ELEVEN DAYS later, home in Canada, I’m driving home from the dog park and come across a dead squirrel in the middle of the road. I stop the car, get out and am bending over to pick up its little body to put in a plastic bag, when the police helicopter flies overhead.

I place the squirrel in the garbage can in my back alley then head inside the house. The phone rings. Another young police officer in our city has died in the line of duty—the eleventh one in the history of our city—this one in a training incident. I sit down in my big blue chair and cry.

But this is not about me. I will not go off the deep end again. Yet, for the next few days, my phone rings relentlessly. The parallels to Sam’s death are uncanny: the same time of year, the result of an unbelievable sequence of events, a childless widow the same age as me left behind. The media interview me. How do I feel? What do I think? How is it similar to losing Sam? What advice can I offer the new widow? How have I coped over the past year?

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” I scream at Tom over the phone, after two days pass with no word from him.

Silence.

“What’s your problem?” I ask.

“I didn’t call you,” he says, “because I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“I thought we were friends,” I snap and hang up the phone.

The next morning, he asks me for coffee at our usual place.

“You were very upset yesterday,” he begins.

“Yeah, well…”

He leans across the table. “Adri, I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to understand that nothing is ever going to happen between us.”

“But I feel something between us.”

“You feel what you want to feel,” he says, “not what’s really there.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Maybe because you’re not ready to.”

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. Then he points to the necklace I bought in New York. “I’m surprised to see you wearing a cross.”

“It’s not a cross. It’s a dragonfly.”

Tom squints. “Oh. So it is.”

I am about to stand up when he says, “By the way, I was thinking about your number eleven.”

“And?”

“And that is a good number to represent the concept of soul mates.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Because,” he continues, “what is the number eleven but two ones, side by side… and one plus one equals two. I bet the key to a healthy relationship is that both individuals need to be happy on their own first.”

I smile. Message received.

IN THE afternoon, the police chief phones me, figuring I might have some sort of sage advice for the new widow.

What am I supposed to tell her? The truth?

Dear Widow,

Hello and welcome to hell. I’ve just finished my one-year contract and now it’s your turn to give it a go. Regardless of the path you choose, you’ve just entered what will undoubtedly be the shittiest journey of your life. But for what it’s worth, here are a few pointers on how not to grieve:

Don’t underestimate the immense power of love and its unexplainable mysteries. Yet do not lie to yourself about the fact of death, choosing instead to become consumed by the psychological reaction to it—what we call grief. Do not deny yourself the experience of feeling the pain. Don’t pretend you’re OK, when it feels as if your heart has been ripped from your body but you’re not lucky enough to die along with it.

Don’t be angry with the idiots who whisper in your ear to “be strong” and not worry because “you’re young.” Or that it’s a good thing you didn’t have children together—or that your loss couldn’t possibly be as bad as losing a child. And try not to dwell on the fact that you’re thirty-three and might not get the chance to have a child now.

Don’t take it too personally when those around you move forward with their own lives while you’re left sitting at home, staring at the walls, kissing photos of your dead husband and wondering what the hell just happened. And do not fool yourself into thinking that it’s your job, and your job only, to ensure your husband’s memory is honoured.

Do not twist a religious belief to fit your desires. If and when the suicidal thoughts come, do not give in to the self-pity monster. Be careful about fantasizing about another guy because doing so makes you temporarily feel better about the great one you’ve just lost. Yet if a new relationship feels right with all your heart, don’t let guilt stop you from being happy again.

And don’t let anyone tell you how long it will take for you to heal—but be aware that time is passing, whether you’re healing or not. Don’t search for meaning in every greeting card and graffiti message. Don’t look to external belief systems to give you the answers—because the only truth that matters is within you and the relationship you shared with your husband.

Love from a former widow

P.S. Don’t eat too many cookies.

P.P.S. When you’re ready, you can legally remarry and still receive compensation.

P.P.P.S. The national memorial service for fallen officers, which you’ll be attending next year in Ottawa, is about as much fun as poking a knitting needle in your eye.

Of course, I don’t give her the letter. When I do meet her, I simply say, “I’m sorry,” then shut up and listen. For I know the only right way to grieve will be her way.

On the day of her husband’s funeral, there’s an unexpected October snowstorm to complete the parallels to Sam’s funeral. When Louie B. Armstrong’s “It’s a Wonderful World” is played during the service, I can’t stop crying, thinking it’s not one whatsoever.

In the procession afterward, I walk along in my brown swing coat—worn again at a police funeral instead of lunch with a New York publisher—past the hundreds of saluting emergency services personnel from across North America. When I hear the familiar chopping sound, I look up and watch the police helicopter doing the fly-over.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Hey.”

I turn to see Mark beside me.

Nodding toward the helicopter, I say, “Sometimes I wonder if the big guy’s up there, watching us.”

“And if he is, what would he be saying?”

“Are you learning anything down there?” is my reply.

The sun’s coming out again, so I put on my Jackie O sunglasses. “We’ve got so much work ahead of us,” I add. “With the workplace safety stuff, I mean.”

“It’ll get done,” Charlie says, joining me on the other side.

The three of us break away from the dwindling procession to take a shortcut back to the church, where there will inevitably be an array of baked goods at the reception. As we walk through the parking lot, Mark asks me how my book is coming.

“It’s in pretty rough shape,” I reply. “I reckon it’ll be awhile yet.”

He smiles. Funny…I’ve never noticed before how nice his teeth are.

“I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait,” he says, opening the church door for me.

Plan M.