.
When I lived in New York, I went to a charity bachelor auction and bought a cute doctor. His name was Ed, and he seemed pleasantly surprised when I showed up to the date. I still remember what I was was wearing: a DVF wrap dress, strappy sandals, the best light pink never-to-be-found-again nail polish on my toes. I’m not sure why this detail is important. My working theory is that my brain was so scrambled after Ed eventually left me, it was like my hard drive wiped out, leaving a detritus of images floating around.
Soon after the first date we were sleeping at each other’s apartments, drinking Cuban coffee in the morning, talking about our future. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas together. He was only forty, but had been married not once, not twice, but three times before. Somehow this red flag didn’t register.
One night he came over for dinner. I was in the middle of making baked brie with pears and walnuts when he sat down at the kitchen table and told me that it was over. I can’t remember exactly what he said; I do remember floating to the hall closet like a ghost, pulling out his white coats and silently handing them to him.
