I found myself seated beside my husband’s grave the day I took the plunge and downloaded a dating app on my phone. It felt like an odd place for such a thing, but as a 36-year-old widow with two children after nearly a decade of a wonderful marriage, I felt I needed Lucas, my husband, with me in spirit. After all, we had vowed to be a team, ‘til death do us part, and all that.
As I sat on the chilly ground of the cemetery under a drab sky, I activated my profile, confronted with a daunting question: What do you seek from your dates? A relationship, something casual, or perhaps marriage? The truth? I wasn’t looking for a relationship, nor did I want a new marriage. I desired something more specific than a partnership promised and more committed than a casual fling. I longed for what I had lost: someone who could rescue me from a zombie apocalypse, a partner skilled in the things I hadn’t mastered.
Remembering Lucas
I met Lucas when I was just 22, and he was 27. Our encounter was the stuff of cliché—one too many drinks led us to lock eyes on a crowded dance floor. He navigated through the throngs of people, handed me a quirky business card with a toilet seat on it, and offered to buy me a drink. From that moment, our lives intertwined effortlessly. My life was absorbed into his; I was younger, without a career, and free of any baggage. I moved into his apartment, merged our finances, and filed taxes together—he as the taxpayer, me as the spouse.
Lucas steered our life together, and I was the content co-captain, confident in his instincts and meticulous nature. There was even a time when I believed that if a zombie apocalypse hit, we would be the ones to survive. He would secure us the last seats on the rescue craft when the world crumbled; he would navigate a dystopian reality better than any hero from a young adult novel. I slept soundly every night, knowing he would protect us, even as our family grew.
The Void Left Behind
But the reality was, I could not save him. Lucas passed away on February 3, nearly thirteen years to the day after we first met. He left this world in a hospice room illuminated by a dim lamp, as I synchronized my breath with his, waiting for a breath that would never come. The void he left behind felt insurmountable, as vast as the universe itself. In those dark early days of grief, it was easy to succumb to despair.
Suddenly, it was just me, two kids, a mortgage, and a tax return bearing only my name. At 35, I found myself at the helm for the first time, and it was daunting. The truth was, I didn’t know how to manage the things Lucas had effortlessly handled. I didn’t know the mortgage login information; I hadn’t learned the ins and outs of health insurance premiums. The ship felt unmoored, adrift in a vast ocean. My hands on the wheel felt too small, too incapable. In a world where books like Handmaid’s Tale could come to life, I felt exposed. I was a young woman, too fragile to navigate a life built for two, too timid to find my voice.
Turning to Dating
I needed a partner, someone to help steer the ship. And in today’s world, that meant turning to my phone. Just fourteen months after Lucas’s death, I went on my first date in 14 years. Rewind to 14 years ago, when I first met the man I would marry on a Manhattan street corner. This time, however, I met a man outside a strip mall in New Jersey, surprised to find he looked older than his profile pictures. Instead of walking with my future best friend to The Coffee Shop, I found myself outside a coffee shop in a strip mall, struggling to remember how to breathe.
I smiled through the date, made small talk, and used every skill I had learned from playground conversations to fill the silence. But as he leaned in to hug me goodbye, a wave of panic washed over me. I was on a date with someone who was not Lucas, and that was all that mattered—his attractiveness, intelligence, and personality faded into the background.
The next day, I told him I wasn’t ready to date, a realization that felt painfully true. I spent the night Googling “deductible” and talking to investment advisors, worrying endlessly about all the details that must be slipping through the cracks. Yet, I still made plans with another match for drinks, convincing myself that the only way to prepare for dating was to fake it until it became real. Dates two through four followed a similar pattern: I went out, texted apologies after, and felt lost, searching for that capable captain.
Finding My Strength
When I confided in my sister-in-law about my new date, admitting my confusion, she replied, “No, I think you’re finding your mind.” I yearned for her to be right, to believe that my wandering navigation had some purpose, that I was steering towards something meaningful.
I drove to the cemetery to visit Lucas, tears streaming down my face as I faced the truth: I could not replace what I had lost. There was no app for that. But as I sat on the now-warm ground, surrounded by flourishing trees, I realized time had passed. I no longer Googled terms I should have known; sleeping had become easier as the cracks slowly sealed. The seasons changed, and my ship hadn’t sunk; it had wobbled but continued to move forward, under my direction.
I had sought someone to steer the ship, but I had been the one at the helm all along. Perhaps what I truly needed wasn’t a partner for the zombie apocalypse after all. Maybe I just needed someone to share laughter, travel with, and exchange funny memes. Someone to sail beside me.
And, in retrospect, if zombies were truly a concern, a cemetery might not have been the wisest place to linger. But then again, with my beloved husband watching over me, maybe I had no reason to worry at all. For more insights on navigating life’s unexpected turns, check out this post on home insemination.
Conclusion
In conclusion, this journey has shown me that I am stronger than I thought. I can steer my own ship while seeking companionship to enhance my life rather than replace what I lost.