Tinder for a Tender Heart

It always interests me when widows begin talking about dating. I’m a magnet to the comment section. There are so many different perspectives. Some don’t even consider it for ten years and others start almost immediately. There’s no wrong way. There’s no right way. And your timeframe on when you start dating isn’t a reflection on your marriage. It’s more like a tool as you continue on in this new life. The life you never wanted. A distraction, a coping mechanism, and (for some) an actual budding romance.

I remember sitting next to my husband in the hospital, telling him he was my one and done. I had time alone with him before the doctors did their final test. I used that time to spill my guts out. I melted into complete vulnerability. During that time, I remembered the first moment I met him. The first night we kissed. When we became parents. Every highlight flashed over and over again in front of me. I remember saying not to worry about us, because I will handle everything. No other man will ever be in our life. I’ll get the boys everything they need. He was my one and only, and I could never love anyone like him. This was it. And fuck, this is early.

When I think back to that hour and the moments that followed, I believe he somehow heard every word I said and was crying with me and telling me “no.” Before death ever came into our home, we discussed if we would ever marry again if the other died. He said he wouldn’t. I said I wouldn’t. And then he told me I should. He would want me to find someone who treats me well and loves our kids and provides a good example. And I told him in that final hour, while I know he wants me to move on, it won’t happen.

And then everything changed. The world started spinning around me. The room was dripping. The air felt different. My life as I knew it was over. I was a different woman when I walked out of that hospital than when I walked in. I was absolutely stronger. I had to be. I left there with the weight of the world on my shoulders. But it was so fresh and so new I could sling it over my back and take care of business. My body was heavy, my insides were burning, but my heart grew calm by the time I pulled in my driveway.

Right away, people started making comments about me finding someone else. From relatives to strangers, they had to let me know I was young and would meet someone else. They all meant well, but those comments added another sting on an already burning chest. As if losing a spouse is like losing a puppy and I can go to the shelter and scoop up another one to love. No, they’re not the same puppy and you miss your pet, but easy enough to fill the space. Losing your partner isn’t like that. Not even close.

I was in my anger phase when I first downloaded Tinder. Tinder for a tender heart, right? It was pretty discouraging at first. I was still wearing my husband’s ring around my neck and mine on my finger. I took the ring off for my first date. It was a coffee date. He had the same skin tone and similar build as my husband. He was nice enough. While talking to him, little blurbs of Matt kept flashing before me. Blip, blip. His face would appear like a bubble and quickly pop. It made me smile and laugh and I’m pretty positive the date thought that was in reference to whatever he was saying. After a couple cups of coffee, we parted ways. I got in my truck and had the mental breakdown my body had been waiting for. I was mad. I never wanted to date again. I didn’t want to date again to the point that I ignored problems in our marriage on the chance of it being something I couldn’t tolerate and being thrown into the Tinder card stack. And I remember motherfucking him on my way home. Because here I am in this messed up world. Here I am having to explore online dating. Highlights of our relationship didn’t come to mind, not for a minute. But every single problem we had was now front and center. And for all I know, this may have been in my future even if he was still alive. We’ll never know. And I was furious.

The anger eventually passed and moved on to some other giant feeling and I went on a couple more dates. The last one I went on was with a widower. I’m glad I met him. We both lost our partners in sudden accidents. Our children were similar ages when it happened. He’s been without his wife for over ten years now. You can still hear the love he has for her in his voice. You can see it in his eyes. That was encouraging and daunting all at once. Daunting that a decade from now I’m going to be comparing every man I meet to my late husband. And encouraging to see that life goes on, completely different and new.

I’ve realized that no matter if you had a romantic, problem-free unicorn marriage or one that struggled—struggled hard—and everything in between, they were your spouse for a reason. That reason and that bond will always be there. It can never be taken away and it cannot be replaced.

I look at Tinder differently now. I expect nothing from it. Not encouraged nor discouraged by it, simply indifferent. I laugh at the crude advances. I have no dreams of finding my “Chapter 2,” as the widowhood community calls it, through a right swipe. I use it for a distraction when I need to mindlessly scroll through something that means nothing. Because sometimes, I want to turn my brain off. It’s been on overdrive to compensate for the earthquake that hit my soul.

While it is amazing how many times our hearts can fall apart and still expand for love, I have no idea if I’ll ever marry again. If you ask me today, I will say no. No, because it would take a goddamn warrior to join our family. No, because I’m in a pretty serious relationship with myself. No, because it would take a man confident enough to understand there will always be another who holds so much of our hearts. Though if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned we have no idea what tomorrow will bring. I grew up never wanting to be a wife or a mother. And then life and love happened. And I rock the hell out of them both.