Everything about this new life felt different, mostly in a bad way.
I had lived on the 16th floor in our post-war apartment complex for seventeen years. I had sweeping views of the Hudson River and gorgeous Western light in the afternoon.
The buildings were filled with parents and children. Steven and I had a large circle of friends, and we did almost all of our socializing as a family.
When he died, I didn’t fit in anymore. I was the only single parent, and my life was forever changed while everyone else went on as if nothing had happened.
No one understood that I wasn’t the same person I had been when Steven was alive. I felt isolated and angry. Why couldn’t it have been someone else’s husband who got terminal cancer?
Now Henry and I lived on the street level of a townhouse that was built at the turn of the 20th century. We had only moved three miles South of our old neighborhood, but it felt like another world. I was relieved to be away from everyone who knew me. I needed to be isolated and I especially liked that I could come and go without running into anyone in an elevator or lobby.
The building looked quite rundown from the outside, and most of the inside too. The upper floors had been divided into studio and one bedroom apartments, occupied by single people and young couples. Henry was the only child living in the building.
Our new three bedroom, two bathroom residence spanned the whole first floor, and was the only part of the townhouse which had been completely renovated.
A massive kitchen island, (10’ x 4’), dominated the open floor plan at the back of the apartment. Next to the front door was a small guest bathroom, and off the long hallway were two small rooms, my office and Henry’s bedroom.
At the front, facing the street, was the master suite with a custom tiled bathroom, including a rain shower and freestanding soaking tub. It was the fanciest place I ever lived.
It didn’t make up for Steven’s death, but it made my transition to single-hood bearable.
Living close to Henry’s school also made my life much easier. Going to events there was another story. I was one of the only single parents at curriculum night and the Halloween carnival, which made me more painfully aware of Steven’s absence.
I’d forgotten how much he loved getting into costume when Henry was little. One year they went as The Man in the Yellow Hat and Curious George. They were so cute!
Being around people was exhausting, and I had become incapable of small talk. I dreaded the impending holidays, and going back to work in December. I lost interest in my job, which I once loved. If the stakes were less than life or death, any endeavor felt unimportant.
Nighttime was the worst, and it had been that way for a long time. I began sleeping on the couch a couple of nights a week long before Steven died. He was never a deep sleeper, but the effects of chemo eventually made him very restless.
The first time he kicked me I was so startled, I had no idea what had happened. When he did it again, I felt utterly rejected, like he was subconsciously kicking me out of our bed. I felt unlovable and unworthy to sleep next to him. I never said anything because I knew he wasn’t doing it intentionally, but it still hurt.
One night I woke him up because I was having a terrible panic attack. Steven held me in bed as I cried a river of tears and snot onto his t-shirt. It was one of the few times I let him see me scared. I begged him not to leave me and he said he didn’t want to, and that he was doing everything he could to stay. I knew that was the truth, but I wanted him to promise he wouldn’t die.
Now that he’s gone, the combination of darkness and loneliness felt like they would swallow me whole. My short-term disability was approved with a note from my psychiatrist. I didn't feel depressed, not in the clinical sense.
I was all too familiar with the difference, having been diagnosed with anxiety and depression when I was 19-years-old, more than half a lifetime ago. While Steven’s death was undoubtedly the largest loss I have ever suffered, I didn’t want to stay in bed all day. There was still so much unpacking to do and I wanted us settled.
My brother came into the city for a visit on the first day of November. He wanted to see the new apartment, and check on how we were doing. He arrived early, while Henry was still in school, so we’d have some time alone to talk.
He was worried because I had distanced myself from most of my friends, and he thought I spent too much time alone. He recommended I sign up for Bumble or Tinder.
“You can go on a few dates and get out of the apartment,” he said.
The truth was, I had already started to think about other men. I was lonely, and still angry at Steven for leaving me, whether that made sense or not.
I spent the last three years worried about him dying. How would I live without him? How would I raise Henry alone?
Now that I had survived his death, I felt emboldened to do whatever I wanted. I was still alive, without the specter of death hanging over my head. I almost felt invincible, convinced there was nothing worse that could happen to me.
“Okay, I’ll try Bumble first,” I said, handing him my phone. “Just take a couple of photos for my profile. All my recent pictures include Steven and Henry.”
It took me a while to figure out the Bumble app. I preferred working on my laptop rather than my phone, but some of the functionality was lost in the browser. At least my Samsung had a large screen.
We always had Androids instead of iPhones because Steven felt that Apple’s cybersecurity had too many ‘holes’ in it. He was a data architect, so I thought he knew best. I still haven’t canceled his phone or taken him off as the account manager of our Verizon family plan.
It’s ironic because three years ago I was furious with him when I broke my phone and couldn’t get a new one without his access codes. He was in the hospital recovering from the surgery that excised the tumor in his leg, and I was so stressed out because it was the first time I was looking after Henry by myself.
I was so scared about the future. How would I care for Henry without Steven? I couldn’t even replace my fucking cell. Frustrated, I stormed into Steven’s hospital room. I felt like a 1950s housewife who needed her husband’s permission to replace her phone.
“Why are you the account manager?” I demanded.
Rather than answer my question he asked what happened to my old phone.
“I was frustrated and threw it on the ground,” I said
He thought I had a protective cover on it.
“I did,” I hissed, “but then I stomped on it for good measure.”
It was easier for me to get angry than admit I felt helpless and scared. It made me feel powerful rather than vulnerable. I even asked one of the social workers if they could send my husband to rehab rather than home at the end of the week. They told me he would heal faster at home so I let it go, but I was still so angry.
It takes me a while to find some photos of myself without either Steven or Henry in the frame. I realize these dating apps are different from the pre-smartphone, web-based ones I had used over 10 years ago. They relied more heavily on photos, and were short on biographical information.
Soon after I finished my profile I matched with Jay. He either lived in my neighborhood or was just passing through. Women had to make the first move on Bumble, but I had no idea what to write in the chat.
Steven and I were never big texters, and preferred to hear each other’s voices during the day. God, I missed that.
I felt awkward and scared, like somehow Jay could see me through the phone. I told myself that it’s no big deal, I wasn’t committed to anything.
I typed, “Hey, how’s your day going?”
He responded right away, “I’m good, what are you up to?”
He didn’t live in my neighborhood, but he worked nearby.
“Let’s have lunch next week. Do you like Mexican food?” he asked.
“Yes, I love Mexican food!”
Ugh, why did I use an exclamation point? Henry would have said, “That’s so cringe mom.” I’m so out of practice. I haven’t been on a date in fourteen years.
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