Heather McLeod

By October, my September adrenaline addiction matured into an endorphin addiction. This new obsession with exercise shows no sign of waning.

I’ve always had an addictive personality: I find a new Joy, then dive in whole-heartedly, spend the cash, abandon other interests, and revel in the new bliss until something else shiny catches my eye. Past addictions include my old school Fisher Price Little People collection (I couldn’t pass a thrift store without checking the toy section), spinning and weaving, quilting, and — from 2015 to 2017 — Lego.

These days it’s all about testing the limits of what I’m physically capable of. Yesterday, my morning workout wasn’t enough: freshly showered, I decided to climb a (smallish) mountain just because it looked pretty with the new snow. On my own. Despite knowing full well I had kickboxing that evening.

I’ve never been a gym rat, and I’m curious at this change in myself. Situations where Old Heather would have quit — like when I lost the trail yesterday, and found myself walking up the switchbacking road in 6″ of snow for what felt like an hour — are no longer insurmountable challenges.

Feeling the Burn = Feeling Something

There’s a weird numbness in me these days: like when your leg is asleep, so you hit it or pinch it to test what you can feel. I’m pushing my body harder and harder, trying to see when the discomfort will become Too Much.

It started with gym workouts, which were hard the first few times but soon became my routine three mornings a week. Then Zumba: I wasn’t even sweating by the end of the six-week session. I can force myself up the climbing wall, on harder and harder routes, and the only time I feel that old fear of heights is the moment I let go of the wall and have to trust the equipment to lower me back down.

Kickboxing is my new self-dare. Skipping rope for long minutes is the hardest thing I’ve done yet. Or, I should say “was” the hardest thing: after trudging up those Swansea switchbacks, kickboxing was a breeze last night.

She’s Always Been a Pleaser

I like people petting my head and telling me I’m doing a good job, and physical activity gives me that positive reinforcement.

Brittany the gym instructor: “You’re stronger than you think you are.”

Mr. Weller the climbing guru: “You’re a natural.”

Jeannette the gym instructor: “You work hard.”

Dallas the hiking buddy: “You’re a strong hiker.”

I like being good at something (don’t we all?) and this is the first time I’ve made full use of my healthy, physically-capable body.

Advice from a Born Again Exerciser

The pros probably know this wisdom, but I’ll share for my fellow newbs:

If you wake up and it hurts, the best advice is “hair of the dog.” Go exercise again and the aches go away.
One kind of exercise makes other kinds easier. Climbing has made lifting weights easier, and ditto in reverse. Dancing and kickboxing are the same, except for the punching and kicking and getting hit parts.
It’s okay to do lots of different things on the same day. At first I was nervous I’d tire my body out by overusing it, but the gym warms up my legs for hiking, and hiking turns kickboxing into a nice stretch. My muscles are warm and loose all day long, and everything gets easier. (It just hurts the next day.)
To avoid hurting the next day: take time to stretch, and use a roller. It’s worth spending some cash on a silly piece of foam. Drink water.
There are many, many ways to exercise. I keep trying new things to see what I most enjoy. I’ve tried the gym twice before in my life and hated it: it’s only right for me at this point in my life. If you hate the gym (or whatever activity), stop going and try something else.
I was a healthy weight for my body type before this madness started, and now need to eat like an 17-year-old boy just to maintain that weight. My body tells me to stuff my face throughout the day, and whether to have chicken fajitas or salad. I listen to my body and we’re doing just fine.
Take a “before” photo. I should have! But I didn’t. I just get to admire my new arms and abs. Presumably the change in my body will become even more impressive if this addiction continues, and I could take a “sorta-before” photo now, but it’s not the same.

Predictions

I have no idea how long this exercise thing will last. Maybe it’s just part of my new Plan B life here in this active community? I’ve been desperate for some self-care after the five years I was a full-time caregiver to others, and it feels so good to revel in this newfound freedom: to be able to hike up a mountain if I want to.

With the winter comes snowboarding, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing and maybe skating. Sledding and tubing with my kid. And then summer, with all the hikes around here I’ve yet to attempt. My Instagram feed will be chock-a-block full of spectacular mountain vistas.

And I will be the strongest I’ve ever been.

A well-earned victory photo at the summit of Mount Swansea. (November 7, 2018.)

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When I was planning our alternate life, and then in the long months after Brock died, at no time did I expect to be attracted to someone else ever again.

In fact, I looked forward to being a happy nun for the rest of my life, spending my evenings building Lego sets and watching mysteries on BritBox. I would write, and bake cookies for Isaac’s bake sales at school. We would have epic adventures, hike the Bugaboos and be a Power Team o’ Two. I never even considered the idea of dating someone new.

And so, this summer, when I ran into a guy I’d known growing up and was unexpectedly attracted to him, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I felt guilty and ashamed that I was attracted to someone other than my husband. I ate Tums to calm my stomach and couldn’t make eye contact with our pictures of Brock.

I wondered what people (you) would think, if I started dating someone within a year of Brock’s death, or ever.

And I worried about how Isaac would feel if he saw me canoodling with a man other than his daddy.

I told myself it was too soon, because I hadn’t had enough time to work through my grief over Brock’s death.

In order to avoid the drama of dating again, and dating as a widow, I hoped I was misreading his interest in me. I hoped I’d find some fatal flaw in him that would make him less appealing.

I really, really wanted to talk about all this with someone, but I assumed my friends and family would be as scandalized as I was by the idea of my dating.

But Then

I realized I will never, ever “be over” Brock’s death, no matter how much time I give myself. Our life together and his death will always be part of me. My challenge as a survivor is to expand my new life beyond that life, to make room for new experiences and new people.

(As per this excellent video …)

I asked myself what a normal single woman would do if she were attracted to an available man, and I decided she would go for it. So, after weeks of angst, I relaxed and let myself enjoy the butterflies.

The Response from the Crowd

The first time I told a friend I was dating someone, she responded with: “It’s about time.”

When I pointed out that Brock had died less than a year ago, she said: “You’ve been grieving for three years.” Fair point.

In fact, all the close friends I (eventually, nervously) confided in were happy for me. They were glad I’d opened my heart again and found someone I liked that much.

Happily Ever After … Again?

This new relationship fizzled and flopped within weeks, but I learned a lot about myself from the experience.

For example: at some point, I realized I’m not only a “widow,” but also a “single mom.” Those two labels have such different connotations:

WIDOW

A “widow” is a woman whose spouse has died. (How interesting that we don’t call people like me “widowed moms.”)
Widowhood is all about loss: you had a husband, and now you don’t. It implies all that grief and messiness and emptiness that I feel: it’s a wonderfully handy word. You don’t even need to hear the details of how I became a widow, you just need to know I am a widow and you can safely assume there’s baggage there.
A widow never stops being a widow. Even if a widow dates, or finds a new partner, or gets married, that loss still happened and is still there: the new person is her “second husband,” her “second marriage.” (Interesting factoid: when someone dies in Canada, their spouse can qualify for a “survivor’s pension” if they’re old enough and/or if they have a child. I receive a small “survivor’s pension” every month from the government, and I will receive it until I die. Even if I remarry someday, the Canadian government will always consider me a widow.)

SINGLE MOM

A “single mom” is defined by her lack of a partner. It’s actually a paradox, since “mom” means you have a child, and it takes two people to make a child, and yet — you’re single.
To lack a partner implies you need one, and/or are actively seeking one.
You are no longer a single mom once you have a partner. You’re not even a “partnered mom” or a “married mom,” because our language makes the “married” part redundant. Now you’re simply a mom. (And no longer paradoxical. Good for you! Sigh.)

In many ways I resent this new layer of self-identity.

For one thing, I really liked the peace of believing I would be alone for the rest of my life. Before we moved from Duncan last fall I visited a senior friend in her home. She’s been a widow since early motherhood, and in her house I saw just how great a widow’s life can be: the rooms of her home were full of her hobbies. Looms crowded the garage, while baskets of wool and knitting needles waited in the corners of every room. She occupied that house fully, without having to make concessions for a husband who might protest using the dining room table as a permanent craft space.

I wanted a house like hers.

However, now that I’ve remembered how exciting relationships can be, now that I’ve had that fresh thrill of gradually getting to know someone, now that I’ve shared a bottle of wine and watched a sunset from my deck with an interesting man … now I realize I’m only 38 years old and, yes, there might be a second Big Love in my future.

Everything is Different Now

Dating as a 38-year-old widow could be wonderful. In many ways my standards have been raised, thanks to Brock: I know what a healthy relationship looks like and I know how to be a good partner to a worthy man. I’m perfectly happy on my own, so there’s no imperative to actively look for a relationship, or settle for less than I want or deserve.

At the same time, what I’d want in a relationship now is different from when I met Brock. In my twenties, I was looking for someone to marry and have a family with. Brock was my chosen life partner.

But now I have a kid, we have our ideal house, and I don’t care if I ever get married again, or even live with someone again. I know there’s no such thing as “happily ever after,” despite the best of intentions, and that’s okay. At 38, all I want is to write, to have adventures, to raise my kid to be a good person, and to spend time with my family and friends. I don’t need a partner of any sort.

This changes what I’d like in a relationship. He would have to be someone kind and fun to play with, who has his shit together to a point that we can have a healthy, symbiotic relationship, and who could be one of Isaac’s (many) positive male role models as my son grows older. (Bonus points if this guy stepped up as a dad-figure.)

I’d like someone to travel with. Someone to help me push my limits:

HEATHER: “Let’s go skydiving today.”

ADVENTURE PARTNER: “Yes. And to Greece tomorrow.”

BROCK: “Let’s road trip across Canada for two months.”

For Now

How lucky I am, to have met Brock and had 11.5 years loving him. And I still have him with me, or at least the echoes of what he’d say throughout the day. Last week, he reminded me to add peat moss to the garlic beds. He congratulated me when I submitted to a mystery novel competition. We talk all the time: me random and buzzing, Brock thoughtful and insightful. I hope I never lose this habit of anticipating his responses. I love growing older with Brock still in my brain.

And I’ve learned it’s possible to have Brock with me on the inside, but still have my heart open to someone new. I’ve learned it’s okay if the future ends up different from the independent widow-heaven I had planned. Either way, I’ll be happy.