Twice a Widow

My first husband, Carrie, who I was married to for 30 years, recently died. My second husband, Tommy, who I was married to for 12 years died in 2012.

Being a somber widow at my advanced age (87 ) is not at all surprising because women typically live longer than men. But the recurring question stirring me now is how did I fall in love and marry two people so very different from each other?

They had little in common, except for their love for me, one aborted, the other clung to --until their last breaths.

What attracted each to me? And the reverse, why did I accept and welcome their endearing proposals?

But also, another surprise: these two departed spouses had gotten along well. Despite their clear differences, they liked each other. There was never a “how could you marry that person?” from either one.

Or am I just a universal portrait of a likely good wife? I am amiable, funny, shorter than both, a loving mother to our creative children from the first marriage, and a willingness to share my entire family – cousins, uncles, and aunts – with both smitten spouses.

Before I go further, and to explain my difficulty with pronouns, my first spouse, after we divorced and I remarried, emerged as her true self, a woman. Tommy, who had loads of longtime friends, embraced my former spouse emotionally and physically. If I recall, they shared a sincere hug.

Before we return to my original question, let me introduce you to my two very special partners.

Carrie was Jewish (like me), a well-respected psychiatrist with a healthy income tethered to that occupation, and long-time friends that lasted beyond our long marriage.

Tommy was not Jewish, had a modest job as a customer service representative, but have enough saved funds to be a lifelong member of the local YMCA, and be part of spirited baseball and bowling groups with his many cherished friends.

I just thought of one similarity: they both liked Stephen Sondheim and the Chicago Cubs. Was that enough for me to think Tommy would fit into the vacant spot on my queen-sized bed and in my well-arranged life? Was their welcomed appreciation of my favorite composer and Chicago’s northside baseball team enough to forecast a happy union? Evidentially.

Carrie never remarried during the 32 years after our divorce. Perhaps she did fall in love, but because her new journey was so tender and exhilarating, she was content welcoming this formerly hidden person into her authentic life.

In fact, now I think that Carrie was so happy with her true self, that she had enough bliss to bestow on Tommy and me. And perhaps Carrie was grateful, that a good man like Tommy, would take over the marital responsibilities, and assure I was treated well. Carrie may have left me, but I believed she never stopped caring about the me she first met as a young college student.

And Tommy could never be a real rival. He lacked a prestigious job and title and funds to buy us a new house, like Carrie did several times in our long marriage. There was no power struggle between the two.

Since I mentioned “power,” Tommy was a true athlete. He ran races, lifted weights, bicycled. He was slim, but muscled. Was that part of my immediate attraction to him?

Carrie was a good athlete but rarely pursued working out. Her one momentous experience was playing baseball in a amateur league of Cub fans. She had a grand time. She was featured in local reports, and euphoric over her associations with real players.

But now I wonder how the female Carrie would’ve felt about that athletic adventure. Would she have cautioned herself to be careful? Protect her newly appreciated face and hands? Warning her not to do anything foolish that would bruise a part of her hidden body?

Back to my original question: how could two such different people fall in love with the young and older versions of me? And how did I return their distinct ardor?

The only pained correspondence I received from Carrie was an angry handwritten letter. She thought I was playing the pitiful martyr after our no-fault divorce. She had lingering complaints about me. What did that handwritten letter really mean? Should I have stopped her from leaving? Would that have made a difference?

I have a stack of letters from Tommy. Every ink-penned one repeating his whole- hearted love for me, and his once-in-a-lifetime luck in our union. But that outpouring wasn’t enough for Tommy. Every day there would be post-it notes in my gym shoes. I would see them as I packed for my own health club. I still have those.

And now, with both gone, I wonder if I had grabbed Carrie’s tense arm as she walked out the back door to the garage, and said, “you can’t go. I love you.” Would that have kept us together?

But then I wouldn’t have met and married Tommy.

Events happened as they evidently are supposed to. I am grateful for my two, dearly departed spouses. I hope they see each other in my version of heaven and have time to have chummy talks about Sondheim and the Cubs.

Hopefully, both of my spouses have held onto their excellent singing voices. I imagine them harmonizing on a a chorus of “Stay with me.”