One is the Loneliest Number

After Bunny died, the thought of dating again was almost repulsive to me. It’s not that we hadn’t talked about it, because we had. Quite a bit. He fully expected I’d be out on the prowl in no time, and thought I’d probably even get married again. I told him he’d be my last husband—who needed that kind of headache? One day I was driving him somewhere with Trinity in the back seat, and he started bickering with me about something.

Finally, he turned to her and said, “Trinity, I’m going to be Nana’s last husband.” She hesitated only a second.

“Yeah, but I’ll bet she’ll have a lot of boyfriends.” My girl! He thought that was hilarious, and told the story many times.

I hadn’t even seriously entertained the thought of dating again until Mama died. For some reason, her death created in me a sense of urgency about getting back into circulation. Maybe it was the lack of intimacy in my life, or just the emptiness I felt, that I didn’t have someone unrelated to me to console me with hugs and kisses. I’m a very demonstrative person—I’ll hug even casual acquaintances—and I miss having someone to hug. I especially missed it during the days between my mother’s death and her burial.

For the first few days of my trip, my nephew, Stephen, stayed with me in hotel suites. Stephen is a 21 year old college student who reminds me a lot of Napoleon Dynamite. We had a good time hanging out together, and he was very conscious of my emotional state. If he saw me crying, he’d ask if I was okay. He’d bring me Kleenex and sit next to me. He’d even hug me, if I told him I needed a hug.

One night, we even visited one of Louisiana’s very finest establishments: a drive-through daiquiri hut. For those of you who’ve never seen one, I’m attaching pictures. As anyone in southern Louisiana of drinking age can tell you, it’s not an open container until you put the straw in it.
 

Once his mother, Julie, arrived on Monday, he went to stay in her hotel room. I missed him, because he really was a good roommate. He didn’t talk my ears off like Bunny used to; he kept pretty much to himself and his computer when we were in the room, but he’d have conversations about anything I wanted to talk about. He’d acquired a bit more sense than when he’d come to stay with us for spring break last year and almost burned down the house making his own breakfast.

By the time I arrived at the funeral home on Tuesday, my alter-ego, Margeaux, had lamented the fact that I was very much alone. I was heartened when I saw one of Mama’s former co-workers, Ms. Berniece, who had married a year before Bunny and I had. She had found herself suddenly widowed, and was quickly back on the market. I remembered well when she started dating again, and was happy for her when she tied the knot. At the time, she must have been in her 60s. Now, here she was 26 years later, with her “new” husband at her side.

Seeing her reminded me of one of my ex-husband’s aunts. Her husband died, and she remarried in record time—I believe less than a year later. Another year or two went by when I met up with her again.

“Well, I killed off another one,” she joked. She was probably working toward husband number three by then

On the other end of the spectrum was Aunt Beverly. She’s pretty, has a good sense of humor, and can out-cook almost anybody. She’s a great catch, or should be. It’s been three years since her husband died. On Tuesday evening, I circled back to her once she’d calmed down. We talked a bit about Bunny’s passing.

“It never gets easier. It never gets better.” she said, tears welling. I offered tons of solutions—traveling, visiting relatives (including me), getting out—but she shot them all down. I went scurrying over to Kelly, somewhat distressed. She assured me that I wouldn’t end up in the lonely boat, but a small part of me remained worried.

How could things not get better? How could I live another 40 years or so (God willing) without things getting better? Impossible! I would have to get over my hesitation and get back to living, sooner rather than later.

Later on, I was emboldened by another conversation, this one with Mr. Lloyd, a friend of Donald’s. Mr. Lloyd was the administrator of the hospital I worked at when I returned home from my first marriage. He promoted me from emergency room nurse to Utilization Manager. At the time I was “only” an LPN, but he saw something in me that led him to take a chance on my abilities, and he empowered me in the process. The position to which he promoted me was the one that would spark my desire to become an attorney. As he offered his condolences on my double loss, he assured me that I would be fine.

“You’re strong. You’re smart. You’ll be okay.” By the time I left that night, my confidence had returned.

I had teased Joey one day about starting to date again, and he had freaked out a bit. I was offended that he thought I’d sequester myself in my house, wearing invisible widow’s weeds, for the rest of my life. I made my case to him so strongly that he begged me to wait at least six weeks. He had no idea that dating again was the farthest thing from my mind.

Staying home alone isn’t going to bring my husband back, and it’s only going to make me increasingly unhappy in the process. Starting to date again is going to take some courage—it’s been a LONG time since I was on the market—but I can do it. I will do it, because Bunny wouldn’t want me to hide myself away from the world. He wouldn’t want me lonely and sad.

But I’m going to wait at least six weeks.