Loving and Losing Colleagues

To my co-workers, past and present. And flowers for Dan.

I know, I know, it’s June and the days are long and light, and I have flowers to cut and an old dog’s tummy to scratch. So I should be joyful. But I have been traveling down a dimly lit road this week, and I feel I should forewarn you. There is a neon sign (albeit with a few bulbs missing) at the end of the road, though, I promise. 

Sailing World staff outing on a catamaran, 1991; Dan is in the back row, second from left; I’m in the front row, far left

On Tuesday night, I opened my email and saw that an old thread had popped back up to the top of my inbox. The sender was one of my colleagues from Sailing World magazine, where I worked back in the ‘80s and early ‘90s. He had sent the first email out when one of our crew had been diagnosed with lymphoma last February, and the subject line of course had stayed the same since then: “Vibes for Dan.” So I opened up the email expecting some sort of update, but not the message that I read – that our friend Dan Dickison had died, surrounded by his wife and two daughters, at home a few days before. He was 67.  

The twin jolts of shock and sadness that hit me were much stronger than I ever could have predicted. I haven’t seen Dan in 25 years. And yet I can absolutely see and hear him as if he were standing right in front of me. He had a great laugh, a warm smile, a penchant for story-telling, and a strong, athletic body that carried him on many adventures. I can see him standing with his hands on his hips, or his arms crossed, or pushing his glasses up his nose. And I will always see him diving to the ground to help our friend and colleague who fell into a seizure right in front of us at a post-regatta awards ceremony. He was a good guy. A really good guy.

We worked together for five years during a time when our little magazine (staff of 10) moved from Norwalk, Conn., to Newport, Rhode Island, and we were all each other’s social lives. But then we did as young people do: went on to make lives. (And, oh yeah, I married one of the other guys — my now ex-husband, George — and we moved back to Connecticut.) And I haven’t been the best about keeping in touch with everyone.

Dan wasn’t a big social media guy, but as it happens he got onto Instagram a bit while he was sick in the last year and we were able to reconnect just a little over nature and flowers. Dan loved everything about the outdoors – especially being on the water in any kind of boat – so it didn’t surprise me that he loved flowers, too.

And I loved looking at photos of Dan’s family on his Instagram. The last thing he posted (leading me to falsely believe everything was fine) was a photo of one of his daughters graduating from college. Apparently his other daughter had just gotten her master’s degree and Dan, though exhausted, had hung on just long enough to see both of his children graduate.

I remember thinking at one point during Dan’s illness that all of us New England-based  Sailing World alumni should get in the car and drive down to Charleston to see Dan. But of course the “modern medicine will take care of this and he’ll be fine” thoughts countered that notion. Just goes to show you.

Before we left Norwalk, c. 1988. I’m in the dark glasses, front row (apparently this was taken the day after a party!); Dan is behind me, second from left)

It has been nearly a week and I’m still carrying that heavy I’ll-never-see-this-person-again feeling around. I’m not sure why I’m having trouble shaking the sadness. Though wait, I want to be clear – I don’t think it is wrong to feel this stuff, to be a bit angry that someone as vibrant as Dan should have his time cut short, to feel empathy for his family, and to feel this combination of being glad I knew Dan and wishing I had kept in touch better.

These are not comfortable feelings at all, but they serve a purpose in reminding us (me) of how vulnerable we are (I am). I guess I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t also recognize that losing a peer scares the s--t out of me. Who will be next – someone I love? Me? Ironically, I was reading Elizabeth Alexander’s memoir, The Light of the World, about losing her husband suddenly at age 50 when I got the news about Dan. And loss seemed to be lurking everywhere this week, especially in the news with the disappearance of the submersible in the North Atlantic and ultimately the loss of the five people aboard it.

I know, I know, people die every day. There is a war (wars!) going on. Dan is not the first friend I have lost. I get all that. But as my sister (who is 67), my husband (who is 72) and I (about to be 61) have been talking about lately, there seems to be a wave of loss (okay, I’ll call it what it is: death) in the 60 to 70-year-old demographic. So if you’re our age, this starts to be a thing. It isn’t fun.

And for me at least, it stimulates a lot of nervous self-evaluation. I’m sure that’s pretty obvious to newsletter readers! I’m nothing if not mired in nostalgia and introspection.

But listen, sometimes good things rise out of the muck.     

While I was wallowing this week, gratitude came along and slapped me upside the head with this thought: mourning Dan is, in part, mourning the camaraderie we all had as a bunch of young co-workers. And how lucky I was to be part of that. Suddenly, I realized that I have been blessed with that kind of camaraderie again and again in my work life.

Heck, it started with my camp counselor friends – a whole group of us who came together one summer as staff trainees (15 and 16 years old) and stayed working at camp every summer until we were 21. Did we have the best time ever? Yes, we did. Especially on those welcome days off from our duties. But most of the time we were on-duty, with a lot of kids to look after – in the trenches, as they say – and that’s where we helped each other out a lot. I credit that experience with some of the best feelings I have about humanity.

Fine Cooking staff, 2005

Later on, my co-workers at Fine Cooking magazine were lifesavers. All so smart and funny and passionate, they were by far the best part of a job that ultimately became too stressful for me – being editor in chief during a time of a huge increase in products and responsibilities, including media appearances and frequent travel. While I struggled to manage “up,” keeping the bosses satisfied, my staff kept on producing the best magazine possible. 

Again, when I returned to the office world from freelancing in 2017, I landed in a place filled with smart and interesting and friendly people. And once again, it’s a small group at the Vineyard Gazette. And as in all publishing ventures these days, that small group of people is producing a lot of content, so the feeling of teamwork is palpable.

Vineyard Gazette staff, 2022

Of course not every place I have worked was small and friendly. My first job straight out of college was at Seventeen magazine and there were too many people and too many agendas for warm and fuzzy feelings. (It was great in other ways though, starting with everything I learned about magazine editing from my boss, the very talented Sarah Crichton.)

But if you’ve ever worked intensely with a team, even if it’s only been for a short amount of time, you know that those people stay with you forever, even if you never see them again. For a time they were like family and they made your life so much richer.

I realize now that what I’m feeling about Dan isn’t just sadness – it’s my heart expanding and filling up my chest and squeezing a bit of the breath out of me. You can’t have mourning or grief without love and gratitude, too.

Flowers for Dan.