After 45 Years Of Marriage, My Husband Died. Now I'm Spending My First Holiday Alone.
This is the first time I’ll be alone for the holidays.
For 45 years, I was married to the love of my life, Steve. As handsome as a film star and loaded with business smarts and common sense, he was my go-to person whenever I had a question or concern about friends, family, jobs or my well-being. Tragically, three years ago, he passed away after a long illness.
How I miss the days we were together, even when he was sick and could no longer eat anything by mouth and got all of his nutrition from a feeding tube attached to his stomach. Even while I sat next to his hospital bed as he was dying. At least I was with him ― especially on the holidays.
This year I look forward to the holidays being over. Can I sleep through them or at least stay in bed all day? My therapist doesn’t advise that. All I have left are the memories.
On Hanukkah, we cooked potato latkes together, first grating the potatoes on my grandmother’s metal grater. And then adding matzo meal, a small onion, salt and pepper, and finally placing spoonfuls of the mixture into a sizzling frying pan filled with oil until they turned a golden brown. Each one a gem. We served them with applesauce, sour cream or caviar and lit the menorah for eight days.
On Christmas, we watched movies and, like most New York Jewish couples, had Chinese takeout. No Hanukkah bush for us. After eating, we laid together on a couch with our two cats and dog. We were a family.
New Year’s Eve for decades was over the top. Stanley, a successful artist, included us for a sit-down dinner with 100 of his friends. After Stanley passed away, we went to expensive restaurants, poring through reviews for the most popular one of that year. It always cost a small fortune. We didn’t mind. It was worth it to start the New Year off big.
Sometimes we’d invite friends to join us, but mainly it was the two of us. And at midnight we clicked our glasses and kissed unabashedly no matter where we were, knowing we were lucky to have each other.
Once Steve took ill, celebrating holidays changed. We no longer went out to dinner. Since my husband had difficulty swallowing, celebrations were low key, a nice dinner at home that he cooked for me. My husband slaved over making something special. It was usually seafood paella and took hours to prepare. His dinner for himself was always the same, a white liquid flowing into his feeding tube attached to his stomach. For New Year’s, I’d purchase a chocolate soufflé. Steve would carefully scoop a spoonful near his mouth and lick it. “The best chocolate I’ve ever had,” he always said.
Afterward, we’d stream a film. As a SAG-AFTRA member, by Christmas I received at least 10 nominated films for viewing before they hit the theaters or streaming sites. Can you believe we were happy, content just to be together, just to be alive ― together?
For nine years, my husband was being treated for Stage 4 throat cancer and the effects of that treatment. The radiation burned his throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow. The chemo gave him unbearable neuropathy.
When a loved one has a life-threatening illness, you realize your time together is not infinite and you treasure all of the little moments. Yet you never for one minute allow yourself to contemplate that one day he could be gone.
And then it happened.
I was devastated. A few weeks later, my upstairs neighbor swept me off my feet, love bombing me. “I always had a crush on you,” he said.
His late wife of 45 years was one of my best friends and had passed away a few years before. Seemed like a perfect match — two people in need of companionship and joy. He moved into my apartment and included me in his family celebrations.
Now the holidays were filled with Christmas dinners, Christmas Day presents for his grandchildren, children, siblings and their children — a houseful of people and a decorated tree. I had never seen so many presents.
Every New Year’s Day, it was a trip to Belize where he had a condo overlooking the ocean and warm, perfect weather ― a far cry from my most recent holiday celebrations. A friend said, “Ann, you hit the lottery with this man.”
But not everything lasts, and some relationships end without anyone dying.
For three years I followed in his footsteps, taking the place of his late wife and preparing for the holidays as she had done throughout their marriage. Yet I felt like a stranger with his family. A warmth was missing. A connection was lacking. Being with a man who has children has its own problems even if they are grown. I was a reminder that their mother had died.
My boyfriend and I said we loved each other many times, but it wasn’t real. We were trying to love each other to fill the emptiness our spouses had left. And then at the worst possible moment, when I was ill with sciatica and unable to join him on the many concerts and outings he went to regularly, he broke up with me, packed his things while I was at physical therapy and left without explanation.
That was five months ago. The days passed and now the holidays are here. For the first time, I am alone. You might say I’m a lucky person. I spent all of my adult life with a man I adored and then I experienced what it was like to live in someone else’s shoes ― a life I had often admired. A few days before Thanksgiving, I accidentally missed a step while cleaning my house. An X-ray determined that my ankle was fractured. Just what I needed. If I didn’t feel alone before, I would certainly feel it now.
When visiting, my niece said to me, “Aunt Ann, I can’t help but think that if you had children, you wouldn’t be alone like this.”
Her words pierced my heart. I could have told her truth ― Steve and I couldn’t have children. We tried but it didn’t work out. Instead, I said, “I can’t help but think that if Steve were still here, I wouldn’t be alone.”
And it was true. I may never have another love like Steve, but I am thankful for the time we had together. As for being alone, it’s not as bad as it seemed at first. I’ll find a new way of celebrating the holidays. I have myself and I have Romeo, a mini-golden doodle that my husband found online while he was in intensive care, intubated and on a breathing machine. Steve knew I needed a companion, and Romeo was his last present to me.
This year, I’ll cook potato latkes for Hanukkah, enough to give to neighbors in my apartment building. Romeo will sit by my side eager to catch any food that drops from the bowl. And for New Year’s Eve, there’s so many possibilities in New York City ― see a play, hear a concert, volunteer at a food bank and more. All I have to do is conquer my fear of being alone, or I can invite a single friend who is recovering from knee surgery to join me for an early dinner.
But one thing is for sure: As the clock strikes midnight, Romeo and I will cuddle up on the couch while we stream a film and toast to Steve and 2025.
Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.
