there—and available. It was as if a secret message had been sent to every widowed female of a certain age from Malibu to Beverly Hills: Girls, we have a live one. He’s eighty-three, he’s got all his marbles, and he can still dance. Perfect for the charity circuit. Get your pot roasts ready.
At the gathering that followed Michelle’s service I had jokingly asked all the rich widows to move to one side, a light moment that drew laughter from everyone. But I wasn’t ready for a new relationship. Not then. Not a month later. Not several months later. Writing in the New York Times about his own terminal diagnosis, Dr. Oliver Sacks, one of my favorite authors, noted, at age eighty-one, that the deaths of friends and loved ones leave wounds that don’t heal. “There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever,” he wrote. “When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled.”
That’s the way I felt after losing Michelle. There had not been anyone like her, ever. Certainly not in my life. She had been such a dominant presence. Even as her health declined, she ran things from her bed. The phone rang. I heard her voice. I heard her booming laugh. She wanted dinner—then nothing. Her absence left a giant-sized hole everywhere I turned. Someone asked how I dealtwith the grief. I didn’t. I didn’t eat well. I forgot to pay bills. I declined invitations to go out. I fell off the track and didn’t know how to get back to living my life.
I wasn’t alone. Rocky, our wire hair fox terrier, was equally bereft. He searched endlessly for Michelle, and then after a while, he parked himself in front of me with the same look of sadness, loss, and confusion that was on my face. I tossed his toy across the living room, watched him bring it back, and then tossed it again until he grew bored. He might not have understood what had happened to Michelle, but he knew she was gone. I tried to put things in perspective for him.
“At least you don’t have a credit card that’s been canceled,” I said.
That really happened. My card was canceled, and it wasn’t for lack of money to pay the bill; it was because I wasn’t organized enough to find the bill. That was indicative of the way things unraveled. I had to get it together. I wanted to, believe me. I had told myself repeatedly that I did not want to be one of those people who lose a spouse and stop living. I had seen that in others, both men and women, and I never understood why they let their lives change so dramatically. They quit going to shows, they stopped cooking meals for themselves, they slept late, they moved slower, and they turned into virtual shut-ins. Even when they went out, they were closed off. I did not want that to happen to me. I had promised myself it wouldn’t. I had promised Michelle it wouldn’t. We had promised each other.
But it was easier said than done. I had never been single. As I said, I had a steady girlfriend in high school who dumped me after I got back from the Air Force. Then I got married to Margie. Then I was with Michelle. Then it was just Rocky and me in the house. I found myself apologizing to him. I promised to change.
I said yes when Gregory Peck’s wonderful wife, Veronique, invited me to lunch at a restaurant in Beverly Hills and introduced me to a woman she thought I might like. We had a nice time, but she wasn’t my cup of tea. The same thing happened with several other friends who tried to set me up.
Then word got out that I was dating, and my popularity skyrocketed. One woman waited for me every morning in my local coffee shop. She was like a well-intentioned stalker with a nice wardrobe. My phone rang constantly.
I went on quite a few dates, actually—only first dates, mind you—but demand for a widower like me, as I discovered, was such that I might still be going on dates if it were not for my wife, Arlene. At the time she was my makeup artist
At the gathering that followed Michelle’s service I had jokingly asked all the rich widows to move to one side, a light moment that drew laughter from everyone. But I wasn’t ready for a new relationship. Not then. Not a month later. Not several months later. Writing in the New York Times about his own terminal diagnosis, Dr. Oliver Sacks, one of my favorite authors, noted, at age eighty-one, that the deaths of friends and loved ones leave wounds that don’t heal. “There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever,” he wrote. “When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled.”
That’s the way I felt after losing Michelle. There had not been anyone like her, ever. Certainly not in my life. She had been such a dominant presence. Even as her health declined, she ran things from her bed. The phone rang. I heard her voice. I heard her booming laugh. She wanted dinner—then nothing. Her absence left a giant-sized hole everywhere I turned. Someone asked how I dealtwith the grief. I didn’t. I didn’t eat well. I forgot to pay bills. I declined invitations to go out. I fell off the track and didn’t know how to get back to living my life.
I wasn’t alone. Rocky, our wire hair fox terrier, was equally bereft. He searched endlessly for Michelle, and then after a while, he parked himself in front of me with the same look of sadness, loss, and confusion that was on my face. I tossed his toy across the living room, watched him bring it back, and then tossed it again until he grew bored. He might not have understood what had happened to Michelle, but he knew she was gone. I tried to put things in perspective for him.
“At least you don’t have a credit card that’s been canceled,” I said.
That really happened. My card was canceled, and it wasn’t for lack of money to pay the bill; it was because I wasn’t organized enough to find the bill. That was indicative of the way things unraveled. I had to get it together. I wanted to, believe me. I had told myself repeatedly that I did not want to be one of those people who lose a spouse and stop living. I had seen that in others, both men and women, and I never understood why they let their lives change so dramatically. They quit going to shows, they stopped cooking meals for themselves, they slept late, they moved slower, and they turned into virtual shut-ins. Even when they went out, they were closed off. I did not want that to happen to me. I had promised myself it wouldn’t. I had promised Michelle it wouldn’t. We had promised each other.
But it was easier said than done. I had never been single. As I said, I had a steady girlfriend in high school who dumped me after I got back from the Air Force. Then I got married to Margie. Then I was with Michelle. Then it was just Rocky and me in the house. I found myself apologizing to him. I promised to change.
I said yes when Gregory Peck’s wonderful wife, Veronique, invited me to lunch at a restaurant in Beverly Hills and introduced me to a woman she thought I might like. We had a nice time, but she wasn’t my cup of tea. The same thing happened with several other friends who tried to set me up.
Then word got out that I was dating, and my popularity skyrocketed. One woman waited for me every morning in my local coffee shop. She was like a well-intentioned stalker with a nice wardrobe. My phone rang constantly.
I went on quite a few dates, actually—only first dates, mind you—but demand for a widower like me, as I discovered, was such that I might still be going on dates if it were not for my wife, Arlene. At the time she was my makeup artist
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