Mr. Unavailable #113: The Phoenix Rises, in the Phoenix-Scottsdale Area

Vital Stats: 5' 8"ish, 38. Neurologist, professional pianist/composer. College friend of the friend I was staying with in Arizona. Demeanor: Humble, talkative, slightly-ADD genius. Aesthetic: Neurologist in October-appropriate Phoenix-Scottsdale casual wear: khakis and button-down shirt.

First Impression: Not as hot as his Facebook photo, which was my only prior reference point, but that photo left a lot to live up to. Still: cute and clearly a genius.

First Meeting: Julie had been trying to hook us up long distance for almost two years via Facebook but it never took. Finally, on my last night in Arizona, we were all set to meet up for dinner but then he got stuck at the hospital with a patient, which was unfortunate yet somehow attractive. It was looking like a rendez-vous wouldn't happen until at the last minute, we triangulated our locations and figured out a way to meet for drinks.

Signs of Hope: We met up at a bar in a fancy, mall-like area and he immediately seemed approachable and kind. I hate to describe him in comparison to #111, but a few more things became clear to me. Unlike the way #111 would overcompensate, puffing himself up about "being a writer" or being "passionate about the arts," here was someone who was passionate about everything he did and he had no need to prove it or to have me prove what I was passionate about in return. He just was. And he wanted to share that with whoever he was around. He was clearly very intelligent, but it was evident without him having to say one word about "being a neurologist" or "being an accomplished pianist." It was a relief to see.

At the bar, we were on our second drinks when Julie excused herself for the bathroom and he asked me if I was dating anyone. We had told him that one of the reasons I'd extended my trip was because I got laid off, but now I told him the other reason for extending my trip: because I was no longer dating someone. "Oh, he probably misses you by now," he said. He said it just like that, matter-of-fact. The way he said it even made me believe it. And then went on to talk about what it was like to date in Arizona and how he found dating in New York to be difficult when he lived there. The women, he said, were high maintenance. He described one episode with the woman he ended up dating for 3.5 years: he called her purse "a handbag" and she burst into tears and said it was a very important designer bag. She also told him that if he needed help paying for an engagement ring, her father could help him. No wonder women in New York have a bad rep.

After we left, Julie told me the things he'd said when I took my trip to the ladies room. Apparently, I'm darkly funny, intelligent and well read. He said he was flying to L.A. for a Laurie Anderson show the next day but told Julie, "If she were staying in town, I would have invited her to the show because I have an extra ticket." And then, later apparently, he called me something along the lines of "quietly wise."

"In one hour, he got you," Julie said.
I started to say #111 never got me then stopped myself. "[#111] got me, he just couldn't handle it," I said.

"Well, this guy got it," she said. "He's smitten."

Smitten is good.

Red Flags: He lives in Arizona. I live in New York.

Diagnosis: As I said to Julie on the car ride home that night, "This was exactly what I needed." We'll see what happens. I'm remaining open-minded. But he does live thousands of miles away. At worst, I've got a new friend. At best, his family lives in New Jersey and he mentioned getting together when he comes out for Thanksgiving.

Update: He messaged me on Facebook and we've been sending occasional messages, so we'll see if anything comes up about Thanksgiving. Otherwise, I went to a show at Le Poisson Rouge that he recommended, bringing along #114...

Mr. Unavailable #111: Arizona Convalescence

To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment, The Sad Ultrasound, In Between Appointments and The Last Breakfast for the background on this one.

Three days after seeing #111, I was on a plane to Arizona. The trip had originally been scheduled as a quick long weekend, but now that I had no job and no boyfriend, I was thinking of staying for a while. I'd left New York's chilly 50-degree weather clad in black, arriving in Phoenix SPF-less to 100-degree noontime sun and an outdoor taco festival. My friend Julie had picked me up at the airport to head straight to the taco thing. On the way, I told her the whole story. She got it right away. Most people did. "He's not capable of an adult relationship," she said. How many times did I need to hear it in order to believe it?

That was just the beginning of my Arizona convalescence. It was the next day at the Cupcake Love-In--all-you-can-eat mini cupcakes for $10--that I decided to stay for another week and a half. But I don't think a minute went by that I didn't think about #111.

On my first night there, he emailed me to ask how I was doing, which shocked me because I had no idea if I'd even ever hear from him again and it had only been three days since I'd seen him. It didn't--and, unfortunately, did--help. "Maybe it's not done," Julie said. I hoped it wasn't. When I emailed him back the next day, he replied right away. He hadn't remembered I was going away and teased me about how of course I'd travel all the way to Arizona for cupcakes. He said he'd at first thought I'd gone away to pursue that story I'd told him I wanted to do. It was curious: He must have thought a lot of me to think I'd drop everything three days after seeing him to go travel across the country in order to write a story. Interesting. Wouldn't that have meant that he thought I had passion? I wrote back, teasing him about other things in return, but then heard nothing.

Days passed. I slept erratically, taking five hour naps in the early evening and then sleeping through the night or, otherwise, completely unable to sleep at night and then waking up early in the morning. Just as I had in New York, I'd wake up in pain and carry it around all day. Julie was like a combination babysitter/shrink. She'd pack me up in the car and drive me around on errands or listen as I went over things for the millionth time. "I just don't get it, how can someone say they're crazy about you one day and then suddenly decide they don't have strong feelings for you, I just don't get it." She was consistent and steady in every response, towing the party line: "He's not evolved...he's not capable of an adult relationship..."

On day four, we were doing errands and I knew I had a blood test scheduled for the next day in New York. Somewhere between the library and the Sprouts store, I called my doctor. I was hoping to go blood-testless, but it turned out she wanted me to get one last one and, she said, I should really do it there in Arizona. She wanted me to find a lab and go the next day. I wasn't happy: I just wanted to be done with it all. This was supposed to be some kind of getaway and here I was, being actively haunted. Plus, it would be needle #12. I was beyond done.

Julie managed to find a lab on her phone and we made a plan for the next day and went into the Sprouts store. Fired, dumped and accidentally pregnant then not pregnant, I was about to crack. I didn't want to deal with any more--certainly not needle #12. My coping skills weren't just down, they were gone. Holding a bag of grapes and yogurt-covered pretzels, I walked up to Julie and said, "I feel like I'm going to cry" and then burst into tears.

She sent me out of the store with her car keys, but I hadn't been able to pay attention to where we parked on the way in, so I stumbled over to a bench in front of the store. I pulled my hat down low so no one could see the full view, but I was a mess. Julie came out and found me a few minutes later and put me in the car. I still hadn't stopped crying and just barely breathed through my tears, "Coping...skills...down." At least that made us laugh.

Over the next week, all I could manage to do was Sun-In my hair and taste-test and rate every self-serve frozen yogurt place in the Phoenix-Scottsdale area, a task Julie and I undertook with zeal. We also did some second-hand shopping but even that was too painful an activity--going through racks of clothes required too many brain cells that were far too spent.

Almost a week went by and I hadn't heard from #111. Plagued by the idea that I hadn't been loving enough during the relationship, I felt like it was my turn to reach out--again, I still thought the breakup had something to do with me. I emailed him to check in and see how he was. I waited, painfully, for a response and, over the next 24 hours, nothing came. Finally, he replied. He responded with more of a rant than anything else and it was enlightening to read. It was totally self-absorbed, complaining about some symposium he had to put on and how he wasn't getting any recognition for it. It was whiny. It actually made me feel better. I wondered if not having emailed him would have been worse. I have a tendency to put unreachable people on pedestals. And here he was, reachable and whiny. He ended it by asking how my cupcake coma was. I replied, and, of course, heard nothing.

Diagnosis: I have photos from my and Julie's frozen-yogurt tour. We documented almost every store, but the one I loved the most (yogurt shop and photo) was from the day that I had to have that last blood test. We had gone to Sonoran Labs and a nice man took my blood and, instead of offering me a Band-Aid, offered me an armband in one of three colors: orange, tan and black. Naturally, I chose black. We went to Yogurtland after that. Julie took a photo of me with my yogurt and I held up my arm to display my armband. In the photo, I have a slight smile and look scrawny and spent--utterly exhausted. But somewhere in my tired expression, there's a sign of determination. I was barely feeling anything remotely close to strength or determination, but there it was. Everything about the photo--the arm band, the look on my face, even the gigantic cup of frozen yogurt--said, "This one's a survivor."

Mr. Unavailable #111: The Last Breakfast

To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment, The Sad Ultrasound and In Between Appointments for the background on this one.

I've been putting off writing this one because I knew it would be a difficult one to write (note to my nine readers: I'm writing these about one month behind because doing it in the moment was too painful). And the reason I've been putting off writing this one is because, on the morning of my last appointment, we went to breakfast and it was there that everything went so well.

I met him a little after 9 a.m. at the clinic. He was late--again. Probably to make a statement--again. I let it slide because our last few encounters had been so testy and, instead, asked him how his volunteer shift had been the week before. He launched into a story about an old East Village punk rock guy who talk-stalked him all over Housing Works. I asked him if they let him use the cash register and teased him about it, letting him go on boyishly about his thrill at the till. Seeing I was no threat, he became much more at ease. He was always most comfortable when he was telling one of his stories. It was kind of like a performance. I could tell this one would become part of his repertoire, he would keep it on hand to tell again someday, to someone else.

The doctor called us into the examining room and told us everything was looking good. She said they would never know whether the pregnancy had miscarried or been ectopic but, either way, my blood levels indicated everything was on its way back to normal--physically, anyway. I asked her about my blood type and she told me I was Rh positive, which was good news for future pregnancies, and then she asked if I had any other questions. Apparently, #111 hadn't heard that second part because when I looked over at him as I tried to conjure another question for her, he said, "Why are you looking at me? I don't know your blood type."

"She already told me," I said. "I'm trying to think of other questions."
"Oh," he said. But the moment of hostility was pungent.

Then the doctor asked me if I wanted birth control.
I didn't even pause. "Yes," I said, in a way that, to #111, I (yes, childishly) hoped, sounded more like, "Yes, definitely, I will be needing that because I'm going to be sleeping with many men very soon."

Back outside, we'd seemed to have shaken off any pettiness. I said, "So how about we go to B&H for breakfast?" He was game. I knew he would be. On the walk over I talked about Shelagh, who was off on safari and said, "You never finished telling me your safari story about the elephants." It was a story he had started on our last date--almost two weeks earlier. He'd gotten cut off because the show started and then, well, we broke up.

As we walked, he finished telling me that when they were out on the plains in the jeep, they saw elephants and he started to cry. He said he didn't know what that was about.

"It's like that time I told you about where I saw my niece," I said, recalling the story I had told him at one of our Remedy breakfasts. The story was: A few years earlier, my parents picked me up from the bus station and my niece was in the car. I hadn't seen her in three years and she was almost five, a walking, talking, thinking human. I took one look at her and started to cry.
"It's the innocence, the pureness of it," I said to #111. "It's not messed up yet. It's simply life--uncomplicated, it just is what it is."

It was a beautiful day. Fall had set in and the sun was out. We got a table inside B&H and ordered. If you've ever been to B&H, you know it's old school. It's tiny, so they cook everything behind the counter and then hand it over to you. And the tables are so close you barely have to get up to reach for anything.

We sat there for two and half hours talking. I asked him how he was doing with all of this. He said he'd only told his roommate and therapist but was just trying to keep busy so as not to get depressed. "I take pregnancy very seriously," he said and added that he was trying not to think about it too much. I told him that I'd been in reaction mode when I found out and that if it had been a viable pregnancy, I might have regretted what I'd done. "I wouldn't have let that happen," he said. "If there had been a heartbeat or anything, I would have stopped everything and said, 'OK, let's talk about this.' But the priority was to make sure you were safe and when it looked like things weren't good, that was what was important." I leaned my head to the side, resting it against the wall, looked at him and said, "It made me realize that if I ever am in a committed relationship, I would like to have a child."

We went on talking and after finishing our omelets, I asked him if he wanted to split a piece cake. As always, he was amused at my unapologetic affection for sweets, which he also joined in on, though more apologetically. So we split a piece of carrot cake. He was clearly in no rush. We talked about writing and our plans for what to write in the future. He started to be discouraging about something I said I wanted to do but then caught himself and said he thought it sounded like a great idea. "You should send it to The Atlantic or The New Yorker," he said. At least he caught himself. He hadn't always.

Sitting across from him, I was waiting for the right moment to say something else I'd wished I'd said to him but was too afraid to say while we were dating... because it was about his ex... because I was so threatened by her, by their long relationship. "I'm really sorry you suffered so much at the end of your last relationship," I said. Because the truth was, no matter how stunted or unwilling to look at himself he is, it doesn't change the fact that he was in pain. I wanted to at least acknowledge that. Even though I didn't think it would change anything with him, it was practice for the next guy who tells me how his last relationship hurt him. At least I won't have to wait until that relationship is over for me to be able to show compassion. #111 appeared to appreciate it.

I was taken by the spirit of things and said, after we discussed books and movies and writing, "I would like us to be friends. Because I think we have a few things in common." It was a friendly jab at one of his retarded breakup comments.

"I would like that. Maybe I can send you a jazz song," he jabbed back.

It began to feel like we were maxing out our breakfast time and so I got the check (which he jabbed me about, too) and we got our stuff together to go. On the sidewalk, I gave him a hug and sort of patted him on the back at the end of it--that's what I do with friends. And as I began to turn around and walk away, I saw that same look on his face that I saw the day he came over to discuss my pregnant state. Again, the "intense" look was gone. Instead, his look was curious, almost baffled--open even--as if he could have been thinking, "What just happened here?"

Diagnosis: What just happened here? I held onto that look as well as the facts of the morning: two and half hours at breakfast together and it was clear there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Two and a half hours, I kept thinking. But I had no idea when I would hear from him again or if I even ever would. I still had to let him know about the bills, but that was a bookkeeping matter, so it didn't count. Even though I'd said I wanted to be friends--and meant it in the moment--I was truly holding onto this idea that he would realize what he'd done and "snap out of it," and I wanted to believe that that look was just the beginning of his "coming to." But I should have known that--just like it had already proven to be with him--the promise of good could vanish in an instant.

Mr. Unavailable #111: In Between Appointments

To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment and The Sad Ultrasound for the background on this one.

My State of Mind: Allow me to briefly describe the kind of state I was in during the period between when I saw #111 for appointments: I was barely functioning. Unable to put things away or clean, my apartment was in tatters. Going outside was painful. Being at home was painful. I didn't even have the attention span to watch a movie, and certainly not to read a book. If I did attempt to watch a movie, I could only watch it on my laptop with it directly in front of me. Even then, my mind wandered, or I'd start to cry, or I'd desperately want to cry but be unable to. I was alternatingly numb and distraught, completely dried up with misery and unable to understand how he could just walk away. As I said several times during the breakup: "You didn't even give it a chance."

The Between Time: The day after the ultrasound, I was so unhinged I went to see my old therapist. I hadn't been there since January, so I had to quickly catch her up. The short of it, as I yelled then cried then yelled again: I didn't want to be done with him. She suggested that I tell him I want us to be friends as we go through this and that I was concerned about him and how he was because he was going through this, too. I have to admit: Up until this point, I and everyone I talked to was so concerned about whether or not he was treating me right (which he was and wasn't) that it never even occurred to me to see how he was doing with this accidental pregnancy thing.

My shrink asked if there was anything that I could ask him to. I mentioned the New Yorker Festival and then texted him, composing it in her office, asking him if he still wanted to go and saying I'd like it if he would come because I thought he would enjoy it. He texted me a few hours later, guardedly declining. I said I wanted to be there for him as he had been for me. He wrote back sounding a little softer but said that he wouldn't have been able to go anyway because he had taken a later shift at Housing Works. That made me feel a little calmer but I was still desperate to clear my conscience (had I been selfish?), so I asked if I could take him out for lunch to see how he was doing. He said we could talk later about that. I knew it was unlikely I would hear from him but felt better for trying.

The next night I had a horrible, admittedly twisted, realization. Lying in bed, going over the details of the breakup and subsequent pregnancy for the twelve-zillionth time, it suddenly occurred to me: Would he have stayed and tried to work on things if I'd said I wanted to have the child? I met Allison out for breakfast the next morning. "Probably," she said. Even though that would have been horribly manipulative and not at all what I really wanted, all I felt was anguish that I hadn't thought of it earlier--or, perhaps some subconscious wisdom prevailed. Either way, I had completely lost my mind. Nora had to talk me down. "I think you dodged a bullet," she said. "This is who he is. He's not capable of an adult relationship. He's not evolved."

That night, overcome with massive abdominal pain and all of its bloody details, the reality of the situation hit. I had never felt a maternal urge, but an unfamiliar regret was bubbling to the surface. I felt awful. Curled up in bed in physical agony (welcome relief from the relentless emotional kind), I was glad that the pregnancy was never viable because if ending it had been my decision, I may have regretted it.

I felt like he should know what was going on and emailed from my phone, underneath my covers, to tell him. He called me about an hour later to ask if I was OK. At that point, I was delirious but said I was OK (Heidi later told me they usually give out prescription painkillers for this sort of thing).
"I think it's getting better," I said. Then I asked him how he was.
"I'm OK," he said. "Just doing laundry."

"Strong" #111 was back. He asked when my next appointment was and I said maybe I could take him out for breakfast after. He said we could talk about it later. I knew that for him--being "strong" and all--not saying "no" meant "yes."

I figured I wouldn't hear from him until just before Wednesday, but he surprised me by emailing me Monday night to see how I was doing. I asked how he was and he said he was keeping busy, which, for him, was revealing. The night before the appointment, I was on edge. My shrink had recommended we just talk about "all the things we don't have in common"--in reference to the ridiculous statement he'd made the week before about us not having anything in common. But I also needed to ease my mind, say some things I should have said months before. I wanted him to see why we'd been together in the first place, thinking it would make a difference, still thinking the breakup had something to do with me.

Diagnosis: For him: The open, vulnerable #111 that I witnessed for about 30 minutes the week before is gone again but...
For me: ...I keep believing the open, vulnerable #111 will return. I saw it, it exists. Otherwise, in even thinking to use the pregnancy in an effort to keep him around was a low point, one to which I hope I never return. I'm just glad I didn't think to act on it when it would have mattered. Between that and the state I'm in, clearly, I have lost my mind.

Mr. Unavailable #111: The Sad Ultrasound

See Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News and The Appointment for the background on this one.

Just one day after the door incident, I had an appointment at NYU for a more detailed ultrasound in the ongoing hunt for the missing embryo that could kill me. #111 had replied to my email the day before saying he'd still like to go to my next appointment with me, so I told him where and when. He was 15 minutes late--and he was never late, so, clearly, he was making a statement. He didn't apologize or anything when he walked in. I had gone to The Strand that morning and was reading an E.L. Doctorow novel in preparation for a New Yorker Festival panel discussion the next day--a discussion featuring Doctorow, Annie Proulx and Peter Carey that I had originally gotten the two of us tickets for. Clearly, I was making a statement, too.

We had nothing to say to each other. I started to put my book away and he said, "You can keep reading if you want to." So I did, and he got out his cell phone and was laughing as he texted or emailed someone, which bothered me to no end because, naturally, it made me wonder who was on the other end.

Finally, they called us into the examining room and I got undressed and up on the table. I learned from the day before to throw vanity out the window. The first technician came in and did one ultrasound. Again, it hurt--not only from pain but also from fear and #111, who was sitting in a chair next to me, put one arm over the top of my head and held my hand with the other. I squeezed his hand harder every time the technician hit a sensitive spot, digging my nails in just a little bit for my own gratification.

When the technician finished, she said it looked like it was in the cervix, which was a very bad place for it to be. "They did the right thing yesterday in giving you the pill and injection," she said. "They did a very good thing." When she left to get the doctor, I said to #111, "It's ironic that I don't even think I want a kid and this one could have killed me."

Then the doctor came in--an older doctor with a poor bedside manner who was not shy about jamming the ultrasound wand in. More hand squeezing, more nail digging. He had a more tempered diagnosis and told us that it may have miscarried on its own and been on its way out by the time they gave me the drug. "But we'll never know for sure," he said. "Either way, you're fine. This kind of thing happens all the time. With the next one, there will be no problem." That was the twenty-zillionth painful layer to this whole scenario: Everyone we came into contact with didn't know we weren't together.

On our way out, #111 said he was getting a bagel and asked if I wanted to get one, too. "Ess-a-Bagel?" I asked. That was the plan, he said. Sadly, we were always on the same page. It was raining a little and we walked together downtown. The conversation was light--this movie, that movie, Guy-Ritchie-is-a-one-trick-pony, oh-isn't-the-Ess-a-Bagel-decor interesting, teasing me about losing my keys... that sort of thing. Back outside, we were going in different directions, so we gave each other a sad little hug in the rain.

Diagnosis: Sad. Just sad.