I have been on both sides of a dumping: dumper and dumpee. In my experience, neither is better, and death is preferable. While there is never a good time to dump someone, there is always a right way. Ideally, a dumping should be a carefully curated experience, a sacred act of dignity preservation that allows the dumpee to exit with grace.
Begin by sending them an ominous yet straightforward text message: “I need to talk. Are you free to meet later?” Then meet on a bench in a neutral location; avoid any location they enjoy. Most importantly, never blindside someone by dumping them on a regular date where it appears everything is fine. Because if the dumpee has no clue what is coming, they might do what I did, which is order a tuna melt.
“I don’t want to date anymore,” he said after walking me out of the restaurant.
I turned and stared at him, sure he was joking. I was carrying an overnight bag; I had traveled to his neighborhood and wasn’t planning on going home.
Ours had been a short but intense summer romance. He was not my usual type, but we clicked. I knew early on that we might not have been right for each other, but we were having fun. And I was willing to test out the theory that opposites attract, because he was a corporate lawyer, and I worked for a nonprofit. Also, he smoked, and I hate cigarettes. I believe in compromise while he once canceled a first date because he found out the woman was gluten-free.
But he was charismatic, cultured, funny and openly expressed interest in me. In a world where dating can feel like such an endless slog of disappointment, the connection seemed promising. So when I heard the words, “I don’t want to date anymore,” my brain could not compute. Not only did he watch me order a tuna melt, he had encouraged me to order the tuna melt. “That sounds like the right move,” he said, all while knowing he was about to dump me.
To be fair, given his plan, he probably meant, “That sounds like the right move because we won’t be sharing a bed tonight, so pursue whatever act of terrorism you want on your body.”
Many women order salads for the first two years of dating. But I felt genuinely comfortable with him. I was planning on seeing him three days later for my birthday. We had concert plans two months out. I felt tuna-melt safe.
Early on, while talking dealbreakers with him, I brought up that I have a condition recently named polyendocrine metabolic ovarian syndrome (P.M.O.S.), and a doctor told me in my early 20s that conception would be unlikely.
There is a lot of confusing information about the fertility potential of people with P.M.O.S. — formerly known as P.C.O.S. While many people with it can get pregnant and have biological children, I don’t know if I can or want to give birth, given my complicated reproductive and hormonal issues. I do, however, want a family, and adoption and fostering always felt like options.
I told him the fertility stuff was a dealbreaker for some men, and he said that he hadn’t considered it before and would need to think about it. But as we both shoved it under the rug, the dates continued to get more intimate.
“It’s the kids thing,” he said. “I’ve realized that I do definitely want them, so this won’t work.”
“Wait, so you’re talking specifically about biological kids?” I asked, trying to make sense of my new reality, where I was not actually on a date and was instead getting dumped because of the possible tumbleweeds in my ovaries. Suddenly, the weight of the dental night guard in my purse grew heavy on my shoulder.
“Yeah. I hadn’t really thought about it until you brought it up,” he said. “But I want to keep that option open. I was stressing about it all week.”
I told him I felt blindsided, and he said, “Should I not have taken you to dinner? What did you think about the pancake?”
Oh, did I forget to mention the pancake? At the end of dinner, he requested a dessert menu, and I said, “I don’t need any dessert.”
“Let’s get a pancake,” he said.
“No thanks, I’m good on a pancake,” I said.
He proceeded to order a pancake with vanilla ice cream. When our server set the pancake down in front of me, I quickly picked the plate up and placed it in front of him, announcing, “This is not my pancake.”
An older couple next to us started laughing at the young lovers quibbling.
“Come on, help me eat the pancake,” he said, probably annoyed that I was now bringing public attention to his bizarre, nonconsensual dessert order.
I took one bite.
I was getting dumped because of my fertility issues after eating a hot fish sandwich and a child’s birthday breakfast in front of my executioner. I felt insane.
I asked if there was anything besides the kid issue. I was desperate to give this guy a better out. The fertility excuse seemed too callous. Yes, having biological children is a valid dealbreaker for some. But without discussion?
I could handle him saying “I don’t feel a romantic connection,” or “I met someone else,” or “I watched you eat a tuna melt like an hour ago.”
“No, it’s only kids,” he said. “I love spending time with you. You’re a golden person. I want to keep going out, but we would just keep developing feelings, and this would come up eventually. I’m getting old and my friends are starting to have kids.”
Suddenly, we were standing outside his apartment building. A feeling in my gut immediately said, “Go home,” but a lot was happening in my gut, so it was hard to decipher. I told him I didn’t know what to say, and I asked if he wanted to walk two blocks to the lake.
In retrospect, suggesting we spend any more time together was a bizarre move on my part, but I think on some level, I was trying to curate a proper breakup for myself.
When I first received my P.M.O.S. diagnosis, I felt a mix of grief and relief. I finally had an answer to my many years of nonexistent periods. But the diagnosis made me feel like my body had made a major decision around my femininity without my consent. And in a society where many consider having biological children as the purest form of child-rearing, my diagnosis brought with it a forced acceptance that I might be taking an alternate route through womanhood.
For a long time, I openly joked about having fertility issues. It was some of my first good stand-up material, and I had always dated men who treated it more as a “No worries, we’ll deal with it when we deal with it” type of issue. I had never felt like my reproductive potential might eclipse someone wanting me in their life.
Motherhood has never been my core concern, but there’s something about getting rejected, out of the blue, because of your body, that feels like getting punched in both fallopian tubes.
We sat down on the concrete overlooking Lake Michigan. “I’m not trying to change your mind, I’m just trying to understand,” I said. “Hypothetically, if I had told you that I have fertility issues but was willing to do I.V.F., would you have felt differently?”
He looked out at the lake and said, “Yeah, I think so.”
“OK,” was all I could manage.
“And I mean,” he added, “I don’t even know if I’m fertile.”
“What?” I turned to look at him.
“Like I don’t know if my sperm works,” he said, I guess joking?
“Hmm.” I wanted to cry, but nothing came out.
I will never try to convince someone to want me. So, we parted ways with an awkward hug, and I walked one block before finally bursting into tears.
A day after telling this story to everyone I know, I quickly formed a fortress of certainty around my psyche, knowing that I dodged a bullet. How someone dumps you reveals almost everything you need to know about them. And I’m better off not spending my life with someone who forces pancakes à la mode on me right before dealing a devastating blow.
I should address one gaping hole in this story. Regardless of whether I knew I was getting dumped, I did order a tuna melt before what I expected to be a night of uninhibited sex. I have no defense. Please respect my family’s privacy during this time.
Lucia Whalen is a writer and comedian in Chicago.
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