I was my husband’s caregiver for the last six years. Tomorrow morning, 1:00 a.m., will be the one-month anniversary of his passing. His last days were spent in a hospital bed in front of the big window in our living room, where the sun could shine in on him and his dogs could be nearby.
He wasn’t conscious or aware. I fed him water from a dropper, one drop at a time. I washed him and shaved him and changed his diapers. I held his hand and talked to him softly about all the wonderful adventures we shared over the years.
I loved him for every minute of our 35 years together. He was my soulmate. I know I will never find anyone else, nor do I want to.
Partly, that’s the knowledge that I had the best man in the world for 35 years, and it would be absurd to try to follow that up with anyone, absolutely anyone. No one else could love me as much as he did. No one else could even come close to measuring up.
But honestly, there is another element to my lack of interest in finding another man. After staying home constantly for six years, only running out for an hour at a time to quickly stock up on groceries, or to take the dogs to the vet’s, it feels so luxurious to be accountable to no one, other than to remember to pick up marrow bones from the butcher or throw a tennis ball in the back yard.
I can go on long drives, singing along with the music on the radio. I can spend the whole day visiting friends or shopping at thrift stores or hiking or kayaking. No interest in putting anyone else first again, catering to their wants, needs, or desires.
If I’m ever tempted to reconsider my decision, I’ll just remind myself: “Men nowadays are only looking for a nurse, or a purse.” I’d rather cater to myself, instead.
