It was certainly uncommon for me to do what I did...move to New York City not knowing anyone but my son. But I was an altered person. Altered by my life circumstance. I'd lost a husband to dementia though he was still very much alive, but no longer with me. I had to face the idea of being alone for the rest of my life. So, what was I going to do? Sit still and lament what I'd lost and be forever caught up in self pity? Or grieve my loss and move in a direction of my own choosing. My life had been devoted to my husband, his work, our family. Now I was free to consider how and where I wanted to spend the rest of my days or at least the immediate future. For me it was New York City where the cultural life I had missed in the many places we had lived was alive and well.
My new apartment was comforting. A corner unit, small, but with the most beautiful view of the East River, the George Washington Bridge and north and west. By day, in the sunshine or even the gray rain, it was heartening to see boats sailing the East River and by night, the buildings that surrounded me alive with light. I was, strangely, not anxious, or fearful of being on my own, but excited, hopeful and expectant. I had a book to write, another to follow and I could fill myself up with music, art and the things I had missed for a long time. And, hopefully new friends.
Lest you think I was fooling myself that New York City would be a cure for the loneliness I felt, I was not. My life in the Big Apple was like the tracings of a cardiogram. Up, down, up, down. One day, I was happy and serene and the next sad and lonely. Even though New York felt like my home since I'd grown up in New Jersey, went to school in New York and my husband and I had spent a lot of time in the city when he was in Medical School and Residency, some of the emotions living here evoked were painful. When I first walked the streets to reacquaint myself with the city, everywhere I went, my eyes seemed to fall on couples walking, talking, laughing, hugging, eating at outdoor cafes and I was overcome with sadness for the love I had lost. If I saw an aged woman with a cane or one being led by a caregiver, I didn't see her, I saw myself, my future and ran for home.
I had to learn to focus on the now and me in the now. New York is a city of independents. Here there are so many others doing things alone that I didn't feel like I was wearing a yellow dress at a red party. But I still had to force myself to call for a ticket for one, go to a concert or the theater alone, eat out alone, and not feel uncomfortable doing it. And I gradually learned how to be okay with living alone in a city of over 8 and ½ million people. In fact some of the most special times for me are still when I return home from wherever my day has taken me. I stand a block away and look up at my apartment and the warm and comfortable place I have again made for myself. When I see the lamps that I have lit for my homecoming, I am happily aware that I am both the someone away and the someone waiting to welcome me home and I have such feelings of joy in going back to the place where my sweet, nervous little dog waits, and where both of us, in just a few moments, will feel the safety and security of each other in our home, beautiful home, number two.
I began to live more deliberately, aware of every effort I made in my own behalf, aware of the progress I made some days, and on others, I was exhausted by the effort and wished I didn't have to try so hard, wished that I had a coterie of friends in the city who cared about me, who I could call to do things with and who would call me. But New York City is, I found, a difficult one to break into, friendship-wise. Other than one dear friend that I made and still have, most people I met had their set of friends and were not open to introducing me to them or adding me to their list. That forced me deeper inside myself to draw out of me the best creatively that I could.
I continued to fly to California regularly to see my husband and in between I gave a few concerts in my apartment, but mainly concentrated on finishing my book, Moving to the Center of the Bed: The Artful Creation of a Life Alone. I found a literary agent who actually lived only a few blocks away. He worked with me over a year to help shape it and I submitted the final manuscript literally as I flew out the door after receiving the dreaded call to come immediately, my husband was dying.
The literary contract I had awaiting me when I returned from that trip after the final goodbye to the love of my life was not the joyful experience I had dreamed about. I was in the beginning of a deep depression. Though we had been apart for so many years, my husband had still been on the earth where I could touch him and see him as often as I could. Now, I had a new adjustment to make. To the finality of his death. A very different kind of grief.
Next time: Death, Life and Wonder- full times ahead.
