Flying Solo

I've noticed that we often use the same word for radically different states of life. For example, being married with young children is quite distinct from first being married, and represents a major renegotiation of the way the relationship has worked until then. Becoming single again at Jen's death in no way resembles being single at 25 (or probably the experience of being single at 35).

Some differences are obvious: I'm working full-time, running the household, and looking after two sons. As any single parent would tell you, this is more than one and a half jobs, and on its own soaks up all the time I can give, while still not allowing me to do anything as well as I would like. On top of this I squeeze in a bit of time for talking to friends, piano practice, writing, reading and running, plus fragments of other hobbies and projects. Most of the free time is after 10pm of an evening. I've just recently returned to my church bible study group, which is my one outing in the week. By contrast, the single and childless people I know seem to have a lot of opportunities to be out and about, and much more time and freedom to enjoy. It's not that I want to change my situation for theirs, only that we label both situations as "single".

More deeply, my fifteen years with Jen have changed me. Love has left its mark. It's a cliche to say that your wife is your best friend, but that was reciprocally true for us. Our closeness was strengthened by the need to rely on each other more as we moved around in our first six years of marriage. When we went to live overseas for two years, we arrived there knowing nobody apart from each other. We worked hard on staying in touch with friends, but it was from each other that we drew most strength. Not all marriages work that way. Of course we also frustrated each other at times, and we found it important to have additional sources of support, and friends who shared our differing interests.

That time with Jen raised the bar very considerably in terms of intimacy, depth and continuity. In a normal working day I'd ring Jen at least once and usually twice, to see how her day was going. It's those small daily intimacies that I miss most now, such as lying in bed talking before going to sleep. Since Jen's death there's been a gaping hole in my life that I can't fill. My close friends have been remarkable in the quality of their support, but a weekly conversation would be quite a high level of contact, and in most cases we might chat every few weeks or even months.

When I was married to Jen, other friendships were important, but I could survive without them. Now I can't. There's also a kind of equilibrium of need in friendship, and as my needs have changed substantially, each friendship has had to change in response. I'm also tentatively trying to reconnect and expand my circle of friends, although it's very slow going. I'm thankful to have made two valuable friends in the past 18 months, and with both of them there is mutual need and benefit that underpins the relationship. The desire for friendship can be a selfish one, and the challenge to me is to be the kind of person I hope to find in others, and give what I want to receive.

Depth in my friendships is about time. On the one hand I value those who have stuck with us for a long time, say those who were at our wedding as well as Jen's funeral. On the other hand I appreciate those who give the time to have thoughtful discussions and to ask probing questions. I can still enjoy that depth even with infrequent contact.

Continuity is much tricker to find. By this I mean people that I talk to often enough that we remember last week's joys and sorrows, and follow up on the outcome, or that we see enough of the detail to appreciate what each day is like. Here there's so much I can't replace of Jen's multiple roles. I don't for example have anyone with whom I feel I can safely let off steam about frustrating aspects of the day. I'm interested to understand how other single people organise their lives - how many people they speak to daily or weekly to stay in touch.

Commitment is even rarer, for most friendships have a provisional element. Loyalty is one of the qualities I value greatly, and that I try to give. But who other than Jen would stay with me no matter what happened? Jen was mostly a gentle person, but she could be very fierce when anything threatened or criticized her family - what I call her 'lioness' mode. For me it was a privilege to know that Jen was always on my side, wanting to defend me against anything - not because I was necessarily right, but because it was me. There is surely overlap between love and friendship, but I've never experienced that kind of commitment from anyone else.