Q&A

One of my readers, masteroftheuniverse, recently widowed himself, asked me this question in comments:

When your husband died, did you first say, "I'll never be with another person for as long as I live?"

The answer to that question is a resounding, unequivocal yes. The idea of being with someone other than John was initially so alien as to be incomprehensible. I missed John so much that I could not imagine anyone else filling the void he had left in my life. Add to that the stress and logistics of dealing with the twins by myself, and I couldn't comprehend how or why I'd want to find another partner.

I felt that way for about a year, I'd say. During that time, I gradually came to realize that I missed not only John, but just having a spouse. As that realization hit me, I began to think that perhaps I could figure out how to integrate another person into my life perhaps when the twins were older, in school. I thought that once they were a little more self-sufficient, I'd have some time to think about myself, my needs, and my desires.

Then I went through a really, really rough period of very deep sadness. I was angry a lot. I was short with the twins all the time. I was cranky and tired. And it lasted for months. Then in August, I had an epiphany. I had been assuming that I felt like utter crap because I was grieving. I'm sure that was part of it. But I realized that some of my anger, sadness, and crabbiness came from other sources. The grief felt completely out of my control; if the grief experts agree on one thing it's that you just need to feel the feelings and experience the experiences. You can't control them and you shouldn't try. Fine. I can try my hardest to accept that. But the anger and sadness in my life that's not grief-related? I'm going to do my best to fix it, because it feels like total shit.

And thus I began dating, because I realized that at least some of my anger and sadness came from a place of loneliness. The twins and I are blessed to have more friends than we can count, more friends than we can see on a regular basis. I never felt isolated, or like we didn't see people enough or have enough support. In fact, I often found that I craved less social interaction, which makes dating seem like a counterintuitive leap. The thing is, all the friends in the world don't make up for having an intimate partner. There's something (obviously) physical but also emotional about dating someone that your friends can't give you. Sure, it takes time to find an build a relationship that's really meaningful, but I personally have always enjoyed the process leading up to that, so I was not daunted by the thought of being back on the dating scene. In fact, I looked forward to it. First dates do not make me nervous. I could talk to a wall for a couple of hours, so I never worry about conversation (other than me dominating it). I truly enjoy meeting new people; you never know what someone will have up his or her sleeve. And I do like that thrill of the chase, that giddy potential of wondering: Could this person be the one?

And thus began the well-chronicled tales of Mr. Coffee and the brief meetings (or lack thereof) with Mr. Nice and Mr. Tango.

Here's something interesting. Jeff (aka masteroftheuniverse), continued his comment from above by saying:

Plus, what [my wife and I] had was perfection and anyone else would pale compared to her.

I have had pretty much no problem comparing my current relationship or any of my potential dates with John. The main reason for this is that my relationship with John was not perfect. In the time immediately following John's death, I did remember our relationship as perfect. I totally forgot about some really difficult stuff we went though before we got married—things I'm not ready to write about in this blog mostly because they are thing that John would never want Out There, and even though he is dead, I feel a need to respect that. Suffice it to say that there were some things we worked through that were very challenging. His cancer diagnosis made those things seem like trivial bits of a long-lost past, but they were in fact real issues that could have—and I think would have—continued to plague us if he had not been sick. Do I think they would have been the demise of our marriage? No, or I would not have entered into that marriage in the first place. Do I think John was a wonderful, amazing, supporting, loving, caring partner? Absolutely. But lately the imperfections of our union have been more on my mind than the good parts, even though the good parts were more plentiful.

I think there's a bit of self-protectionism in this. As I open myself up to another person, I need to remember that my relationship with John had flaws so that I don't make unfair comparisons. I don't want to put my relationship with John on a pedastal as some kind of unattainable goal. Cloaking my relationship with John in perfectionism feels, for me—and I do not generalize this feeling to others—like an excuse. It's risky to think about being open to another serious relationship, even a marriage. I did that once and suffered a big loss. The idea of experiencing that kind of pain again can feel foolish and reckless, and if I manage to convince myself that there was no way anyone could compare with John, I wouldn't have to open myself up to the possibility of that pain again. The thing is, the payoff of being open could be huge.

I was recently in touch with a young widow Internet friend of mine, and she said something really profound to me. Her husband died a year (or more?) before John, and she is now in a very serious relationship with someone else. She told me that the man she is with now is actually a better match for her than her late husband was. It had never, ever occurred to me that I could find someone who would be a better match for me. When I started dating again, it had crossed my mind that I might find someone who was an equally good match, who made me feel as fulfilled as John did, albeit in a different way. But better? No. Hadn't considered it. Frankly, it was a thrilling thought. I have lost so much, felt so much pain. The idea that the experience could end up leading me to something better is oddly comforting.

This isn't to say that I will find someone who is a better fit. I might, I might not. But one thing is certain: if I do, that has no bearing whatsoever on the love I shared with John. Young widows and widowers face a lot of judgment about this. Some people (and I am not pointing fingers at any of my readers) would have us unfortunate souls believe that if we move on, if we find someone else to date or someone else to marry, we've somehow diminished the love we have for our late spouse. These folks want us to think that the only way to prove that the love we had for our spouses was pure and true and perfect is to martyr ourselves and be resigned to never finding love (or just having sex!) again. To that, I say: BITE ME. I loved my husband deeply. But he's never coming back. Nothing I do with the remainder of my life will change what I had with John, or the depth of my feelings for him, which were as deep and true as I was capable of at that time in my life.

So to Jeff: There is a very long answer to your question. Thanks for the food for thought.