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When Tom died suddenly in 2020, I was 62 years old and vowed to anyone who would listen that the moment I was 65 and on Medicare, I was moving from Texas, as Tom and I had planned to do eventually. (My health insurance was Texas-based, affordable, and provided good coverage, so I wasn’t about to mess with it.)
I’m 66 now and still here. As it happens, packing up a life and taking it elsewhere—alone—is not as easy as it sounds.
For years, I continued talking about moving. First, I was going to move to one place, then another, and then I settled on someplace else. I signed up for emails from Zillow of houses for sale in my town of choice and received dozens of possibilities weekly. I daydreamed. I visited the town and daydreamed some more.
And I did nothing about it.
The whole idea was just so daunting. The prospect of dealing with just the physical stuff—a house and garage full—made me hyperventilate. After all, it took me almost four years to have the heart to clear out Tom’s closet.
But is moving the right choice?
The more I ruminated on the concept of moving, the more I began to understand that in a list of the pros and cons of moving vs. staying, the latter wins by a lot for reasons both practical and emotional. I have a house I love with a mortgage I can afford while the real estate market has gone cuckoo, and the town I daydream about was recently named one of the most expensive small towns in the country. My city has some of the nation’s best health care, and the older I get, the more relevant that is.
And most importantly, I have a community here. People I have known for decades since I was a sprout in my 20s. People I can call on when I need help. People who knew and loved Tom and can reminisce with me when the mood strikes. The thought of starting over someplace where I know no one is daunting beyond bearing. Now that I am alone, I understand that community is more important than anything.
There are only two pros to moving away:
- Living someplace more beautiful where I can enjoy the outdoor activities I love.
- The opportunity to start life anew.
These hardly seem enough to outweigh all the pros of staying, and yet the second, in particular, has been on my mind quite a lot recently.
Looking for a fresh start
I have been trying to frame this terrible loss as a chance for a new life, a clean page, a fresh chapter. That would be the lemonade I could squeeze from this very bitter lemon. At the same time, I am here in the city where Tom and I lived, living in the house Tom and I shared, seeing the friends Tom and I saw, and going to the places Tom and I went.
So my life is less a fresh start than the same old-same old with a major piece missing. Moreover, Tom was a musician, and much of our social life together centered on the bands he played with and his musician friends. While I still run in those circles and enjoy those people, I feel more like an outsider than I once did.
I am not passive. I have forged new friendships and deepened others. I initiate social activities. I get out and about and seek new things to do. I have hobbies and volunteer (although not as much as I could or should). I love my demanding dogs. I still work (at home, for myself).
Yet in many ways, it all feels like just staying busy. Milling about. Keeping myself occupied until I die.
I’m neither miserable nor happy. Mostly I feel lost, confused, at sea.
Neither here nor there
I am living somewhere between my old life, which is gone, and my new life, which remains undefined. It is a liminal space that echoes with the past and shows no clear path to the future. Regardless of how busy I stay, the days feel strangely empty without the security of my person or the sense of purpose that the relationship provided.
I did not realize at the time how much purpose my marriage provided, and I’m still trying to understand what that purpose was other than providing love and support. (I suppose kids and grandkids would help fill the void if I had them, which I don’t. No regrets, just an observation.)
I know, I know: Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. This is my new life. Be here now, I remind myself, again and again. And truly, there is nothing wrong with my life except for the sadness and nostalgia that float around me like a cloud of persistent gnats.
How do I start a new life in the old environment? I don’t believe a new relationship will magically change everything—and the thought of trying to find and forge one makes me profoundly weary. I know of too many women slogging through the effort of dating, and nothing about it looks like fun, especially at my age.
But what can I provide for myself that will fill this gaping abyss where meaning should be? I keep hoping that one day, with a chorus of angels, the path to my future will open up before me with clarity and certainty. But there’s no guarantee of that, is there?
Is my “new” life just a continuation of my old life minus Tom? Or is there something else waiting for me? Or maybe I’m missing something that’s right in front of me.
I don’t know. I’m just a walking, talking question mark.