Not that I ever gave any thought to being widowed before it happened, but if I had, I probably would not have understood to what extent it would involve figuring out who I am.
I still don’t know how to be out in this world without the cloak of marriage between me and me.
I’m just kind of stumbling around, figuring out what I do because it’s what we did and what we did because it was what I liked to do. What to keep from my past life, what to let go, what to add. I can’t be the person I was before Tom because that person was in her 20s. I’ve only ever been an adult side-by-side with Tom. Now, suddenly, I’m figuring out what I like to eat. (Back in the day it was bacon cheeseburgers all the time. Not so much now.) Where I like to go. Who I like to hang out with. What I want to watch or listen to. Music was life for Tom, so that's what we listened to any time the TV wasn't on. He was in charge of choosing, always respectful of where our tastes differed. Now I feel disloyal on the days I listen to talk radio instead.
Weirdest of all, I’m single. Do I want to stay that way or try to date? At my age? At the moment the thought does not appeal, but I sure feel exposed and vulnerable walking around all unattached. I feel—embarrassing to say this—invalidated. (I know, I know...that's not only wrong but also insulting to all the other single people in the world. But it's just how I feel about me. You all are great.) When Tom went, he took part of my identity with him.
The same but different
The social world in which Tom and I circulated has, to a great extent, dissipated. Mick Jagger notwithstanding, rock ‘n’ roll has a shelf life, and as my peers and I move through our 60s, we indulge in fewer loud, late nights. Musician friends have retired, moved away, passed away. So in some ways, life would be different even if Tom were still around.
But it would be different with Tom, meaning much of it would be the same. Comfy and well-worn. We’d go out to eat, hang with friends, see live music. We’d take road trips. Visit family. We’d sit on the couch after dinner and watch TV and Tom would fall asleep and I would be annoyed, but that was life and it was dear.
Now even the familiar is different. I live in the same house and sleep in the same bed, but there's a big empty space in both. I have coffee every morning but make it myself instead of having it brought to me in bed. (He was an early riser, I'm not.) I still eat dinner every night, but not at the same time and not the same kind of meals; they might not be the meat, starch, veggie Tom insisted on. Some nights they're just chips and salsa (starch and veggie). I still watch TV on the couch after dinner but now dogs sleep next to me.
I eat out and see live music a lot less often because if I don’t want to go alone, both require a level of proactivity I don’t always feel up to. It was a whole lot easier to just turn to Tom and make a suggestion than it is to figure out who to call, get in touch, hope they’re free and interested, make a plan, and follow through. And now, instead of just riding along on what Tom wants to do sometimes, I alone am responsible for keeping myself entertained. It's a lot of work and more than once I've done things I thought I would like but it turned out I didn't.
Staying social, going alone
I try to stay busy, saying yes to most invitations—it’s a couples’ world so I don’t get many—hoping to enjoy myself. I don’t always have fun, but I give it a shot. I go out alone with varying degrees of success, sometimes arriving arrive at an event and leaving immediately, other times sticking around but so awkwardly that I berate myself for days after, wishing Tom were around because just the fact that he loved me was enough to make feel like less of a loser. Sometimes the stars align and I have fun and don’t do anything cringe. This feels like an accomplishment.
Of course it’s not all bad. Fortunately, as an introvert, I’m good at being alone. This past summer I loaded up the dogs and drove to the Oregon coast, where we spent a month. I took long walks on the beach, read, painted, hiked, and watched old movies. Were Tom still alive this would have been impossible because he had a business to tend (my work is portable), so it was something new and wonderful just for me and my dogs. (My dogs, never ours. That feels strange in itself.) I was sometimes lonely but mostly content. I hope to do it again next year.
But now I’m back home, negotiating a life that resembles my old life, but is very different. I haven’t felt this awkward in my own skin since I was a teenager.
I spent most of my life in a we and now, suddenly, it’s just me.
Whoever that is.