Doctor’s Waiting Room, Manhattan, Upper East Side, March 21, 2002. I sit, embroidery in hand, stitching away the interminable, manically neurotic monologue of the mother beside me – a woman so frightened of her daughter’s simple, routine, virtually no-risk procedure that it requires the careful, exhaustive coaxing of the very busy, very kind gastro-enterologist before she will agree to it. Laboring under the nagging premonition that my husband’s colonoscopy will prove to be anything but routine, I am nonetheless calm, in my safe place where, as long as my hands are busy, I can find peace. Does anyone know that these stitches, these thoughts, hold the last innocence, the last moments of the space in time when I do not yet know my husband will die?

It is our son’s 12th birthday. A school day. The bowling party is in three days. “Gotta remember the Krispy Kremes,” I think.

The crazy lady is still mid-monologue, and I hear my name. It’s the same busy, kind GNT. He calls me Mrs. Moore, and asks me to sit down. It’s post-procedure, he says – my husband is recovering, but has given permission to tell me – what? If anybody has the tape, I’d be fascinated to know all of what he said. All I really remember is, “It looks like cancer.” Just like that. Not, “We need to run more tests.” Or, “It’s probably nothing, but we’d like to do a biopsy.” Or, “I don’t want to frighten you – it could be a lot of things.” Just … cancer. So clear there was no other possibility. No detour. No escape route. No chance. No hope. I go numb, and try to listen – we need surgery, we need a CAT scan, we need to know if it’s spread, we need a plan. When what we really need is re-wind – lots and lots of re-wind.

Other things I remember: A mutual pledge to “fight this.” Taking notes. Being home. Him stoic. Me frozen. His going to work. My rising hysteria.

But wait. I know people with cancer. People who’ve survived, who are leading full lives, who are in remission, who are cured. And my husband is young. And strong. And fit. And funny. And brilliant. Take a deep breath, tough girl. This will be hard, but you’re smart. You’re brave. You’re relentless. You’ll figure this out – it’s what you do.

But how? How do you start when you feel like someone just slipped you a Mickey, when you can’t understand English, when you don’t remember what was just said – even though you wrote it down?

Oh. Right. Friends. Help. Please. Now.

Understand here that our marriage had always thrived on a clear division of labor, not necessarily a traditional division, but a division nonetheless. He was the intellectual one who lived for ideas, for books, for running, for work – the modest, stunningly witty one, content to cede me the spotlight. I was the smart, practical one – the chatty, chronically social one who knew where everything was, who trouble shot logistics, who ran the show.

I started running. With a phone call to a doctor friend, who took the call, who didn’t put me on hold, who promised to find out what I needed to know. And did. And my chest began to de-constrict – a little. Then – seemingly within hours – it all got way, way more complicated. The phone just wasn’t working for me. There were too many people to call. And too much information to convey. And too much emotion to contain. I was burning out before I’d gone 24 hours. When I remembered.

E-mail. But was it appropriate? Was it fair? Was it right? Whether it was any of those things, I was desperate. I was drowning in questions, in information, in tears. But it was my job to run the show – and we were all counting on that. So while, with enormous courage, determination and good humor, the patient kept going, I knew it was up to me to mastermind the research, the bureaucracy, the communication. But again, email – in the face of tragedy? Frankly, I saw no other way out. So I took a huge leap of faith, and decided that, if I was careful and honest, I could get away with it. Within 48 hours of Diagnosis Day, I sent what became the first Update – which to me reads now as a bit earnest, a bit tentative, perhaps a bit teary. Quickly, a breezier, more irreverent style evolved – a direct reflection of our need to share whatever hope and optimism we could muster. Besides, our family style is funny – we are diehard fans of wit and addicted to laughter.

I know, I know – life is real, life is earnest – and cancer is more real, and more earnest. But, let cancer become life and, like a Potteresque Death Eater, it’ll suck the joy right out. So we laughed our way through – and I documented – a vacation house roof cave-in, a night in pediatric emergency (where my son re-cast all the doctors as ER actors), an April Fool’s Day surgery date, an unwelcome though well-intentioned visit to my husband’s atheistic bedside from Sister Eileen, an interminable drug lottery, a hospital roommate with no discernible psychological boundaries, my inept attempts at needle therapy – I could go on, but surely you get the drift. Given the choice between collective wrist slitting, voluntary commitment procedures or laughter, we chose laughter. And whether or not we shocked – even offended – some people, we only caved when we were forced to, and we (mostly) prevented ourselves from squandering the time we had.

The Update List grew like Topsy, and traveled the world. It started with dozens, and grew exponentially, as friends sent my missives to their own lists (even, with my enthusiastic permission, to people I didn’t know), as acquaintances found out and asked to be kept up-to-date, as kind medical professionals became interested in us and asked to follow our progress. Some people even began to hunger for plot – when my mother, having been away, sent only the latest Update to her own list, someone objected, “It’s not just the news – it’s the story.” Which is part of the reason the Updates kept me sane. People wanted to read them – they cared about us, they wanted to know, and they needed to believe that we still smiled. Funnily enough, my husband was the only one who seemed to have no interest in actually reading (much less writing) them, but he knew how important they were to me – and to the rest of our world – and I think he felt ultimately nurtured by them, certainly by the response they generated.

I began to feel, in an odd but ultimately therapeutic way, an obligation to keep in touch. I knew no one would criticize me if I didn’t, but I had started this thing, and it was serving me beautifully. I was keeping everybody up to date, and in the loop, efficiently, without endless repetitive conversations which I knew would wreck me emotionally. I used the Updates to make requests for information, and to ask for specific help. When I needed something (virtually anything) I was able to craft a request and simultaneously ask dozens of people at once. And, perhaps most important, my Updates genuinely made me feel better. I would think, “Time to write one,” often believing I had nothing remotely hopeful or humorous to offer. But a keyboard hour later, I’d have come up with something (there’s always material, if you really look – and it’s all about perspective, always), and I’d push back from the computer, rejuvenated for another round of cancer care.

Obviously, there were times I gave in to self-pity, and fear, and anger. When I really needed to vent, I did (I just tried to do it selectively, and rarely, which helped me keep my equilibrium – and my audience). In fact, as the ordeal wore on, I often wrote when I felt most in need of comfort; I knew my emails would trigger response, and always felt a renewed sense of support and love after I sent them. Of course, I also communicated privately with my closest intimates, but in writing my main Updates for a common denominator, I kept a perspective that might otherwise have been unavailable to me. And when the end came (make no mistake; I knew it was coming), I was even able to pre-write a large piece of the email containing the news. So that, in a way, I was able to continue a personal dialogue with each recipient, something that would have been impossible otherwise. And in the days and weeks that followed those final hours, my consistently bulging electronic inbox kept me grounded, kept me occupied, kept me connected.

I know there’s a lot of whining about email – it’s impersonal, it’s dangerous, it’s sloppy, it lives forever on your ex’s hard drive. I’ve heard it all, and I get it. But I’m not giving it up. Without it, I doubt my sanity would have survived. And I still thrive on its predictable, consistent solace. However, though I promised, in the aftermath, to keep in touch with everybody on the Update List – and will – I really thought the exchanges would grow less frantic, less perpetual, less important. And those particular exchanges did.

But apparently, email itself was not through with me.

Fast forward to two months after the memorial. My son and I are re-grouping, finding a new rhythm not dictated by treatment schedules, raised and dashed hopes, brutal medical choices, increasing frailty, inescapable wasting, hospice. We’re actually (and I say this with extreme caution) fine. We’re sad, and we’re probably a little fragile ourselves, but we’re life lovers (we learned from the best) and if the truth be really told, we’re even relieved – there’s no more pain, and reclaiming normal is starting to feel pretty good. Prolonged caretaking breeds hunger – for life, for health, for fun. And we’ve always been very big on fun.

In pursuit of that, I found myself one night at a dinner party with seven other women, ranging in age from 35 to 85—all of them single, and all of them whining (there’s really an astounding amount of that in the world) about meeting men – or more specifically, not meeting men. “Men,” I thought, thinking wistfully back to that glorious moment years ago when my then-boyfriend and I had celebrated the fact that we’d never have to date again. “Welcome back to the world.”

Posh Mid-Town Manhattan Apartment, Fall, 2004. The conversation:

A very stylish 50-something interior designer: “I haven’t seen a likely contender since my divorce. Romance sounds great, but clearly my grandchildren will be giving me the hugs from now on.”

A 40ish lawyer: “If those ‘Sex and the City’ girls and their Manolos were man-challenged, there is simply no hope.”

The 85-year old (interestingly, the most optimistic): “I’d try again. But where would I even start?”

Me (I may have been mired in tragedy, but I read – and I spend my life in front of a computer): “Online dating?”

EVERYONE ELSE: “No way. For losers only. Those guys are all 25. Too scary.” And the big finish, “What would we say?”

I was hearing, but I just wasn’t believing. I mean, admittedly online had literally saved my life, and maybe it’s not the answer for everything, but I couldn’t let this go. “Oh, come on – how hard could it be?” Silence. “I’ll help you.” Suspicious looks. “Anyone?” Change of subject.

So. I had no takers, but was already hooked on the whole idea. I may have been widowed for only a few months, but those years of total immersion in caretaking, following a very early terminal diagnosis, had created in me a sense of equally early acceptance along with the grief, and frankly, a hunger for romance. I loved the idea of playing online matchmaker, of setting my friends up with prose so scintillating, so evocative, so appealing, that I’d spend the next five years attending fabulous weddings at which I’d be the heroine of the hour (I’ve always had a rich fantasy life, and a penchant for the spotlight). And full disclosure: I realized I needed the hope myself – the hope that someday, somewhere there might be someone else for me. I remembered a friend’s story about demanding a psychic predict a new man and happiness weeks after she’d been widowed. “I get it,” I thought, “I get it.”

So, whether or not anyone was with me, and feeling somehow like a naughty child, I sat down in front of my computer, signed on, and began to peruse. And was appalled. Not at my friends’ perceived paucity of eligible potential partners – a lot of the people hinted at hidden fabulousness, despite their profiles (those 300 word “Who I Am and Who I Want to Date” essays which are supposed to make hearts beat faster at the prospect of connection). Most of them were, in a word, awful. Anemic, boring, cliché-ridden, generally inept in every conceivable way. I’m a writer, and a marketer, and my spin-meister impulses went into overdrive almost of their own volition. I had to try this.

But, despite oft-heard tales of match.com marriages and jdate successes, my single friends, one by one, all wimped out. Who was left? Oh. Right. Me. Feeling really scandalous by this time (how long before a widow doesn’t feel unfaithful? was I ready? who would judge me? what would my mother say?) I wrote a profile in my characteristically irreverent voice, located a good, clear photo on my computer, got out my credit card, and clicked “Publish.” And within days (actually hours), was flooded with emails and date offers from men who seemed viable at least, perhaps terrific. I had to get past a lot of hazy photos, a lot of “walks on the beach,” and a lot of truly terrible grammar, but the potential gems began to emerge. There was a doctor who sounded funnier than Conan. A teacher who looked sexier than Liam. A writer who could cook and dance. Heady stuff. I felt my own wounded, dormant heart start to beat in anticipation – I’ve always had a resilient streak, and I started to think, “Maybe I’m not done yet.”

But Oh God, dating? Email was one thing, but telephone calls from strange men after 16 years with a one-and-only? And actually meeting one, live and in person? Did I have anything interesting to say? Did I remember how to flirt? Would anybody seem attractive? If someone did, was I even capable of responding? Was I hopelessly out of touch? Had mores changed? Had men morphed into unrecognizability?

Then I realized – what was my choice? I could make peace with being alone (not an option), or I could get out there and test the proverbial waters. And yes, of course there are other ways to go (the fixup, the chance meeting, the classes, the benefits), but this was the way that had presented itself first. So (naturally) I dove in.

The stories are already metaphoric, iconic, funny, sad, hopeful, sweet, endless. There was the neo-natal surgeon (how can you not love a man who takes care of critically ill babies?) whose only conversational passion was geology. The big-time investment banker who made it clear that Friends With Benefits was the only way to fly. The artist who wanted to talk all night every night … period. The analyst who earnestly speculated that I must be looking for a carbon copy of my late husband, because he knew that otherwise I would definitely see him again. The environmentalist who was just … how can I delicately put this? … boring (actually, there was a lot of this – boring, not earth saving). There was also a lot of self-absorbed, a lot of humorless, a lot of entitled. And a lot of well-intentioned, a lot of bright, a lot of generous, which unfortunately – for me anyway – came without a lot of sparks.

Then there was The Smile Guy (a friend’s moniker to distinguish him from the masses – and it is a killer smile). Who was literate and friendly on email (check), easy and fun on the phone (double check), and delicious in person (the dating trifecta). Could this be my old pal Chemistry (I was starting to think he’d taken up permanent residence with my high school boyfriend in Minnesota – where I would not be caught dead)? Indeed – it became quickly apparent that this man had happy energy, real curiosity, a kind heart, passion for me like I only dimly remembered, and by the way, Analyst Guy, zero resemblance to my late husband. It was easy, unambivalent, and altogether dazzling. It was bliss. And almost as quickly as it began, it was over. Neither one of us could really tell you why, and it doesn’t really matter. Not for this story, anyway.