Eight Years Later... reflections on loving, losing, and living on

August 2, 2008: I kissed Robert, my husband and great love, for the last time. Exactly seven years before that, we kissed for the first time. Over the years I've chronicled our love story and my grief story. Last year at this time, I had been without him for the same number of years as we were together. Today, I had to tick off another year without him.

I wasn't sure whether -- or how -- I would write about this today. I read my past posts about losing Robert, and my past posts about loving Robert. I reread the little book he wrote just before he died: the last thoughts he wanted to share.

Then when I started reading some of the cards and letters he wrote me, I decided I'd let Robert speak for himself. I share some of these to show you that it's never too late to find your great love, and maybe we shouldn't settle for anything less.

If your beloved is with you still, please set aside the petty things that annoy you, solve the big issues as best you can, communicate your needs in an honest and loving way, and please let your loved one know your gratitude and appreciation. Surprise your loved one with sweet messages. Make every day together count.

And if you've lost your loved one, know that it does get better year by year, especially if you stay active and let people get close to you. It's all too easy to close down and shut people out. But don't! Find ways to live with joy and clarity. Keep learning. Use your skills and knowledge to help others.

Front of postcard

One the first anniversary of Robert's death, a grief counselor suggested that I do one thing that honors my memory of Robert, one thing that I've never done before, and one thing that helps other people. That turned out to be good advice, not just at year one, but at every anniversary, birthday, and holiday -- those days when the pain can be especially sharp.

Moving forward, I've learned, doesn't mean that we've left our loved one behind -- it means we take with us what we shared, what we learned, and above all, that we know how to love and live fully. Eventually we find that the tears diminish as laughter grows, and when our hearts open, joy can enter.

Back of postcard

I welcome your comments.

Remembering Robert today

I'm missing Robert terribly today. Tomorrow is Father's Day. I'm reminded of the beautiful photo that his son, Mitch Rice, posted on his Facebook page last Father's Day.

I never knew Robert as the dashing 50-year-old dancer in the photo -- he was 64 when we met (still dashing and still a dancer!), and I was 57. Looking back, we were youngsters. I'm now 71; he would have been 78. How I wish we could have grown old together.

In case you're new to our story, Robert and I had exactly seven years together -- first kiss to last kiss -- before we lost him to cancer. Our love story catapulted me into this world I inhabit now, the world of writing and speaking about senior sex. This August, I will have had as many years without him as with him. 

Today I bought a new car. I sold Robert's 2006 Volvo, which I had been driving since he died. It felt like one more letting-go to sell his car. A few months ago, my 16-year-old cat Amo died. Robert had never liked a cat before, let alone loved one. He loved Amo.

I know that my memories of Robert won't fade just because my cat died and his car is gone, but it feels like some pages of our time together have been ripped out, or maybe I'm living chapters of a new book that doesn't include him. I don't know if I'm making sense, or even if it's a good idea to write this for my public blog instead of my private journal -- perhaps you'll tell me.

And yet, much as I still ache to hold my sweet Robert, to kiss his warm lips and hear his loving voice, I'm never truly without him. He's here in my house with his art adorning my walls. He sends me bird chirps and flowers and the occasional salamander. He rustles the trees and smiles at me on the dance floor. He tells me how proud he is when I finish a new book -- a book he'll never get to read.

Driving my new car home, I was nervous. I've been in two extremely serious automobile accidents. They were both the fault of other drivers, but still, I don't trust my driving skills, and driving a car I'm not used to makes me anxious. I was trying to relax, when suddenly I felt that Robert was sitting in the seat beside me. 

I don't mean I was hallucinating. No, I knew the seat was empty. Nevertheless, he was there, and he reassured me in a gentle voice. 

"Are you here to make sure I'm safe?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said.  

For the rest of the drive home, I played songs that he had loved, or that we had danced to together, or that reminded me of him for some other reason. 

Thank you, Robert, for loving me so deeply and teaching me to love fully. I take that with me on my path.

Valentine's Day 2013

(Robert can't stop laughing after pulling my hat down)

 For Valentine's Day this year (2013), I'm re-publishing the post I wrote in 2011, updating it slightly.

I always loved Valentine's Day with Robert. We bought each other gifts, professed our love for each other emphatically and often poetically. We spent the afternoon making love, glorying in the magic of  the powerful passion we felt for each other. We would love each other for hours -- a candle lighted even in the bright light of afternoon, the bedroom door closed though we were alone in the house. I can still feel the touch of his skin, the sweet pressure of his lips. I hear the love words he muttered.

Dancing was always a part of our self-expression and love expression. One of "our songs" was Anne Murray's "Could I Have This Dance?"

Could I have this dance
for the rest of my life?
Would you be my partner
Every night?
When we're together,
It feels so right.
Could I have this dance
for the rest of my life?

Every Valentine's Day and birthday -- and sometimes New Year's Eve, too! -- he danced for me:  a special dance he had created just to please and entice me. He practiced for days in private, choosing the music,  the choreography, and the costume that he would shed slowly and sensuously as part of his dance.

2013: This is my fifth Valentine's Day without Robert. It wasn't until the third one that I was able to remember his special dances without crying. What beautiful gifts he gave me throughout our seven years together.  What beautiful gifts he gives me still, as I remember him.


For all of you who have a special loved one on this Valentine's Day, glory in what you share. Never take for granted that "the rest of my life" means anything more than "this moment right now."

For all of us who are unpartnered on this Valentine's Day, let's glory in the love we know how to give, and let's give it to ourselves and the people in our lives today. Let's do something special that nurtures us and delights us. Let's make someone else feel special. Let's celebrate our capacity to feel joy. The more love we give, the more we have within us.

On this 2013 update, a good friend is just home from the hospital after suffering a heart attack. "I died three times," he told me -- that's how often they had to re-start his heart. We need to make a special point always of letting the people we love know that we love them. We never know how much time we have.

Whether or not you have a lover right now, you do have people in your life who make your life better just by being in it. On Valentine's Day or any day, tell them how you feel.

He Danced into My Heart: Memories and Reflections

Tomorrow, December 11, is the 12-year anniversary of the day that I met Robert Rice and my life -- personal and professional -- flipped itself upside down. Robert walked into the line dance class I was teaching, and I tried to remember to breathe.

It was lust at first sight... on my part. He, I learned later, was just looking for a new place to dance.

I didn't know that night that I'd fall in love with this man. I only knew that his blue eyes and warm smile melted my world, and I had a sudden urge (which I resisted) to touch the chest hair that peeked from the V of his shirt. When he started to roll his hips, revealing a lifetime of dance and a self-assurance in his 64-year-old dancer's body, I felt my own hips strain to match his rhythm.  I kept forgetting the steps to the dance I was teaching.

It took nine months before I finally caressed that chest hair and our hips matched rhythm horizontally instead of vertically. I, whose motto had been "the only problem with instant gratification is that it takes too long," pursued a man who didn't believe in rushing anything. (Our complete story is in my first book about senior sex: Better Than I Ever Expected: Straight Talk about Sex After Sixty.)

Our first kiss didn't happen for nine months -- but once we started, we never stopped kissing.

I lost Robert to cancer on August 2, 2008 -- exactly seven years after our first kiss.

Today, I made myself coffee in the coffee pot that he had used, held my cup to my cheek as he had done. I thought of the post I had written in 2010  -- “I’m Going to Make You Coffee….”

I thought first that I would republish that post today. But another two-plus years have passed since I wrote that. As strong as the memories are still, and as freely as the tears flow at those memories, my grief has more layers of time cushioning it. The grief isn't so raw and I'm not powerless or joyless from it. It still floods over me, but not all the time, and when it does, I know how to swim to the top and breathe again. My muscles are strong from practice.

For those of you who have lost a loved one, I think it's important to share this with you: It does get easier. We all proceed in our own time frame. There's no "right" amount of time to grieve, and anyone who tells you, "you should be over it by now" should be educated (first I wrote "pilloried," but I changed my mind).

I've also learned that we can move forward and hold onto the memories at the same time. I'm listed with three online dating sites, and I'm enthusiastic about welcoming male company into my life. I still miss Robert every day. I am not looking to replace him -- couldn't be done even if I wanted to, and I don't want to. Any new man I get involved with will have to accept that I'm not going to take Robert's paintings off the wall or hide the urn that holds his ashes.

I'm 69 -- I bring my whole lifetime of experiences with me into whatever path I take next. That includes my memories of the man who taught me how richly I could love and be loved.