Start dating after widowed
At a young age, I concluded that widows were different from other women, set apart, other. Not long ago, I met a man with whom I instantly hit it off.
A friend of a friend, he looked me up when he was traveling through New York from Europe.
Yet when I started dating, widowhood became the woolly mammoth in the room--guys would try to avoid the subject completely.
The first man I dated after Frank, a sports fanatic from Brooklyn whom I saw for two months, would tense his jaw and say, "I'm sorry," before changing the subject to football. But I felt sorry enough for myself; after a point, I could hardly bear having anyone else feel sorry for me.
They hadn't, but I still felt comfortable discussing it with him.
Perhaps because it didn't feel like a real date, only a hastily scheduled get-together, I felt none of the pressure that goes along with courtship.
A chaplain led me by the hand to her office, and I sank to the floor, crying, deeply sad--and guilt-ridden--that I had not been with him at the very end.
We went out for drinks and had a great time, telling stories about our childhood and swapping anecdotes about our lives as writers.
I'd assumed that our mutual friends had told him I'd lost my husband.
When his cancer briefly disappeared, I rejoiced with him; when it reappeared, we despaired together.
I rode beside him in ambulances to emergency rooms late at night.