My husband suddenly dropped dead at 34... then I was plagued by taboo fantasies that made me question everything
It has been seven years since my husband, Ryan, dropped dead by the pool on our spring break vacation, and I am still a little embarrassed about one particularly juicy side-effect of grief.
It started when I found myself buying new running shoes at a Portland sneaker store only weeks after his death.
I had been jogging more at the time in an attempt to drown out my incessant internal dialogue (which sounded a lot like 'nooooooo' and 'Why, God?').
I had also recently come into some money in the form of a GoFundMe lovingly organized by family and friends, money which I bluntly referred to as 'blood money' (to the horror of those same family and friends). I was determined to spend it as quickly as possible.
Because of this money and my new societally approved athletic coping mechanism, I found myself in front of a fit, curly-haired 20-something. He slipped my foot into a fresh pair of ASICS with a charming smile.
'Should I have worn this large male wedding ring dangling around my neck like Frodo Baggins?' I wondered as he helped tie my laces.
The thought immediately felt like betrayal. It was wrong. It was foreign. It was followed by: 'Wow, he has nice lips.'
I felt sick to my stomach and knew I had to flee the scene immediately. I ran out of the room with my fresh sneakers as if my new training regime depended on it.
During a dream trip to Disneyland, Ryan died, leaving Leslie a widow, with their two energetic boys
'Ryan Harter was more than the father to my two boys,' said Leslie. 'He was my business partner and my best friend'
What was I doing? I was married after all. Or was I?
Ryan Harter was more than the father to my two boys, Wit, who was three at the time of his death, and Rory, only one. He was my business partner and my best friend.
Our life was beautifully entangled in that sort of Sonny and Cher way. It was the stuff of novels and romcoms. I romantically described myself as half of a whole, saying: 'There is no Ryan without Leslie.'
But what happens when half of a whole quite literally disappears from planet Earth? You stay sad and single forever as a statement of your undying affection, right?
On April 1, 2019, in the middle of a dream trip to Disneyland, Ryan said: 'Leslie, something's wrong,' as I sunbathed and read by the pool.
We didn't know it at the time, but an AVM (arteriovenous malformation, for all those who don't work in medicine or aren't well-studied hypochondriacs) had been dormant in his brain his entire life. Instead of signaling us with migraines, it decided to wait until he was 34 years old to burst suddenly under the Palm Springs sun.
I guess I should be grateful it didn't detonate sooner and that we got five and a half years of marriage together and two energetic boys. But to be honest, I would have liked his fatal stroke to be pushed off a little longer. Heck, maybe 50 more years?
I know what it's like to navigate grief as a 'half person' addicted to people pleasing.
'Our life was beautifully entangled in that sort of Sonny and Cher way,' said Leslie. 'It was the stuff of novels and romcoms'
The couple's children Wit, was three at the time of Ryan's death, and Rory was one
In the days, weeks, and months following Ryan's death the compliment 'You're So Strong' was dished out more than casseroles by a community who loved and wanted to support me.
They said this common phrase before I had done anything to prove it, so I decided I would strive to live up to it. The ones who had filled my GoFundMe account with cash and my fridge with food deserved the strongest, most inspiring widow.
By golly, I was going to give that to them. I would be sad about Ryan forever, but not too sad. I wouldn't grieve publicly in a way that made anyone uncomfortable. I would be 'so strong.'
There was one problem with this plan, and it all started at the sneaker store.
How could I be one half of Ryan-and-Leslie if I also couldn't stop looking at sneaker dude's mouth?
I wasn't ready to bring anyone to the left side of my bed, where Ryan used to reside.
I wasn't ready for the big 'I do' either, or all that came with it: the implications of blending a family and explaining my questionable parenting techniques to another; the complications of readjusting to a new husband with new habits destined to annoy me like Ryan's did; the balancing act between my love for husband number one and husband number two (and the worry that I might accidentally call him number two).
I wasn't ready for any of it. But I was ready for that hand graze. Or a smooch… or a couple of smooches that led to nothing but reminded me that I'm not just some sad single mom and widow. I am a woman.
Leslie said she wasn't ready to get married, but she craved a hand graze, or a smooch
She wanted to be reminded that she wasn't 'just some sad single mom and widow - I am a woman'
My sneaker store longing wasn't my last act of betrayal. The next came shortly after, in the form of a taco party in my sister's backyard.
There, only two months after Ryan's death, I met a man we'll just call Tall, Dark and Handsome, who years later would become my second husband. He followed me around the party as I chased my children.
Before we ever fell in love, years later, Tall, Dark and Handsome was a welcome distraction. He also became the sole mission of what my sister and I referred to as 'Operation Make-out Sesh' and the source of more self-imposed shame.
This operation’s aim? Find one lonely widow a no-strings-attached kiss. Spoiler alert: No kiss was achieved in the early days of grief. The mission was essentially a failure, but somehow I still found myself feeling guilty.
If you ask any happily married individual how long they would wait before wanting to marry again, most would say: 'Never,' or: 'I can't even imagine.'
It feels more romantic and loyal to cancel our lives in the wake of our loss, to stay in bed forever and put an eternal pause on our libido. But I have found that our hearts and our annoying bodies have other plans.
Call it 'widow's fire' or a 'coping mechanism' or 'betrayal,' but like it or not, you may one day also find yourself longing for a smooch only weeks after your life blows up.
How do I know this? I talk with a lot of widows.
In March 2023, I founded a nonprofit, Vids for Wids, to help others like myself feel less alone. We share stories about what it's really like to wade through the mucky waters of grief. I have gathered around tables and in studios, interviewing my fellow widows and laughing at the same off-colored jokes.
'Before we ever fell in love, years later, Tall, Dark and Handsome was a welcome distraction' - Leslie with her new husband and their family
'You've lived something beautiful. Of course you want that again,' her therapist told her (Leslie with her new husband, who she refers to as 'Tall, Dark and Handsome,' and their family)
But when we get to the dating question, things always get a little awkward.
'What am I allowed to say?' some have wondered.
'Will my in-laws see this?' others have asked.
We all share a complicated longing to keep our husbands' memories alive, to honor the relationships that were, to explain our people to their children whose memories fade and change with each passing year.
At the same time, we also share a deep desire to experience the companionship we once took for granted.
'You've lived something beautiful. Of course you want that again,' my therapist once explained to me when I recounted the sneaker store incident, the taco night meet-cute and the late-night longing.
A widower himself who remarried, he deeply resonated with my conflicting desires.
'OK, but what about Ryan?' I replied.
'It is because of Ryan that you want this again. You know what it is to be in sync with another, to exist alongside them, to reach out and touch them at any moment. I have found it's people like you who most crave it when it's gone.'
I realized as he spoke that I had wanted my grief to be impressive. I thought it would look like endless devotion and strength. I wrestled with this longing to be just the right amount of sad about my dead spouse. If I was truly grieving well, I believed I would find people saying: 'See? That's how you love someone.'
Instead, grief looked like binge-watching episodes of Friends to fall asleep and a daily menu of instant ramen and Zbars for my kids. It was not exactly the aesthetic I was going for.
But grief doesn't care about aesthetics. Sometimes it's sad and beautiful and inspiring. And sometimes, inconveniently, it's a little bit horny.
Leslie Harter-Berg is the founder of Vids for Wids and author of You’re So Strong: On Grief and Letting Go of My Favorite Compliment, published by Zondervan.
