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I can recount my courtship with Bob in precise detail. We both taught in the same program when we were doctoral students at the University at Albany in the year 2000. We never really spoke. I just knew Bob as the 6' 5" guy with a goatee who carried a two-liter of Mountain Dew and a bag of marshmallows with him to class.
We shared an office but he held hours in the morning and I in the afternoon, so it was nearly two years before a chance encounter led to a date.
On our first date, we talked until four o'clock in the morning. Soon after, Bob and I became inseparable. We were attracted to each other, but also admired each other's minds. He said he couldn't believe he'd "met a woman so hot who also knew Nietzsche," and I felt the same way about him. Bob and I married a year after we started dating, and we were together for 12 years.
We had both been married before, in our twenties, which meant we had already made mistakes and we now knew who we were and what we wanted. One of the best things about us was how complicated our lives had been before each other, and just how uncomplicated we were together.
But everything changed in December 2011 when Bob was diagnosed with the terminal illness amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS).
I was in deep denial, which then gave way to shock and, finally, complete devastation. Yet Bob, after one long sob on the day of his diagnosis, immediately went into action, preparing me and our two children, aged four and nine at the time, for his death.
The day after he was diagnosed, Bob told me he wanted me to find love again. "You have always been happier in a relationship than not in one. I want that for you again, and for the kids," he said. "You deserve love in your life, and so do they."
I was still reeling from his diagnosis. I was shocked and told him to stop talking. I wasn't at all ready to hear what he was saying.
A blossoming friendship
About four months later, my colleague stopped by our house. Dave and I both taught at the same university but, despite having mutual friends and attending the same social gatherings, we barely knew each other. He cycled with a group once a week and they ended their ride in our neighborhood, meaning he had to ride past our house. So one night, he spontaneously swung into our driveway to say hello and to check in on us. The company was nice for all of us.
Dave dropped by again a few weeks later to see how we were doing. Bob and I welcomed him and we all enjoyed each other's company. Soon, his visits became more regular, until we saw Dave every Tuesday after his ride. On the way out, Dave always asked, "Do you want me to drop by next week?" and we always said yes.
His visits never felt intrusive. Dave never wanted or needed anything. I would offer him water, but he'd have his water bottle. I would offer him food, but he would have just picked up a sandwich. His visits were easy and, in the beginning, very brief—no more than an hour, often less. It wasn't until several months into our friendship that he started to stay longer.
We became close friends. As time went on, and Bob and I became housebound, we not only looked forward to Dave's visits but came to depend on them more and more.
We talked about the usual things at first—the university, our students, people we knew in common, our plans for the summer. But after several visits, our conversations went deeper. We shared more intimate details about our lives and our pasts and started to really get to know each other.
One day when Bob and I were alone, Bob pointed out how much Dave and I could talk—really talk. "Pay attention to that," he said. He gave me a sly smile and winked at me when he said it, so I immediately knew what he was implying.
"Are you saying I should hit on Dave?" I joked.
"We both know marriage is a long conversation," Bob said, quoting a Nietzsche line we had often repeated to one another. Dave was now a private joke between us.
Finding love again
Bob had planted the seed and the seed began to grow. I didn't want to accept that Bob was dying but, as time went on and I realized he was, I knew that the only way I would survive was to love again. In my mind, I saw Bob as my parachute, then, as I pictured a life without him, I was more and more able to see Dave as a safe landing.
Dave was great with the kids—he let our four-year-old daughter draw smiley faces on his knees, and he fixed our son's bicycle. He helped in concrete ways and fixed various things in our home to make our lives easier. He even installed a ramp in our kitchen for Bob's wheelchair.
I started to notice his strong vocabulary, the way he spoke, his honesty, and the interests we shared in common, like classical music, opera and art.
Dave was our number one contact on our hospice's emergency phone list, as I have no remaining immediate family members and all of Bob's family lived out of state.
When Bob was in his last moments, in October 2012, it was our son Liam who asked, "Should Dave be here?" and my response was, "Do you want him to be?" He said he did, so we called him. Dave lived nearby, so he was over in minutes and he was in the room when Bob passed.
Dave dropped by every day the week after Bob died to see how I was doing. Our getting together was almost immediate, as it felt as though we had already been courting while Bob was still alive.
Dave expressed how much he had admired the love Bob and I had had for each other, how we had handled his death together, and that that was what had drawn him to us, and now to me.
We didn't date, since I was now a single mom with two small children and no-one to watch them. Instead, Dave would come over with a pizza, or the kids and I would hang out at his house, or all four of us would go out somewhere.
Dating a widow is never uncomplicated. I was grieving. It was rocky. But the core that was Dave and me, that was uncomplicated, and still is. While Dave has some qualities in common with Bob, in that they are both intelligent, confident and kind, he is also very much not like Bob. I didn't want someone who was too similar to Bob. I wanted Bob to have his own separate place in my heart.
I don't know when I would have noticed Dave without Bob's prompting, but Bob knew what the kids and I needed, and he saw something in Dave that I initially didn't, or couldn't. Bob's blessing made all the difference.
Dave and I have been married seven years. Bob was the first love of my life; Dave is the second. I believe our hearts can be large when we make room.
Deirdre Fagan's memoir, Find a Place for Me: Embracing Love and Life in the Face of Death, will be published on November 1, 2022.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
