Loneliness can drive you out of your shell or further into its recesses. I finally chose to dig out of my hellhole I’d wallowed in for three long years after losing my beloved Jackson. I pushed myself up from the familiar worn couch and slowly padded down the long hallway to my portal to the outside world.
Depressing the button, the computer whirred to life and beautiful landscapes filled the monitor, flush with dark green forests and romantic cliffs that dropped steeply into stormy seas. If only I could escape into the scenery.
Enough. Stay on course. I promised myself that today would be different than the 1,000 or so days since Jackson Stewart left terra firma without as much as a “goodbye.”
As if he’d plunged into those dark waters on my computer screen and was swallowed whole, he’d left. Abruptly. In the blink of an afternoon at the local grill and bar, gorging on wings and nachos while watching his favorite football team. Swilling beer between obscenities ended with a fist in the air and a sudden slump to the floor.
No CPR by his comrades or EMTs on the scene could save my husband of 30 years. A massive heart attack blacked out his existence, erasing the man who was my rock, my best friend, my life mate. I was suddenly alone left to navigate the every day and carry on the business of life solo.
And do so with grief riding on my back. Like an ill-fitting suit that no matter how much I tugged and straightened, seemed to cling uncomfortably to my body. Life didn’t fit me anymore.
Back to the here and now. Focus forward. I batted away at the keys, searching for a new beginning in cyberspace as a best-of dating sites for seniors littered the screen. Surprisingly there were several at my disposal if I chose to sign up and throw caution to the wind.
Deciding on one site that offered a no-strings-attached trial assuring members who joined were qualified and verified, caught my eye for its ease of use and privacy agreements.
What would my friends, family and co-workers think of my risky venture into the dating unknown? They must never know, especially my mom. I might be 55 but mother would not approve of any online quest for a friend or otherwise. She believed a good catch could be found at our local church or perhaps at a cooking class she’d been hinting for us to attend.
“Let nature take its course, Beverly,” she would say to me. “If it’s meant to be, you’ll meet someone. The Good Lord will provide.”
Before I could firm up passwords and take the final sign-up steps, I stood up feeling stiff and uneasy. Was this really the answer to throw myself into a virtual meet-up pool?
I leaned over the keyboard and finished uploading my bio and photo with a bold header “B is Back in Town.” Ugh. I am disgusted and exhausted. The search and signup took all afternoon. Time to curl up with some junk food, watch a horror flick on my lumpy, trusty couch, and hope to snooze off into oblivion where I don’t have to feel or think. As a werewolf howled from the big screen, ready to swallow his beautiful prey, I blanked out.
Ah. Morning. A new day, a new me? Waffle in hand, I headed to the computer and opened the dating portal. Scores of potential suitors filled the screen. If nothing else, it was fun scrolling through the laundry list, scrutinizing photos from professional headshots to sketchy selfies. Enjoying the anonymity of it all.
Absorbed in my potential pool of mates I remembered – now I’m being searched, too. A mounting sense of dread tinged with fear began to fill my brain. I pushed away from the messy desk and retreated to my safety zone. The couch swaddled me, but I couldn’t relax.
What had I done? I began to sob and punch the striped pillows. My umpteenth pity party began quickly joined by the usual grief participants like anger, survival guilt and loneliness. I remembered one grief counselor saying that I was existing on my couch evenings and weekends instead of my bed because the couch symbolized my coffin.
I thought she was nuts. Come on – I couldn’t roll over on my couch to the empty side of the bed once occupied by Jackson whose body I longed to snuggle with and more. My coffin? I paid handsomely for that professional observation. That was a one-and-done session. If she couldn’t bring back my Jackson, what good was she anyway?
In an oft-repeated fit of rage, I blamed Jackson. If he’d taken better care of himself and spent the afternoon with me instead of at the local dive, perhaps we’d still be the loving couple planning our adventures, our retirement, our next chapters. As soon as the finger-pointing tirade began, it ended with an overwhelming sense of remorse. “I’m so sorry, Jackson, I miss you sweetheart,” I spoke softly, as if Jackson could hear.
Bravely I stood up and with renewed resolve headed back to my home office. I was going to finish what I started. Pick a date, reach out, and roll the dice.
My choice was a widower with no children like me in search of good times and new memories. Alan J. Fielding, 60, of a neighboring town, who made his living as an accountant. He became suddenly single two years earlier when, as his profile explained, his dear Jessie died in a car crash. He was on the hunt “for new beginnings with a fun-loving, adventure-seeking lady.”
We messaged back and forth, built up to daily phone calls in a get-to-know-each-other dance that quickly found us on our first date. We agreed on a bowling alley where strangers could meet in a public fun zone without the pressures of small-talk over dinner. Let the games begin.
We laughed and cheered each other along, aiming for strikes and spares as we sized each other up. The evening flew by and I felt more at ease with my bold adventure into the dating unknown. Alan seemed terrific, respectable and kind. Not overly handsome but presented nicely with a solid build and thin, graying hair. I rated him seven out of 10. He was no Jackson Stewart but then, no one could measure up to Jackson. I wondered how he was rating me.
As we headed to our cars in the dimly lit parking lot, Alan grabbed my hand and pressed his lips to my cheek. I didn’t resist but I felt immediately out of sorts and as he began to pull me closer, I bolted out of the embrace.
He stiffened but pushed on. “Beverly, I had a great time,” he spoke softly, confidently. He reached for a full-on hug and I backed away. “Come on sweetie, I think we have a good thing going here. Let’s find out where all this is going.”
Just as quickly as I had enjoyed the evening and relished the laughter we shared that was so lacking in my life, I was overcome with regret for having ventured out in the first place.
I panicked, bleeped out a “Thanks, I’ve got to get home and get up early. Enjoyed the evening. Goodnight, Alan.” I retreated to my car and sped home to safety, glimpsing in my rearview mirror at a confused Alan just standing where I’d left him.
I rushed through my door, sped to the computer and deleted my existence from the match-up site. “Never again,” I swore to myself. “I can’t risk inviting a stranger into my life. I mean, he could be a stalker, a cyberhacker, a flesh-eating disease corrupting my sad but comfortable life.”
I retreated to the bathroom to wash my face and try to erase my tears. A look in the mirror and I sized up my pitiful existence. The haggard face staring back at me looked nothing like the framed photos lining my walls of us – the perfect pair of Jackson and Beverly. Numerous poses at parties, cruising the high seas with stops at exotic ports of calls. A shrine to coupledom of no compare, but no more.
I tore off my bowling-date outfit and threw on my jammies, heading to my couch cocoon. I lost the new-beginning battle realizing I was not up for the challenge to change. I hated life without Jackson and no longer knew the carefree Beverly I once was. Warped by loss, loneliness and bitterness had become the new me. Like it or not, my shell was closing and I no longer knew who I was or what I wanted and had begun to not care.
I was the stranger in my own life story.