AN UPLIFTING TRUE STORY OF LOVE
Losing
loved ones is an awful fact of life; losing one's loving spouse,
one's day-to-day partner through life, especially in the prime of
life, is one of the most unbearable tolls that we humans are forced
to endure. This is the true story of my journey from grieving
widower, not caring if I lived or died, to the once-again happily
married man I am today, a man who both loves and cherishes life. My
three kitties have given me a new zest for living.
Both inspiring and entertaining, my story might just
make you laugh at times, or bring a tear to your eye, as you journey
along with me.
My life with my
cat, Coco, was good. We had a lot of fun together. Every day was
joyful. I never knew from one day to the next what type of trouble
the little guy would get himself into. There was always something new
to explore, a new pose to assume.
But I still ached
for close human contact. I wanted to be hugged. I wanted to be held
in someone’s arms. I wanted to be loved, and to love, but I was
scared and I also felt guilty feeling these thoughts, although I
realized that they were all rational. I just could not force myself
to take the first step in this direction. I would see couples holding
hands, and I would be jealous. I would see couples embrace, and I
would yearn for the same. I wanted to be with someone who cared for
me, and I for her. However, the guilt at thinking such a thing, that
I was somehow betraying the commitment that I had made to my deceased
wife, still ate at me.
I was scared—of
both the future and of what the past had already done to me. No
matter how hard I tried, I just could not shake the feeling that
somehow I would be betraying Ciba if I sought love again. I knew I
was not thinking logically, but logic really had nothing to do with
any of it. I was a lost man, and I so desperately wanted to be found.
But that first step was huge, and it was so painful to contemplate.
“Tiny steps now,
Mike,” I remember telling myself, but saying and doing are not the
same.
It was clear that
my legal commitment to her, “to love and to cherish until death do
us part,” had been fully met, but the powerful emotional attachment
still clung to me. I wanted to get on with my own life, but I could
not. Time had frozen for me, and I was its prisoner.
I fought to move
on, but I just could not. It was too painful. I spent huge chunks of
my waking hours inside my head, trying to think things through. I
listened to my sisters, and to my friends. My library of books and
pamphlets on how to deal with losing one’s spouse kept growing.
I read everything I
could get my hands on, but nothing could help me to break away from
my thoughts of guilt. I read and reread, several times over, my
complete library on coping with grief. I practically memorized each
work. I could have been a professional grief counselor since I knew
so much by now. The things I read were wonderfully written, right to
the heart. I cherished every word, but still nothing seemed to really
provide the jolt that I required.
That is until one
day on the Internet, I stumbled upon a two-page response that a rabbi
had written to a young woman who had posed the question, “How will
I ever date again?” a year after the loss of her husband. For the
first time since I had begun to scratch the urge to meet someone, the
rabbi’s words had a profound impact on me, so profound, that after
reading and rereading his words, after savoring every word, after
thinking deeply about what he was saying, I was convinced that
wanting to start dating was not only the right thing to do, but that
it was exactly what my deceased wife would want me to do.
The whole two-page
response made total sense to me, but the part that really convinced
me was the following passage: “Your husband loved you and you loved
your husband—you will never forget that. But his memory should not
be a dark cloud that haunts your existence. Your memory of his life
should be an inspiration, not a painful albatross.”
Pow! I had been hit
smack dab over the head with precisely what my own problem was. I had
defined myself as a widower. I was a widower. Everyone I met, learned
this. The word defined my very existence.
And I was a
widower, but that was not the whole me. I was also much more than
that. I had forced my life into a box, and now it was time to climb
out from that confinement. I would do so with love and dignity, never
forgetting how my deceased wife had loved me and how I still loved
her. I knew in my heart that she would want me to be happy. The
rabbi’s words convinced me of that.
I had no idea how
to date. What would I say? How would I act? Where would I meet
someone?
Mike Meyer recently
retired from 40-year career as an English professor. He literally
taught at universities throughout the world: Thailand, Saudi Arabia,
the Virgin Islands, and he spent the last 24 years of his teaching
career at a California community college. He lives in Southern
California wine country with his wife, Kitty, and their two adorable
rescue cats.
Click above for Schedule!
My three kitties and I are delighted to be here today. Thank you so much.
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