Will I marry again?

About a year after Martin died, a dear friend asked if I’d ever marry again. She was—and still is—a good enough friend to ask anything and receive an honest, straightforward answer. 

But as the words from her question floated into my ears and settled on my brain, my first thought was:  you don’t know me, do you? Because if you knew me, if you really knew me, you’d know the answer.

I loved my husband. I really did. I loved being married. I really did. But I hated dementia. It was a sneaky little bastard, creeping up, then marching like Sherman to Atlanta and leaving a path of destruction and devastation that would make Patton smile, all the while taking “in sickness and in health” and “for richer or poorer” to unimaginable levels.

And then, just like that, it’s over. They are gone and you start crying when a customer service rep asks the simple question, “How may I help you?” and you have to say for the dozenth time, “I’m calling to report my husband’s death.” And just when you think it’s over, you have to fill out a form and for the first time you check the “Widow” box and the tears come again.    

To do it all again at this stage of my life?

The reality is if I were to marry again, unless I completely lost my cougar-mind and went for jail bait, he would be my age or older. And if statistics are anywhere close to being true about men and age in the United States, he’s gonna be dead before I am. 

I am not up for watching my husband die again. I’m not up for widowhood again.

The reality is if I were to marry again, chances are he would come with his own set of health-related baggage. Diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol. He might even have early signs of Alzheimer’s.

Except for my sister and my dog, my caregiving days is done, y’all. 

The reality is I love my freedom. No, I savor every nanosecond of it.

I can go wherever I like whenever I like. I can eat whatever I like whenever I like. I can clean my house however I like or not at all. I can pretty much come and go as I please. 

Right now, I don’t have to work at getting someone’s adult kids or grandkids to like or love me. 

Right now, I don’t have to deal with exes or compete with the ghosts of wives past.

Right now, I don’t have to change a life that I’m really starting to enjoy again.  I have my old friends. I'm meeting new friends. I have my racquetball posse. I have my knit groups. I have my widow friends. I have my Girls Group. 

And I can be alone in my solitude room practicing my new love, the bodhran, to Irish tunes, and I can walk in the woods with my bear spray in case I meet a furry friend, and I have the option to spend Christmas alone or with others.  

This doesn’t mean I won’t date again or love again or commit again, but marry again? 

Oh.

Hell.

No.