I recall not too many years ago reading an article or an obituary about someone who was born in the eighteen-eighties or -nineties. That doesn’t happen anymore. Now there simply isn’t anyone living who was born before 1900. No one.
It seems a trivial thing to notice. But it’s there: a reminder that I’m not getting old; I am old. Like everyone else on the planet, I’m dying. We all begin dying on the day we’re born; only a few know when it will happen. How we do our dying, though, is something over which we have some measure of control. We can do it with resignation, or we can choose to take another path. On most days, I choose the latter.
I wish we didn’t mark times of our lives with wars and disasters, but there it is. It wasn’t unusual for me, when I was younger, to meet someone who had served in World War I. I read contemporary accounts of living Civil War and Spanish-American War veterans or others from those times. Although I don’t remember Pearl Harbor—and I should; I was five years old—I definitely remember VE and VJ Days celebrations.
I heard first-hand accounts of the decade-long Great Depression. Nowadays protesters against the Vietnam War and the veterans who fought there are growing old; even the spelling of the country’s name has changed.
I’m aware every day that I’m among the fortunate people as old as I who don’t have to live alone. I say “have to” realizing that many prefer being alone. I do not. I live with my son’s family. There are days, however, when I would rather not see people and remain in my room with the door closed. But I know, whether the door is open or closed, that I’m not completely alone; there is somebody just on the other side. It is my choice whether to step outside for a few words, a sit-down meal, or a conversation. My choice, my good fortune. I am well aware, of course, that I live with my family; they don’t live with me. Nonetheless, I am part of them, and they are part of me. We are individuals and respect each other’s lives and limits.
I see lots of people, as many as I choose to see. Every Sunday evening, I share dinner and play a rambunctious card game with folks I’ve known for decades. I have coffee on Fridays with a small group of men, all of whom have wives at home. Once a month I have breakfast or dinner or play poker with other groups. I “go out” to be with others for coffee or a meal and conversation. I join a discussion group on Mondays, write to friends and relatives, and occasionally have long telephone conversations. If I didn’t do these things, I’d go nuts.
I’m done with sitting on boards and committees. From time to time, I talk with my brother in Kansas City; he and I are the only ones still living from a family of four kids. I make great use of the internet and Zoom with others. I talk. I listen. I read. I learn.
Probably that last one is the most important and beneficial to me. I believe that once you stop learning, you might as well pack it in. Up until a decade or so ago, I can’t recall a year in which I wasn’t going to school, taking a class, or teaching classes. I just finished my sixth six-week writing class sponsored by Northlight Theatre, a local professional theater company. These days I do most of those things online.
Am I lonely? No, I don’t think so. Not really. But I am assuredly alone. My wife Ann and I were married just three months shy of half a century when she died nine years ago. The depression following her death was intense and hollowing, but I discussed it with no one because I was taught that one did not speak of such things. I no longer believe that.
The aloneness that I feel occurs most often when I return home after being with friends or at an event. In years past, I might have reviewed my conversations or impressions with my wife, whether or not she had been with me, and wondered how a situation might have changed if I or someone else had said or done something differently. I don’t have that option now, and there’s a kind of emptiness about that, a sense of incompletion. Recognizing and dealing with being alone has not been easy, but I believe I’ve reached an accord within myself. It’s trite to say it is what it is . . . but . . . it is what it is.
Leave a Reply