A week before the first meeting with the widows’ support group, while sorting through paperwork, I came across my obstetrician’s letter to my midwife. It was 17 years ago. I was two weeks overdue.

My midwife sent me to a gynae for an assessment, and these were his words: “This is a big baby! It is unengaged, and Rochelle has an unfavourable cervix.”

I used this assessment to introduce myself at the meeting, and it was a hit. After the ice-breakers, the first person up spoke about romance after the death of a partner.

“Our intimacy stopped years before he died,” she said. “I’m 38 and I’m not ready to be celibate. I cannot wait to be with someone who loves me and who makes me feel good again. I’m done being a caregiver, I want someone to take care of me.”

Those words shook me out of my little cocoon. I was expecting odes to our partners and lots of reminiscing and ugly crying. What I was not expecting was the raunchy content that followed.

The husband being ill for years obviously resonated with me. I found her story so relatable.

As the conversation snowballed into us all talking about intimacy and the lack thereof pre or post the death of our partners, I started feeling a certain kind of way.

It’s been 17 months since I lost my husband. Even though the thought of being intimate with another person freaks me all the way out, I also know that I probably won’t want to be celibate for the rest of my life.

Elton and I discussed this at length, as we both had illnesses that could cut us down at any time. We spoke about life after each other.

We agreed that there will be no marriage until our son is an adult and independent. I had the step-parent experience, and it was not something we wanted for our son.

So, it was going to be to a “situationship”, where both partners have their own space and the odd sleepover.

If I’m completely honest, the loneliness has been achingly real. All I really want is someone to talk to, bounce ideas off, and share the occasional dinner.

Thanks to perimenopause, the nether regions are under control, so no Tinder and stuff for now.

When I think of being with another person, there is the obvious “I’m cheating on Elton, what is wrong with me. How dare I?”
But then there’s all the very real conversations we had about life after the other, and I know he wouldn’t want me to stop living. Mourn him, yes. Remember him, yes. But not stop living.

As he always jokingly said, “Chelles, you’re a maneater.” (Yes, he was a Hall & Oates fan). “Go finish them and destroy the patriarchy, one by one.”

He was the manliest feminist ever and I loved him for that. He was all about Girl Power.

Once all the regulars to the meeting had made their confessions, it was my turn to talk. It was one of the few occasions in my life where I was struggling to talk.

On the one hand, my Calvinistic upbringing dictates that I should mourn my beloved forever, sustained by the thought of meeting up with him in the next life.

But is that realistic? Is that what he would want for me? Is that what I want for me?

I’m 48. Once our son is independent and living his life, I will be about 55. I plan to travel and live a glorious life. Can I do it on my own? Of course I can! Could I do it with a friend? Totally?

But how much more fun would it be with someone who makes me happy and gets me as close as dammit to what I had with my late husband?

Almost every single woman talks about the trash circle of men out there, and how most of the good ones are taken. But 20 years back, when I was single, the situation was dire as well. Until I found my Elton.

I know the odds of finding another Elton is highly unlikely, but finding someone out there who is kind, gentle, and makes me laugh should be possible, right?

Having said that, I’m afraid I’m enjoying the perks of being on my own so much. I’ve girlified my bedroom. I have two bed-stands to myself, each piled high with my tower of books to be read.

I have flowers all over the room. Best of all, I have the bed all to myself. I no longer get accused of being a “duvet dief” and a bed hogger.

As much as I enjoy this new space, I must also remind myself that getting too comfy is not great either.

I know I must step out of my comfort zone occasionally, but I’m also too lazy to do too much. I’ve housetrained one man. I’m not sure I have it in me to housetrain another!

And just like a toddler, I’m in a “mine” phase. I don’t want to share my things or my space. But if they place nicely, I might just reconsider!