On July 1, 2020, my life changed forever.
What should have been a regular Wednesday, hunkering down with my family just four months into the COVID-19 pandemic, was the day my husband died. He had two sudden massive heart attacks, and after trying to save him for 45 minutes, the paramedics had to let him go.
Life quickly became a blur of depression, sadness, disbelief and anger. I lost my 56-year-old husband. We had been married for 15 years, and he was my life partner.
I was overwhelmed. How was I going to take care of my two teenage daughters by myself? How would I ever recover from this?
The answers were just as surprising — and unpredictable — as my husband’s death.
It was another regular day some 14 months later, and I had to drive the kids to school. We were late. The kids were mouthing off at each other in the back seat, and I began yelling at my older daughter. She started crying, which made me cry, and I didn’t dare look at my younger daughter to see if she was crying. I dropped them off at school, feeling defeated.
On my way home, I stopped by the cemetery to visit my husband’s grave. I wanted to yell at him for leaving me with all this to do on my own. I wanted to cry with him and let him take in my tears of loneliness and grief. Over and over I said, “I just want to be with you.” I was not suicidal, but I felt that somehow, through some magical turn of events, it would be possible to be with him.
I asked for a sign. It was something I‘d never done before — I’m not prone to superstition — but I’d heard other widows talk about it. “Tony, please send me a sign that I should be with you. Or send me a sign that I should not be with you,” I said, before driving home and spending the day working.
About 5 p.m., I left the house to pick up my kids from school — right back on the 101 Freeway south through Hollywood, driving a mind-numbing 8 mph. I had been crying and upset, thinking that by the time I arrived at school, I would try to pull it together for the sake of the kids.
At the Sunset Boulevard exit, I absently looked at the car to my left. The driver was smiling at me. I smiled back and kept driving. A few moments later, when I looked in my rear-view mirror, I realized that the man in the car was trying to catch up, weaving through traffic to get next to me. He was in a black muscle car — a Dodge Charger.
My heart started racing. Was he crazy? Would he pull a gun on me? As I watched him in my mirrors, I had a feeling that this guy wasn’t going to hurt me. Just before my exit at Silver Lake, he pulled up alongside me and rolled down his passenger-side window.
“You are so cute. Are you married?” he asked. I hadn’t heard that question in years. I was caught off guard but somehow managed to squeak out “No.” He asked if he could give me his number. I took it, messaged him a quick “hi” and then exited the freeway.
David instantly started texting me, and just like that, we were having a conversation.
At 47 and a native Angeleno, I had never been picked up on the freeway before. Over the coming days and weeks, I told this story to my friends, and they too said they had never been picked up on the freeway. How bizarre. After all, Angelenos spend years of our lives slogging through traffic on the 101, the 405, the 110 and the 5, and this never happens, right?
I was pulling into the parking lot of the girls’ school when it hit me. That was the sign from Tony. It jump-started my pulse. It made me optimistic about the future. A realization exploded in me like a bomb: Tony didn’t want me to be with him. He wanted me to stay here and live my life to the fullest.
David and I texted each other incessantly for days. He was 17 years younger than I was, and we lived very different lives. At one point, he told me that he was a physical therapist and that he gave the best massages. Wait. We were flirting over text? I had never done this before, not even with Tony.
David and I met for coffee a few days later. There were no uncomfortable pauses. The only discomfort I felt was that I was at Starbucks on a date with someone other than Tony. The whole date was an out-of-body experience, like I was watching us chat from above. When David told me that he had the same last name as Tony, my married name, that was it. I was positive Tony had sent this guy to me. At the end of the date, David and I kissed. My body became electrified, as if I were waking up from a long slumber.
Over the next few months, David and I had fun. He just might have saved my life. I helped him through difficult times as well. Though it didn’t work out romantically, we are still friends.
My other friends suggested I get on the apps and start dating — strike while the iron was hot. I had to learn how to swipe right. For a while, it was the typical story of flakes, ghosting, horrible dates and bad sex. But I kept at it, bolstered by the idea that Tony was guiding me.
Now I am in a long-term relationship with a man whom I love. We’ve been together for almost two years. I still miss my husband every day and continue to love him and cherish him. Now I understand that Tony would never want me to suffer. I am also capable of holding all kinds of love at the same time.
Tony sent me a sign: Life is inexplicable. You never know who is waiting for you at the next stoplight.
The author took up writing as a hobby after her husband died. She lives in Hollywood with one daughter (her other daughter is away at college) and her fox terrier. She’s on Instagram: @stacykass
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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