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I’m alone this holiday season. Alone as I listen to holiday music blaring on the radio in my car. Alone walking past the 20+ pound turkeys at the grocery store. Alone with Netflix and soup for dinner.
Alarmist headlines declare an epidemic of us lonesome single seniors. But those sad stories don’t describe me or the single women I know. We’ve stopped crying into our turkey stuffing. You can too, if you want to enjoy the freedom of enjoying the solo life.
Living alone is my choice. I have amazing adult children with full lives that sometimes include me and sometimes do not. I have over a dozen close male and female friends scattered around the country and the world. I’ve enjoyed more wild sex after 50 than in all the years before. There’s still time for a stooped Prince Charming to appear, but two failed marriages and three decades as an unfulfilled wife tell me that fairytales are for those under five — or at least under 50.
I’m no longer naïve enough to fall into the lifestyle of unappreciated sacrifice and caregiving that I see most married women struggling with today, despite the vast strides achieved by feminism.
Most people respond to my solo status with a blunt question: aren’t you afraid of dying alone — or even being alone?
The answer is complicated. We humans are a herd species. We crave companionship, touch, conversation and mutual care during the holidays and every day. We crave this when we are living and when we are dying.
However, the reality is that most older women will end our lives single, married or not. First, in heterosexual relationships, we are statistically likely to tend to our spouses until he dies in our arms, not vice versa. We are often quite healthier than our men, even if we are roughly the same age. Also, historically, men have not been raised to be caregivers in our country. Protectors, high earners, procreators. But nurturers, not so much. (It is true that younger couples are increasingly sharing domestic chores and childcare, a far different division of labor than their parents experienced.)
This does not mean we women of a certain age will die lonely. Because “alone” and “lonely” are two distinct states. Myriad people can and will rally around us through aging and illness. It is our friends who become increasingly important as we age, and who will likely care for us when death do we part. And if we’re lucky, our adult children will pitch in, too.
A minor health crisis recently amplified for me what riding solo really means. I dislocated my left index finger. How traumatic can one bent finger be? Especially compared to the founder of my yoga studio, who has cancer. Or my high school classmate in her late 50s who just died from a sudden heart attack. Or the many friends’ parents with Alzheimer’s.
I live in an urban neighborhood with dozens of hospitals, minute clinics and urgent care centers. I have health insurance. Fixing my finger should have been straightforward. However, confusion set in quickly. Should I still drive? Go to a pharmacy clinic? Urgent care? My fuzzy brain made thinking straight difficult.
So, I called the women I call my “kitchen cabinet.” First, my sister, a skateboarder experienced in dislocated appendages. My two besties, both college athletes and moms, know their way around the local emergency rooms. I texted my adult kids on our well-worn group chat. I’m not exaggerating when I say I couldn’t have gotten through the minor trauma of fixing a dislocated finger without each of these kind, wise humans.
My sister performed triage over the phone. One friend got me through my frustration when the first clinic refused to see me and researched local urgent care options that were open late on Saturdays and had imaging machines.
I’m grateful that I got excellent medical service. The X-ray technician was a kind and competent older woman. The physician’s assistant was a caring young man who explained how he was going to reset the joint. He numbed my nerves after I described my low pain threshold, told me to look away, and slid the joint back with three fierce grunts. We laughed together about how loud the “pop” sounded and how blessedly straight my finger suddenly looked.
It felt shockingly good — delicious, emotionally — to be so well cared for by strangers. It was equally validating to receive emotional support from my long-curated village of friends. These battle-tested comrades, along with medical professionals, are the folks who will look after me as I age. I don’t know many romantic partners — and I think you are very fortunate if you do — who could stand in for that cabal of true-blue friends.
Perhaps surprisingly to outsiders, not once did I crave a life partner by my side as I stumbled home at 10 p.m. with my finger in a splint. I have come to not need, or expect, a constant companion next to my hospice bed or any other of my beds.
What I do need — what we all need — is to know we are cared about. Not always cared for, but cared about. We need people who will support us when faced with little challenges like a damaged finger and be there for us in our dying days. People who will be bereft when we are gone for good. Find those people and surround yourself with them. That’s love we can truly count on.
Do you live alone? Do you feel lonely? Let us know in the comments below.
Melanie Lambrick
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
