When the Rose Café closed, I felt as if someone had removed a landmark from the map of my romantic life. Not because I had fallen in love there, but because I had done something much stranger: I had taken my husband and his girlfriend there, then frequented the same cafe to meet men from dating apps.
The Rose Café sat on Rose Avenue near the Santa Monica border, close enough to my apartment that I could walk. For decades, it had been a funky hippie beach place, then it became chic and considerably more expensive. I continued going anyway. I liked the familiar walk, the casual energy and the feeling that I could relax there.
That walkability was why I lived near Main Street in the first place. My husband, Tony, and I spent five years in Florence, Italy, where walking was part of daily life. I could step outside for coffee, dinner or a quick errand. When we returned to Los Angeles, I dreaded becoming dependent on a car for everything. I told Tony I would live in Santa Monica only if we could be near Main Street.
From our apartment, I could reach five coffee shops, more nail salons than any person could reasonably need, clothing stores, restaurants and the beach. On Sundays, Tony and I had our choice of four bars showing football. We were Seattle Seahawks fans, and we could usually find a few other loyalists in blue and green to cheer with us.
That was our Santa Monica: walking, football, coffee, the beach and the life we had built after more than 40 years of marriage.
Then Alzheimer’s began changing Tony. The man who had been my husband, lover, sports companion and partner became increasingly a different and unappealing obligation. I became his interpreter, driver, scheduler, protector and caregiver. I still loved him, but our marriage was nothing like the marriage I had vowed to protect.
After it progressed to an unbearable point, we moved Tony into assisted living. I wanted him to have friends there to take the pressure off me.
I went there daily to help him socialize. I even organized outings for his table mates, calling them Seniors on the Run. We went to a museum each week and saw the latest films.
The first time I truly saw Tony and his new friend-turned-girlfriend as a couple was when I took them to a museum. They walked behind me, close together, absorbed in each other. To be quite honest, I had singled her out at the assisted living facility for her good looks and “normality.” Even though I was OK with a romance for him, it was still very odd witnessing my husband court and fall in love with another woman.
The situation was disorienting but a relief. She could give Tony uncomplicated affection and attention at a time when nearly every interaction between him and me had become tangled with ever-increasing confusion and fear.
I did not stop being his wife, but he was no longer my husband. I continued managing his care and protecting him, but I also did not want to take away something that brought him happiness.
His girlfriend had a home in Santa Monica and loved the Rose Café. So I took them there and was totally unnecessary, except when it came time to pay the bill. The three of us occupied a triad relationship most people don’t experience: a wife, husband and husband’s girlfriend.
There was no correct vocabulary for what we were doing. People understood marriage. They understood divorce and widowhood. They did not understand being devoted to a husband who was still alive while grieving the relationship Alzheimer’s had already taken.
Watching Tony find companionship forced me to confront my own loneliness. If I believed he deserved affection, did I believe the same about myself? Could I care for him without losing my own life? After decades of writing books and advising others about relationships, I entered the world of dating apps in my 70s.
The Rose Café became my preferred meeting place. It was public, familiar and within walking distance of home. One Sunday, I scheduled three app meetups there. I felt a bit awkward when I checked in with the same host for my second “date,” so I explained the situation to assure him that I was not a sex worker.
He was young enough to be far more accustomed to app dates than to the idea of a “working woman” loitering in a restaurant and putting on fresh lipstick for the next “John.”
He took it in stride. This was Los Angeles, after all. Everyone was waiting for someone, auditioning for something or trying on a new version of life.
Dating did not diminish my love for Tony. Tony’s girlfriend did not negate our long and beautiful marriage. The relationships existed beside each other, awkwardly but honestly. For a while, Tony and I were romantically alive, just not with each other.
Now Tony is gone, and the Rose Café is closed. I still live one block from Main Street. Most days, usually around sunset, I walk on the beach as therapy. The ocean gives me somewhere to place thoughts that feel too large for my apartment.
Living here also keeps pulling me outside. I go to an early happy hour, sit at the bar and talk to people. When I write, I sometimes take my computer with me so I will not become isolated. I have not met a man while walking down Main Street, although I remain open to the possibility.
Santa Monica once gave Tony and me a shared life we could reach on foot. Later, it gave his girlfriend and me the same cafe, each of us loving him in a different way. Now it gives me a reason to leave the apartment, walk toward the water and remain part of the world.
I once thought fidelity meant staying inside the life Tony and I had built together. Alzheimer’s taught me that love can also mean accepting when that life changes, protecting the happiness that remains and allowing yourself to keep walking.
The author has written several books including her latest, “How Not To Stay Single When … Your Husband Has Alzheimer’s and Two Girlfriends.” She also founded TheFlorentine.net, the English language magazine in Florence, Italy.
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