Widowhood Year 2: Goodbye Aptos, I’m feathering my nest in the Big Apple

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There is a blue and white tug boat on the river guiding a big, red barge south. Two boats, white sails stretched taut, pass by. New Jersey is on the opposite shore. This is the view from my 15th-floor apartment. 

I have moved to New York City. Manhattan, to be more precise. The Upper West Side to be exact. 

One year after my husband, Michael, died, I realized I had been sitting still in our Aptos house filled with memories. I had not progressed in life. But while not regressing did feel like some kind of success, 12 months after scattering Michael’s ashes at Seacliff State Beach, I faced reality. 

The life I had loved, the life we had shared, was over. 

Over is a big, solid block of cement kind of word. Over. Accepting that fact, that cold fact meant I needed to come to a decision about what I should do next. What would I regret not doing if five years down the line, when I turn 80, I felt the window closing on new opportunities? 

Oh, I may be still kicking up my heels at 80, but there obviously are no promises made when it comes to aging.  

I thought about it for days and nights. The answer eventually became obvious. New York City. 

For years I have been spending big chunks of time in New York. Michael and I had decided that once he retired we would split our time between California and the Big Apple. Most of his family is in New Jersey and we would be able to spend time with them and watch the next generation of his family grow up. We discussed buying bikes to ride in Riverside Park. Michael could go birding early in the mornings while I read the paper and drank coffee. He could eat his fill of eggplant parm sandwiches, which he could rarely find in Santa Cruz. 

He died before he could retire. After working 50 weeks a year for 40 years, he spent what would have been his first month of retirement dying. And then he did. 

And I was paralyzed with grief. 

And then a year went by.

I mentioned the idea of moving to my daughter and grandson before I told anyone else. Both said, “duh.” Oh, they had feelings about me moving 3,000 miles away, but I assured them I would get on a plane and head to Los Angeles any time they asked, and they asked me why I had taken so long to come to this decision. 

I began my search for apartments determined to find something that would satisfy my wants and desires as well as my budget. When I landed on this riverside neighborhood I imagined what Michael would think. There is a vibrant park across the street which has green grass, playgrounds, bike paths and walking paths. They go for miles. There is a pier for walking out on and a cluster of tables with green umbrellas at a riverside cafe. Lobster rolls and burgers, salads and cocktails. Ice cream!

I decided to commit, signing a one-year lease. 

It is an interesting, emotional challenge to begin looking around the place you have lived for more than four decades and trying to decide what to take, what to leave. Happily I found a tenant who was fine living with my furniture. 

I began to share the news with my friends and neighbors. Amazingly, each gave me their full support. They would miss me, but were excited at this new future. And more than one has said they will be planning a visit soon. (See you in July, Becky. See you in September, Buff.)

As the days went by, I tackled paperwork and began to deal with the details of a big move. I bought luggage. I filled out the change-of-address forms from the post office. I packed up boxes and sent them ahead. And finally, it was time to go, but not before one last beach walk with a stop at the picnic table dedicated to Michael by our dear, dear friends. 

That was a hard moment. When would I be back? Would I be back? Obviously the future cannot be predicted. 

I have been in the apartment for just over two weeks. I have spent those weeks ordering furniture online and building it. I am feathering my nest. I realize I need to surround myself with colors and textures and books that make me feel as if this is my space. Not just an empty apartment. 

It is coming together. I make trips to the flea market and to Housing Works for secondhand offerings. And at night, I fall into bed feeling as if I am moving forward. Some nights I am exhausted. Physically and emotionally. But I am no longer sitting still waiting for life to begin again.

My daughter, Kira, and grandson, Dodger, came for a visit last week. They wanted to be able to picture where I am when they think about me. For the past year, when they thought of me at home, they imagined me sad. Alone in the house where so much love had been. 

Now they have seen me here. Building a new future, box by box, chair by chair. They approve.

Kira has been in a grief group since Michael died. Last week she told them about me. What I was doing. I was called brave. I don’t know about that. But I will say, I am awake after more than a year of what felt like a long, fitful sleep. 

And here, in my new bed, the river flowing by, I picture Michael. He’s out there somewhere with his binoculars hoping for a dramatic sighting of some feathered creature to begin his day.