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.”

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.

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