Do you sometimes lose yourself in a fictional character? I do.

I just finished reading the book All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. Wow, what a book. It takes place during World War II. I was hiding in the attic with Marie-Laure, blind, starving and jumping at every noise. Were the Germans about to burst into the house and kill me?

I was with Werner, a German soldier, half crazy with guilt and horror at the death and destruction he was helping to cause. I was at the bakery in Saint-Malo picking up loaves of bread with secret codes baked inside and in the grotto where Marie-Laurie stood in the cold water touching the mussels, anemones, and sea snails.

Each of the main characters had people around but was alone and isolated in some way. Marie-Laure was blind. Her Uncle Etienne, suffering PTSD from WWI, holed up in his room for days at a time, beset by hallucinations and horrible memories. Werner, an orphan, was younger and smaller than the other soldiers. Only his skill with radios saved him.

In reading this very long book, I may have been physically alone on my sofa, at my table, or outside in my patio, but I was with each of the characters. I did not feel alone.

I have always been a reader, and I have always taken on the lives and identities of the characters in the books I read. Weird kid that I was, if I was reading about a French person, I pretended I could speak French. If my character was a ballerina, I convinced myself I could dance. I was Nancy Drew, I was Rebecca, I was Scarlett O’Hara, I was Jo in Little Women.

No doubt I will become a character in the next book I read.

Likewise, when I’m writing my Beaver Creek novels about PD Soares and her friends, I totally identify with PD. When she weeps, so do I. Her friends Janey, Dakota, Donovan, and the others, are as real to me as my neighbor who just walked by with his dog—except that I can control what they say and do.

Likewise, I jump into the TV shows I watch, whether I’m Deborah Vance in Hacks, Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City, or David Burroughs in the violent series I Will Find You that I just watched on Netflix.

(Burroughs has been in prison for five years for killing his son when his ex-sister-in-law comes upon a photo that shows the boy five years older and very much alive.)

All of these fictional characters become our friends and our alter egos. We take on their companions as our own. We do not feel lonely as long as we are reading or watching, living with our made-up friends. That’s one of the reasons it’s hard to let go when we come to the end of the book or show. We want to stay with these characters. Without them, our own lives may seem empty. We have to face the silent house, the illness, the boredom, or the grief. So, we click on another show or open another book.

Or turn to social media. I’m in love with some of the people who post Facebook reels, even though I have never met them. Unlike real people, they are there for me all the time.

How many of us fall asleep with an open book or Kindle, an audiobook or the TV still on? I know I do. Sleep experts say we need to learn to fall asleep with no noise, no screens. But I get my best sleep in front of the TV. It’s company. It blocks out the noises in my mind. I can relax in that fictional world. Lots of people have the TV or other media on all the time, even if they aren’t really paying attention. It’s just too quiet without something going.

I don’t write with background noise. It’s too distracting. But as soon as I move on to chores or driving or relaxing, I embrace that distraction.

In an article titled, “Is Sleeping With the TV On Good or Bad? What the Science Actually Says,” clinical psychologist Sumi Raghavan, Ph.D., says sleep and anxiety are deeply connected. For a lot of people, the TV isn’t really about entertainment — it’s about avoiding the silence that lets anxious thoughts flood in. The background noise and flickering images act as a distraction from a racing mind.

I have been reading at bedtime since I was a child. Before I go to bed, I often drift off with the TV or radio on. Sometimes, I lie in the quiet and let my mind wander where it will. At other times, I feel as if I can’t relax without a little help from my fictional friends.

These days, when my body is still dealing with illness, whatever helps me to rest is good. If I spent most of Sunday with Marie-Laure and Werner, what does it hurt? If I doze off with The Big Bang Theory, is that so bad?

Let’s Talk

Do you spend hours reading or watching TV? How about listening to podcasts (I adore Terry Gross of Fresh Air)? Do these distractions make you feel less alone? Do they take you away from an uncomfortable reality? Or is it just fun? Do you find it easier to fall asleep with something going?

More to Read

“Mind-Melding With Our Favorite Fictional Characters” | Psychology Today

“Is Sleeping with Your TV On a Bad Idea?”

“Sleeping With TVs On Is Worse Than We Ever Knew”

“People Who Put the TV On Just for Background Noise but Don’t Really Watch Usually Have 11 Specific Personality Traits” | YourTango

PS. In 2023, Netflix debuted a mini-series based on All the Light We Cannot See. It’s good, but the book is much better.

PPS. While I was drafting this post after a rough night, I fell deep asleep on the sofa with my computer in my lap. If it sounds like I write these things in my sleep, maybe I do.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

As I drove from the Oregon coast toward Corvallis yesterday, taking my friend Pat to the airport shuttle for her trip back to California, I knew I probably wasn’t up to driving for almost three hours on the highway I last saw from the back of an ambulance.

As I drove east half blinded by the early morning sun, I couldn’t help reliving the fear and discomfort of that trip on my way to the cardiac unit three weeks earlier. It didn’t help that I had slept poorly and was dangerously sleepy.

But I was the one who, when timing and rides from other friends weren’t working out, said, “Never mind, I’ll drive you.”

It was too much. I was wiped out the rest of the day.

In fact, I shouldn’t have been playing hostess this month. I was not up to it yet. But did I say no?

I was also the one who insisted on picking up my own prescriptions at the Fred Meyer pharmacy this week. I could name at least six people who would have gladly done it for me, but no, there I was, huffing and puffing, wanting to tell the much older woman sitting on the only chair in the entryway to get up and let me sit down. I didn’t. Nor did I rest in the pharmacy waiting area. I didn’t have time. Pat needed me to pick her up at the car rental agency. Somebody else could have done that, too.

Why am I so danged independent? Am I the only one, or are you nodding your head because you do the same thing?

In a March 2026 article at Bolde, writer Danielle Sachs talks about how she usually does things on her own and doesn’t even think about asking for help. She discusses ways people who are comfortable handling life alone may differ from others.

She says we may feel we need to justify our place in the world by not being a burden or making waves, but we’re also proud of all the things we can do on our own.

That sounds about right to me. I’m not likely to ask for or want help with things I can do myself. I have trouble understanding people who are always asking for help.

For example, when my late husband Fred was alive and well, he would happily do the laundry, but whenever a sheet or tablecloth needed folding, he called for assistance. He needed to fold as a team, much like military people and Scouts fold the American flag, one fold at a time, gradually coming together in the middle. I have never felt the need to do that. I grab an end in each hand and fold. Are my linens perfectly folded? Rarely, but I don’t see the need for help. Even if the house was full of other people, I wouldn’t ask.

I grew up doing things on my own, not as a team. I don’t need another person to help me make a salad, fold the laundry, or wash the car. Others seem to operate differently. In fact, they seem to have fun doing things together. Me, I’m thinking get out of my way and let me do it. This attitude sometimes annoys people.

The other night, when I was making dinner for Pat, I got out the stepstool to access a crystal salad bowl I hadn’t used in ages. I’m still recuperating from my hospital stay and probably should not have been hanging off a stepstool holding a heavy bowl, but I did it anyway.

“Need any help?” Pat asked as I started cooking. “Nope,” I said. Another person might have said, “Sure, can you make the salad?” Not me.

What’s up with that?

After talking with therapists, Sachs compiled a list of characteristics we independent types seem to have in common.

1. We have to justify taking up space by not being a burden or requiring too much.

2. We see needing people as a form of weakness. The less needy we are, the more welcome we will be among other people.

3. Counting on ourselves is the most reliable option. We can’t depend on anyone but ourselves.

4. Being low maintenance is the safest version of ourselves.

5. We believe that connection comes more easily to other people. This makes me think of people who say they’re not good at math. If you believe you’re not good at relationships, it feels safer to be alone.

6. Handling things is something to feel proud of. Sachs writes, “People who study resilience and self-reliance have found that when someone spends years handling things alone, the handling itself becomes part of how they see themselves—and accepting help starts to feel less like relief and more like giving something up.”

7. Being alone offers a freedom most people don’t have.

8. We believe the version of ourselves we show should be self-contained. We do not want the world to see us as less than capable and together.

9. The quiet life we’ve built is genuinely enough. It’s different, but not second best.

These are fascinating to me. As someone who grew up depending on myself, I have to wonder where that came from? Were my parents just as self-sufficient? Did I learn to manage things on my own because I didn’t feel like I could ask for help? Did I get this way by spending so many years on my own? By having friends and partners who let me down? By being disappointed too many times? By being stubborn and proud, as I have heard from friends during my illness. Don’t be so stubborn; let us help you.

I don’t know. I probably need to take this up with a therapist. But there is a big part of me that feels I really can do most things alone. I certainly don’t need help folding my sheets or making dinner—except when illness forces me to sit down and let other people step in.

I am getting a smidge better at asking for help. I took Pat with me when I finally got to see a doctor on Wednesday for my post-hospital check. This doctor was new to me, but very thorough. The original problem, fluid around my heart, which led to pericarditis, an inflammation of the lining around the heart, seems to be easing, and I am slowly getting my energy back, but several items in my lab tests are concerning. My thyroid is way off, and I have become anemic. Time and new medications may help—or not. Stay tuned.

It was nice to not be sitting alone in the silent examining room waiting for the doctor. It also helps to have a witness to help make clear to the doctor what’s going on and to discuss later what the doctor said.

I have dubbed friends who accompany us to medical appointments “medi-buddies.” I think we all need them, even if we’re independent as hell. A live friend is much more comforting than another round of solitaire on the mobile phone as you wait alone surrounded by medical equipment in a room that is far too bright and too silent for the scary thoughts going through your mind.

(By the way, my Spider Solitaire winning streak is up to ninety days now.)

Don’t tell anyone I stood on a chair yesterday to hang a clock I decided needed to be in a different place. Would I ever call someone to do that for me? Not as long as my arms and legs work.

Let’s Talk

Do you tend to do things on your own even when you don’t have to? Is this by necessity or personality? Did you have to develop independence after losing a partner, or was it always your preference? How often do you think of asking for help? Or accepting help when it’s offered? How do you feel about Sach’s list of personality traits?

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

In the glow of fireworks over Yaquina Bay in Newport, Oregon, I looked around at my friends sitting with me in the marina parking lot and thought how much better it was than watching fireworks alone. I had my friend Pat, visiting me from California, and my longtime church choir amigos Tim and Teresa, who feel like family.

Things have changed over the years. We spent much of our time this year talking about medical problems and laughing about how old we’re getting. In past years, we gathered on July 3 outside Tim’s office in Waldport, the next city south, to watch the day-early fireworks there. He was still mobile then. Their kids were young. Pat’s husband and my husband were still alive. We ate s’mores and burgers, hot dogs, and potluck salads, chatted, hugged the fire pit trying to stay warm, and watched the show.

This Fourth, Tim had just come from visiting his mother in the hospital. In her eighties, she was admitted June 12, the same day I was shipped off to the hospital in Corvallis. She fell during the night and lay on the floor until afternoon when someone finally found her. Her physical injuries were not terrible, but her increasing dementia has worsened considerably. In clear moments, she told Tim, “I kept calling for help, and nobody came.” Isn’t that a huge fear for all of us? She’s moving to a memory care facility this week.

We’ve all got something weighing on us these days.

After Fred was gone, I grew weary of being alone in the Waldport group and watched the fireworks in Newport by myself. It’s a much bigger show and closer to home. I can hear the booms and whistles from my backyard but can’t see more than a few flashes through the trees. For a couple years, I parked at the post office or up a narrow road to watch from my car, but they changed the spot where they shot them off, so I finally had to join the crowd at the marina.

I’d park a mile down the road and walk around carrying my phone and a notebook, looking for a lawn, a bench, or a rock where I wasn’t elbow to elbow with big noisy families, choking on the smoke from their illegal fireworks. The wait for the show felt endless. It was usually cold, exacerbated by the wind blowing off the bay.

When the show finally started, I felt even more alone with no one to share my reactions. “Wow,” I might whisper to myself, trying to take a photo with my phone. Mostly I’d watch in somber silence, thinking about past holidays and people who have died, then trudge back to my car, alone in the midst of loud, sometimes drunk strangers.

I love fireworks, but watching them alone makes me sad. I should have tried harder in those years of heavy grieving to spend the evening with friends, but reaching out when you don’t have a built-in companion is hard; I’m still working on developing that skill.

I was especially grateful not to be alone this year when Tim survived a bout with cancer, and I have just gone through a medical crisis unlike anything I ever experienced before.

It scared the bejesus out of me. For the first time, I knew I could die, not twenty years in the future but now. I’m still dealing with the aftermath, surprised at how quickly I’m out of breath and need to rest. But I’m feeling stronger every day, and I can sing again. Thank God.

Pat comes to visit every July in memory of her husband’s passing. Tim and Teresa no longer have the space in Waldport to gather their friends, and their kids are grown, so now they join us in Newport. It wasn’t so much my doing as a combination of circumstances.

All four of us have had our scary moments. It was good to be together watching the colorful display. It felt nice when they beeped their car horn as I turned off the highway to go home. It felt like family.

You can do a lot of things alone, but some things are much more enjoyable with friends. Not just anyone. One year when Fred was working at a winery on the Fourth, I went with a couple from church to watch the display in San Jose. The fireworks and accompanying music were incredible, but Michael and Julie were too busy making out on the blanket beside me to watch. Good for them, but you can imagine how uncomfortable I felt.

Another time, I stood in a parking lot outside Marriott’s Great America in Santa Clara with my first husband’s parents to watch the show without paying for it. I don’t remember whether my husband was working or just being a butthead and refused to come, but that wasn’t comfortable either. Things had changed a lot since our honeymoon, when we watched the fireworks at the Calgary Stampede in Alberta, Canada. We were happy and crazy in love.

Fred and I had many wonderful Fourths, plus in our early years, we could watch fireworks every night during the county fair from our mobile home near the fairgrounds. We never imagined Alzheimer’s disease would take him away when he was younger than I am now.

Fast forward to sitting alone at the marina surrounded by strangers, feeling as alone as a person can be. Pitiful as it sounds, I’m still proud of myself for going. I could have stayed home, but I wanted to see the fireworks, so I sucked it up, threaded through the traffic, walked through the crowds like a ghost, and watched the show.

When I was a kid, we never went to a fireworks show. We caught glimpses from a baseball stadium in nearby Santa Clara, but most of our fireworks were the boxed kind. We kids waved sparklers while our fathers set off Roman candles and such in the street. All up and down Fenley Avenue, you could see flashes of red and gold light and hear the occasional whistle as sparks shot up into the sky. We felt closer to our neighbors than at any other time of the year.

Americans make a big deal of the Fourth of July, the day our forefathers declared our independence from England. If you believe the media, everyone is doing cookouts, attending concerts, and gathering at fireworks shows. I wonder how many people are actually sitting home alone doing nothing special.

I have gone to fireworks displays, parades, county fairs, and concerts alone. It can be uncomfortable, downright miserable sometimes, but should I miss the show just because I’m on my own? No. Instead of whining, “I don’t have anybody to go with,” I can either go alone, enjoying the freedom to do it however I choose, or I can find friends to go with. Even when it doesn’t feel like it, we do have choices.

It’s not easy, but it’s possible. Ask around. “Are you going to the ____? May I join you?” or “Would you like to go together?” Nearly always, people will say yes. And nearly always, if they find out you went alone, they will chide you for not joining them. You just have to ask.

Let’s Talk

If you’re in the U.S., how did your Fourth of July go? If you live elsewhere, are there big public events you hesitate to attend because you’re alone? Could you go with friends, so you don’t miss it? What’s stopping you?

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

In recent posts, I wrote about the need for people who live alone to create a team, to know who to call when you need help. I hadn’t yet done that when I suddenly fell ill with pericarditis (fluid around my heart) at the end of May. I had been so locked into my work and my tight schedule for so long it’s a miracle anyone showed up.

But as I reported before, they did. Music friends, writer friends, church friends, and neighbors have provided rides, food, help around the house, and company through my days of riding the couch with no energy to do anything.

How did this happen? When Fred and I moved to Oregon thirty years ago, we knew only the realtor who rented us our first house here on the coast. But we got busy. I joined a community choir and a church. I joined Willamette Writers and started attending the Nye Beach Writers Series and reading at their open mics. Fred volunteered at the Oregon Coast Aquarium and sang with the Coastal-aires barbershop chorus.

I wrote for the local newspaper, and Fred took a part-time job at a winery. We walked our dog Sadie around the neighborhood and said hello to people.

Gradually, our acquaintances expanded like the spokes of a wheel, from that original single person who rented us the red house across from the Nordic Motel to so many people that they filled the chapel at Bateman’s funeral home for Fred’s memorial service.

It was pretty amazing for two relatively shy people who just followed their interests and were open to making friends.

I have been singing in various choirs and bands for most of my life. Anyone who has performed in an ensemble of any sort knows how that can turn into a family. You’re together so much you know each other better than your biological family. It becomes natural to care about and help each other.

It’s not just music. Anything you do with other people on a regular basis can lead to lasting connections and help when you need it. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.

The 60+ women’s group I wrote about a couple years back is still going, and its members seem very happy. It wasn’t a good fit for me because I was older than most of them, single and childless, and still working. I wasn’t interested in playing games or going to brunch during my writing time. I had no Grandma stories to share. And that’s okay. Sometimes it doesn’t catch on. But sometimes you make the kind of friends who will show up when you need help.

One of those friends is my “Sis” Pat, who arrived Wednesday night for a visit and some time taking care of each other. We met years ago at church choir practice, but things really cemented when we ran into each other outside our therapist’s office. We were seeing the same guy for similar problems. We drove the same kind of car, were both left-handed and had husbands who sang with the local barbershop chorus. We had so much in common it was ridiculous. We started going out to lunch after church, and the friendship blossomed.

Since neither of us had sisters, we decided to play that role for each other. Pat was the one who came with me to the nursing home when my husband died. She’s still the first person I contact when anything happens. She’s also the one who tells me if she finds a typo in my posts. She’s more outgoing than I am, but most of the time it works.

I’m honestly not comfortable sharing my space, but it’s good that she’s here. I have been talking to myself waaaay too much lately as I stay home trying to build up my strength after my hospital adventure. She can join me at my next doctor’s appointment and help me figure out my insurance payments. Next week on the anniversary of her husband’s death, we can go to the beach where his ashes were released and share the memories.

Too many advice writers tell lonely people to “get out there.” Join something, get involved, and you’ll make friends. Well, it doesn’t always take. Like dating. You have to love what you’re doing enough to keep at it and connect enough with other people to want to be friends beyond that one activity. But it’s also true that if you don’t get out among people, you probably won’t make any new friends.

For many years before I joined a church choir, I went to various Catholic churches by myself and never spoke to anyone. Likewise, after my mother died, my father went to St. Martin of Tours church in San Jose for ages and only spoke to the one family that always sat in the same row and had small children who demanded his attention. He didn’t know or care about the many activities he could have joined.

In his later years, my father didn’t know his neighbors. The old-timers had died or moved away, and he didn’t get to know the new residents. He had outlived all of his friends. He was surrounded by people, yet he was alone. I know he could have used some company.

It takes guts to introduce yourself to a stranger. For years, I had to do it in my role as a journalist seeking information, quotes and photos. Pre-Internet, my only choices were by telephone or in person. It was hard for me. Those people would never be friends. To them I was just the press, never to be seen again once I had my story.

But when you sing next to someone every week, it’s a whole other story. And when you meet up outside Dr. D’s office and realize you have at least ten things in common, including handsome bearded husbands singing bass in the barbershop chorus, you might as well be friends.

I’m no genius at building community. I could do better. I could sacrifice some of my precious work time to spend more time with my friends. But my recent experience has proved that as alone as I might feel sometimes, I’m not completely on my own. And when people offer to help, I need to get more comfortable with saying, “Yes, thank you” instead of “No, I can manage by myself.”

Is nobody offering? Turn off the computer or whatever keeps you separate and get yourself out among people. Join something. Knock on a neighbor’s door. Invite someone to lunch. Easy? No, it isn’t, but don’t let that stop you. We can do a lot of things alone, but maybe the most important thing we can do alone is walk ourselves out the door and join the community around us.

Let’s Talk

We can and maybe should put together a formal team to help us in hard times, but I think the best team grows naturally out of friendship and shared passions. What do you think?

Update

I’m still moving slowly, sleeping poorly, and battling a touchy stomach. My primary care doc postponed three times, and now I’m seeing someone else next week. Meanwhile, after a month away, I played the piano this morning at the monthly healing Mass. I still don’t have enough air to sing, but it’s progress.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

If you had died yesterday, what would your loved ones find? That’s one of the questions Jane Duncan Rogers asks in her book Before I Go: The Essential Guide to Creating a Good End of Life Plan.

Indeed, what if I had never made it back from the hospital after my recent scare with fluid around my heart?

Oh, holy moly, my house is full of stuff that means a lot to me and is organized in ways that make sense to me, but other people will have no idea. Sitting here in my recliner, I see my yoga mat, guitar, piano, mandolin, tons of sheet music and music books, a piano covered with knickknacks, a china cabinet full of depression glass, my grandmother’s tea set, and other items that mean something to me but maybe not to anyone else. OMG, there’s my other grandmother’s wedding cake topper. Nobody else still alive is going to know about that. Will they care?

Let’s not even talk about my office or the piles of files in the laundry room cupboards. Will my survivors take everything at face value? Shred the paper? Keep, toss, or give the rest to charity? Hold an estate sale and see what happens?

Having been the cleaner-outer of my mother-in-law’s house and witness to the disposal of others’ worldly goods, I know the feeling: What the hell are we supposed to do with all this stuff? A plan would be helpful, if only Post-it notes that say what things are and where they should go.

On that subject, I enjoy a Substack called The Accidental Archeologist by Anne Marie Bell. She runs a business helping people clean out their homes after death or in preparation for downsizing. She is able to cut through the clutter and help her clients make good choices. Her stories are fascinating.

Rogers’ book details the things we need to sort out before a life-threatening crisis occurs. It’s a lot and not just the official things we all think about, like wills, powers of attorney and advanced directives.

If you can’t function, who knows how to get into your phone or your computer? How will your loved one know if you paid the mortgage? What have you ordered from Amazon that hasn’t arrived yet? How can you prevent Facebook from asking everyone to wish you a happy birthday years after you’re dead?

How will anyone know which bills I pay online and which ones I still write a check for? I know, I know, I need to go all digital, but I don’t want to.

If you’re thinking, OMG, I’m not ready, you’re not alone. Rogers makes some good points about why most people haven’t done anything to prepare. They don’t want to talk about it; they don’t want to think about it.

I get it. Having never stayed in a hospital since I had my tonsils out at three years old, I always knew it was possible but not that it could happen NOW. My vitals were always amazing, and I was unusually strong and flexible for my age. This pericarditis business sure surprised me.

I have been sick and incapacitated the entire month of June and spent five of those days in the hospital too sick to give a rip about anything. Suddenly all that prep stuff became relevant. You can’t do it after you get sick. All you can do then is pray for a little more time to get your act together.

Yes, we can just let things happen as they happen. Once we’re dead, we probably won’t care, but we’re still alive now, and it would be nice to have a say in what happens. It would also make things much easier for those who face what we leave behind, especially if we live alone and nobody knows what we’re up to.

Ask anyone who has had to pick up the pieces without a clue what their loved one wanted or how to get at the information they needed. A road map would be so appreciated.

One section of our Oregon advance directive form offers a chance to talk about what is important to you in terms of quality of life and in general. I drafted something, but it requires more thought. How do you sum up everything you care about in a few words?

Rogers offers a good list of questions to consider as you figure out what matters, whether you’re facing a serious illness or blessedly healthy.

Just a few:

• Do you have any goals for the future? If so, what are they?

• How satisfied are you with what you have achieved in your life, on a scale of 1-10, where 10 is completely satisfied?

• What, for you, makes life worth living? Name the top three things.

• What are you most afraid of?

Makes you think, right?

Meanwhile, I’m taking it one day at a time. In the wee hours of Monday morning, I packed my hospital go-bag. There are a few things I use every day that I’d need to add at the last minute, but the basics are there.

Did I need it then?

When I went to bed at 9 p.m., I thought I might. The pressure in my chest had increased. I felt feverish and generally awful. Come morning, I should go back to the ER, I thought.

I took forever to fall asleep, staring out the window at the still-light sky. I couldn’t get comfortable in bed. I moved to the couch. I played music on my phone. I mulled the episodes of “Designing Women” I’d watched on Tubi for lack of anything else. Lord, those sitcoms from the 80s were dumb. But I did love my big hair and skinny body back in those days.

Over the weekend, I watched a good movie, “The Tender Bar”; a horrible movie, “The Out-Laws,” and an episode of “Charlie’s Angels.”

Back in the 70s, I idolized “Charlie’s Angels.” The show was sexist and unbelievable, but those women were gorgeous. I mean, when Jaclyn Smith smiled or Farrah Fawcett flipped her long golden hair, OMG.

Anyway, I dozed a bit then woke up at 1:30 feeling better and decided I might as well do something useful. I mined my closet for a travel bag and supplies. Bag almost done, I returned to the couch and slept another hour before I was up again.

I’m in the process of tapering off one drug for restless legs syndrome and starting another. So far, the new pill is not working. Although the label warns it might cause drowsiness, it seems to be doing the opposite. The only way I could sleep was if someone shot me with a tranquilizer dart.

Up again. Lights on. I picked out a going-home outfit, jeans and a purple top.

Back to bed.

Still twitchy. Hungry.

Did I dare I risk stomach upheaval with a 2 a.m. snack?

I ate cottage cheese from the carton. I never eat in the middle of the night, but it tasted fabulous.

My legs were nuts, but my chest felt much better. I sat down at the piano and played through a book of Doo-Wop songs from the 1950s and 60s. We’re talking, “Get a Job,” “Chapel of Love,” “Harbor Lights,” “In the Still of the Night” and “Da Doo Ron Ron.”

After weeks of not having the energy to play, I suddenly found my groove and realized I was smiling. And I thought yes, I might live, and this is what makes me happy.

Because I live alone, nobody minded that I was rocking out at 3 a.m. If anyone heard me, I hope they smiled and said, “Good.”

Let’s Talk

What makes you happy?

Look around your home. Is there one thing you can do something today to make easier for someone else to manage if you’re not around?

In the end, we do what we can and let it go. It would be ideal to have everything organized and in place, but it’s a long-term project we might not finish. Plus, just when you think you have it all done, something might change. Try to be part of the minority who at least gave it a shot.

When it comes down to it, which is more important, to label your knick-knacks or to play Doo Wop in the middle of the night in your PJs?

Keep the comments coming. Welcome to our new subscribers. I’m so glad you’re here.

Thank you to Julia Hubbel, who featured my posts in her Substack, “Too Old for This Sh*t.” Julia, a solo Substacker, recently sold her home in Oregon and moved to Ecuador for a more affordable and less lonely life. Think about subscribing.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

I don’t want to be conscious. That was my first thought Thursday morning. Conscious means awareness of lingering pain along my collarbone, continuous diarrhea, and umpteen pills to take. It means trying to fill the long days with something useful when I don’t really want to do anything.

It means the only things I’m looking forward to are my next doctor’s appointment and my next echocardiogram. In future months, I have speaking engagements, books coming out, and workshops to teach, but now I’m just trying to make it through the day.

In previous posts, I wrote about preparing for a medical emergency. [“Who Will Speak for You in a Medical Crisis?” and “The Ambulance is Coming; What Do You Need?”]. I’m slowly working through my emergency prep for next time. I have my hospital list but haven’t packed a bag yet. I have decided who I’m going to ask to be my medical representative if my brother can’t do it, but I still need to finish the form. It’s slow going.

All I can say is get it all done before you get sick. Several of you have told us in the comments that you have all your paperwork in order. Bravo. The rest of us need to stop putting it off.

I had no formal arrangements with people to take care of me when I got home from the hospital, but my community has stepped up. It is wonderful, and it drives me nuts because I like to do things for myself.

Luckily, I can still do a lot. I rest often, but I am not bedridden. I do a little more every day. Yesterday, I took myself for a short ride, and I played my guitar. I can’t sing yet. I can’t get enough air, but I’m making progress.

People are good.

• Karen brought me Communion, a walker, green juice, and broth.

• Paula spotted me in the shower, did my laundry, washed my dishes, and vacuumed my carpets. She calls often to check on me.

• Linda has called several times to chat and share her experiences with similar ailments.

• Neighbor Kathy has been over multiple times and brought me a huge piece of coconut cake from her birthday party.

• Georgia, whom I had not seen in years, came for a visit and we made each other laugh, like old times.

• Several others keep offering to pick up whatever I might need in town.

• Lots of people insist that I call them if I need anything. I’m taking names and numbers so I can do that. I hope I have the chance to repay them at some point (preferably without them getting sick).

Add to that Laura, who accompanied me in the ER, Robb who drove me home from the hospital, the Cafe Chill folks who dedicated their set to me, the St. Anthony’s parishioners who have been praying for me, another Linda who called and sent a card, and the many online friends who have been worrying and praying. I do have people, and I am grateful.

Look around. You may not be as alone as you think.

It’s still awfully quiet in this house sometimes, and I’m questioning a life that is all work and no people.

This week, I ordered my groceries online and had them delivered. That worked beautifully. The guy even brought the bags into my kitchen, so I didn’t have to carry them. People keep offering food, but the truth is my appetite is low and my ability to digest is dodgy, so I have more than enough to eat.

I am able to shower and bathe again. I am able to cook for myself. I have turned in all the materials for a poetry chapbook coming out later this year and am working with the cover designer for the novel that is supposed to be out next month.

I don’t want to die without my finished books getting out into the world. How terrible it would be after all that work if no one even knew they existed. This is not the kind of thing everyone worries about, but it’s important to me.

I cannot commit to anything away from home except upcoming medical appointments. I live in fear of having to go back to the hospital. The sudden reality that I could die is so frightening I just want to sleep and watch endless reruns of “The Big Bang Theory.”

My primary care doc has postponed our appointment twice. She was injured last week, took all of this week off, and now she needs a few more days. Yes, but I feel like crap and I was in the hospital and . . . the receptionist just wanted to book the appointment. She couldn’t do anything about the rest. So now it’s on July 2.

My next echocardiogram, which will really tell the tale, isn’t until July 16. But I can tell by how I feel that I still have some fluid around my heart and lungs. Not as much, but enough to make me nervous.

What can I say about being alone with this? I’m back to deciding what to do by myself. Trying to figure out what’s to be expected and what requires a trip to the ER. PTSD sets in when I think about going back to the hospital. So, I curl up in my blanket and try not to think.

But I still treasure my privacy. Honestly, when it’s “coming out both ends,” it’s better to be alone. Much less embarrassing.

My recent posts were filled with information and advice. I’m sorry I don’t have the energy to do that again today. Maybe next week. Meanwhile, I wanted to bring you up to date.

Thank you for all of your sweet comments, and welcome to the new subscribers. Can I do it alone? Together, we’ll figure it out.

My memoir No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s came out two years ago this week. It tells the story of my life with my husband before and after his dementia diagnosis. Like this bout with pericarditis, we never saw it coming.

If you’re sick or injured and unable to speak for yourself, who will speak for you? Who will reinforce your desire to have every possible medical intervention or to be allowed to die without CPR, ventilator, or feeding tube?

Who do you trust with your life?

Whose names do you write on your living will/advanced directive/or whatever they call the form where you live? In some places, there are two separate forms, one to designate a health care representative, the other to express your wishes, but they are both crucial in an emergency.

These are questions that people with families answer almost automatically. If you have a spouse or partner, their name goes first. You name your children or your siblings as alternates. Have it signed and witnessed, and you’re done.

But if you are on your own, you may sit with your pen poised above the blanks on the form, at a loss as to what to write. I know that’s why my own paperwork sat blank in my to-do pile while I was taken by ambulance to a hospital last week with acute pericarditis, fluid around my heart. It was painful and serious, and I prayed for more time to get things organized, including that blasted form.

Only 30 percent of Americans have filed an advance directive, according to the PEW Research Center. For those of us who live alone, one of the main reasons is we don’t know who to list.

In 2004, when my husband was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, we did all the paperwork. We wrote our wills, assigned power of attorney, and filled out our advance directives. But that was a long time ago, and some of the people we named to represent us are no longer able to do the job.

Let’s stop for a second to distinguish between power of attorney and health care representative/medical power of attorney. The former deals with your money; the latter deals with medical matters. It could be the same person, but it doesn’t have to be.

In my case, my brother knows he’s the guy in a medical crisis. I’m assuming he has listed his wife and grown children to represent him. But I need an alternate or two in case something happens to my brother. Who is healthy enough, knows me well enough, and is willing to take on what could become a heavy burden? I’m still mulling.

If you don’t appoint anyone, the hospital system goes through your family from closest to most distant relatives. But my friends know me better than cousins I see only at weddings and funerals. On the other hand, many of my closest friends are older than I am and might not be able to help when the time comes.

Maybe you are struggling with this, too.

You can hire someone, an attorney or professional advocate, to reinforce your wishes as stated in your advance directive. Will they know you as well as family or a friend? No, but they will also be impartial. If you say pull the plug, they will do it.

So how do you choose? I lifted the following from the American Bar Association website. I think it’s as good a guide as any.

When you decide to pick someone to speak for you in a medical crisis, in case you are not able to speak for yourself, there are several things to think about. This tool will help you decide who the best person is. The persons best suited to be your Health Care Agents or Proxies rate well on these qualifications...

1. Meets the legal criteria in your state to act as agent or proxy. (generally over 18 and competent, with no conflict of interest such as a medical provider who will profit by keeping you alive)

2. Will listen to and respect your values, goals, and wishes.

3. Will be willing to speak and act on your wishes and separate his/her own views from yours.

4. Lives close by or could travel to be at your side if needed.

5. Is someone you trust with your life.

6. Will likely be available long into the future.

7. Able to ask good questions and be a strong advocate in the face of an unresponsive doctor or institution.

8. Will be able to handle conflicting opinions between family members, friends, and medical personnel.

Wow, this is a tough job, isn’t it? It requires some difficult conversations. You can’t just name someone. They have to agree to do it. And they have to be able to, which means we need to think twice about appointing anyone who is old, in poor health, or likely to panic. There’s also the matter of hurt feelings if you bypass someone who thinks they should be your rep.

Ugh, no wonder I haven’t redone my form in 22 years (and the hospital doesn’t seem to have a copy on file) and why so many haven’t done it at all.

Beyond choosing your advocates, a major purpose of the form is to state your desires in a life-threatening health crisis. You are asked what you want done if you have a terminal condition, have an advanced progressive illness, or are permanently unconscious. In each case, if you are unlikely to return to the way you used to be, would you want to try every possible treatment, sustain life with artificial feeding and hydration, do nothing, or let your health care representative decide?

The Oregon form also has spaces where you can share your spiritual beliefs, life values, and where you would prefer to be, e.g. your home, a nursing home, an adult foster care home, etc.

This is one heavy form, sort of like those nightmares where you show up to take a final exam in a class you forgot to attend. But you can’t flunk this exam, and you can turn in an updated form if you change your mind about something. Also, if you are very ill but still able to speak for yourself, you can override the form.

Where do you get the forms? You can ask at your doctor’s office, clinic, or hospital. Many online sources offer the forms, including AARP, which provides specific forms for each state in the U.S.

Here at “Can I Do It Alone,” we are in the process of Figuring it All Out. I have not yet packed a hospital go-bag, as described in my last post, but I do have my list ready and will work on the bag this week. I vow to finish my Advance Directive for Health Care form by the time I see my doctor on June 29. Will you set a deadline and do the deed, too?

Let’s Talk

Do you have a completed advanced directive listing your wishes and giving someone Medical Power of Attorney? Why or why not? Who can you trust to be your voice in a medical crisis? Do you know what you would want done if you were gravely ill and unlikely to recover? If you don’t live in the United States, do you have something similar where you live?

What questions have I left unanswered?

Let’s Read

One of our readers, Jane Duncan Rogers, has published a very helpful book, Before I Go: The Essential Guide to Creating a Good End of Life Plan

How To Be A Good Health Care Proxy | Everplans

Choosing a Health Care Agent, Surrogate or Proxy - CaringInfo

Your Guide to Choosing a Health Care Proxy

Who Makes Decisions for Incapacitated Patients Who Have No Surrogate or Advance Directive? | Journal of Ethics | American Medical Association

What If There is No One I Trust With A Health Care Proxy? - O’Connell Law Group

Healthcare Representatives | Final Exit Network

Julia Hubbel talked about my situation and the need for preparedness in her “Too Old for This Sh*t” Substack last week. Read her wonderful post here and subscribe to follow her adventures as she starts a new solo life in Ecuador.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

Dear readers. I think I might live a bit longer if I’m very careful and God allows me to stick around. After my sudden bout of acute pericarditis, an inflammation caused by fluid around the heart, I’m home and starting to feel a little more energetic, although the meds are still giving my stomach fits.

I still need to ask a friend to walk to the mailbox for me, and I will probably not be doing much of anything this weekend. Brushing my teeth, taking 14 pills a day, and trying to digest a little food are enough at this point.

I kept trying to tell the doctors sticking their stethoscopes down my shirt that I was an independent, active, exercising, right-eating woman who never had anything like this happen before. They were like yeah, sure. Everything has suddenly changed, and I need to relax into it. This is a whole new deal.

It is especially challenging doing it alone. In the hospital, I watched the other patients surrounded by parents, spouses, children, and grandchildren who were ready and willing to take care of everything. Me, I was working my phone, organizing help from friends.

I never expected to be alone in a hospital sixty miles from home with my clothes and purse in a plastic bag. I don’t think anyone in our unit just outside Intensive Care planned their weekend to go that way.

It helps to be ready, so let’s talk about what you might need to bring or have brought to you if, God forbid, it happens to you.

You can pack a go-bag and keep it ready or create a list you hang on the fridge, keep in your phone, or send to a friend as you roar toward the hospital.

Overall, think of it like leaving home for an unspecified number of days to stay in a very bad motel, the kind that does not provide soaps and shampoos and other goodies.

When I was going to the ER a week ago today, I stuffed my phone and hearing aid chargers and a couple of personal grooming things into a purse that eventually got wet because my water bottle leaked. A better bag would have been good, but I was fighting to breathe. Luggage was not a priority.

This is where friends come in handy. Once I could see straight, I was able to text instructions to neighbors Kathy and Robb, from where to find a key to the house to what to do once they got inside. Underwear here, pants there. Can you put the meat in the freezer and make sure the wonky icemaker on the fridge isn’t overflowing? Please water the plants, and take care of my mail.

You’re going to say you don’t have anyone like that? Yes, you do. Someone somewhere will do those things for you. You have to get them on your team, and you have to ask.

Don’t trust or enjoy having anyone see your stuff?

Would you rather go home in your sick clothes? Do you want your plants to die? Who’s going to feed your dog?

What if I were not conscious enough to reach out? This is where the hospital calls your emergency contact person and they go into action. Don’t have this set up? That’s a problem we need to fix. Today, let’s assume we can prepare a bit.

Knowing me, if I had set aside hospital supplies in a to-go bag, I would eventually have started taking them out to use in my regular life and the bag would have been half empty. But a list that you or someone else can follow is a big help, as several people have commented here on previous posts. People want to help, but they need instructions.

What goes on that list?

1. Clothing: This is not a movie. Hospital staff probably will not allow you to wear your fancy lingerie, although a robe and slippers would be handy. If you’re allowed to move around, sweatpants and a hoodie might offer some much-needed coverage and warmth. A lot depends on what you’re in for, but you will probably be wearing a hospital gown so they can get to your body parts in a hurry.

2. Except for the day you go home, you probably won’t need street clothes. In the eyes of hospital administrators and insurance companies, if you’re well enough to get dressed, you’re well enough to be discharged.

3. I would have loved a baseball cap or other small hat because my hair was beyond gross.

4. Jewelry? It’s a liability and you don’t need it. Ditto for makeup. But there are exceptions. The small blue stud earrings I wore throughout made me feel better about myself at a time when I knew I smelled awful because I hadn’t showered or washed my hair in over a week.

5. Toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, and mouthwash. Theirs are horrid. Bring moisturizer and/or lotion. Saline noise drops help if you tend to get bloody noses in dry places. Bring a brush or comb for your hair, ties or clips if it’s long.

6. Books, crossword puzzles, games. Any amusements you can use from bed that don’t take up much space will help pass the time if you’re up to it.

7. Chargers for your phone, hearing aids, and whatever devices you bring. There were plugs and USB charging ports built into my bed. Bring ear buds or headphones. Others don’t want to hear your noise.

8. Should you bring your iPad or laptop? You can. I missed mine a lot, but I worried about them getting damaged or stolen, and there was no place to put anything. Space was really tight. I used my phone for calls, texts, games, writing, reading, and TV shows.

9. Meds list. Bring a list of what you take, both prescription medications and over the counter products, including how much and when you really take them, especially if it’s not what is says on the label. Your friends and family, should you be blessed to have them, won’t have a clue what you’re taking, so print it out and keep it up to date.

   In the olden days, we bagged all the pill bottles and handed them over so the hospital folks would know exactly what people were taking, but that’s awkward, and no, you won’t be allowed to take your own pills when you’re there. The nurses will administer your regular prescriptions as needed.

10. Know your allergies and list those. Aso note whether you are lactose intolerant or can’t eat gluten.

11. Contact information for people you want to keep informed.

12. See if they’ll let you bring your own pillow. It would have made a huge difference for me. Theirs were like those hard little pods of dishwasher soap. Chances are home pillows or blankets would not pass their antigerm protocol, plus they might get lost with so many workers coming in and out, but it’s worth asking.

13. Some sources suggest bringing snacks. Half the time I wasn’t allowed to eat, due to pending procedures, and the other half I didn’t want to. A lot depends on why you’re there. A broken bone is different from a wonky heart or appendicitis.

14. Gum, mints, mouthwash. Bring something to get rid of the bad taste in your mouth.

15. Have a living will/advanced directive on file listing your desires regarding extreme measures if you are in danger of death. They will probably ask you your preferences anyway. It’s daunting when you are being checked in, stripped and gowned and hooked up to machines and they’re asking, hey if your heart stops, do you want CPR? I wore three bracelets at the hospital, white for ID, red for allergies, and purple for DNR because I said no. We will get into this in more detail next time.

16. I didn’t ask, but they were probably glad I did not bring my ukulele.

Let’s Talk

This was my first hospital stay as a grownup. I have been very fortunate to avoid it for 71 years. Those of you who have had multiple hospital experiences, including times when you were there having babies, probably have other ideas about what to put on the take-to-the-hospital list, whether it’s sudden and unexpected or planned well in advance. Please share in the comments.

Let’s Read

Hospital Stay Checklist - Navigating with Nurse Derrick

How Caregivers Can Prepare for a Surprise Hospital Stay

Top Essential Hospital Bag Checklist for a Positive Experience

What to Bring Someone in the Hospital: A Thoughtful Guide for Family and Caregivers

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In upcoming posts, we will talk about the living will, dealing with being alone while everyone else has people, figuring out who will help when you get out, etc. Meanwhile, THIS WEEK, this is our assignment: Pack your go-bag or make your list of what you would need if you suddenly had to go to the hospital. Put it and your medication list where you and others can find it in a hurry. Keep a copy in your phone.

Okay. Stay well, everyone. We can make this work.

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How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

Thanks for reading Can I Do It Alone? ! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

I have pericarditis, fluid around my heart, completely unexpected and completely debilitating. I came to this hospital sixty miles from home Friday night by ambulance from the local hospital.

When a caseworker talked to me yesterday about going home, my stomach freaked out and I got weepy. I can't go home like this. But I can't stay here forever.

I have had three different roommates, all with families who visited and were taking care of things. My friends have called and texted, but it's not the same. The hours drag on.

I have never felt so weak, so helpless, so smelly, or so alone. If I can't even pee without calling for help, what am I going to do?

It has officially hit the fan.

I really should have made a better plan, one that would work on its own when I couldn't help. I do have a lot of wonderful friends, but we have nothing organized.

I keep imagining walking ever so slowly into my house, sitting on my chair, and wondering if this is going to happen again.

The meds for the heart are wreaking havoc with my stomach. I feel too awful to deal.

Being sick or injured always sucks. Being alone complicates it a thousandfold.

Forgive my typos. I have only my phone to write on.

I love you guys.

I am so grateful to Laura, who took me to the Newport ER and sat with me all day, advocating for me. LG, you may have saved my life.

Thanks to Kathy and Robb, who buttoned up things at home and brought me clean clothes for when I'm discharged.

Thank you, Linda, for the hospital survival tips.

I have not stayed in a hospital overnight since I was three years old. I was hoping to keep it that way. Nope.

We have to figure it out together.

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Ya gotta eat. Haven’t all of our moms told us that?

But Mom isn’t here, and we’re on our own.

If we live alone, we are the sole hunters, gatherers, preparers and chefs. Some of us are better at it than others. That’s why nutritionist and health coach Carla Johnston has established Eating for One, a workshop to help singles eat better. She has heard too many people, mostly women, say they just eat a bowl of cereal for dinner.

She asks, “If a dear friend were joining you for lunch or dinner, would you serve cereal?”

Of course we wouldn’t. Don’t we deserve to be treated as someone special, too? Cooking for one is a challenge. How do you prepare enough without preparing too much? Where is the inspiration to cook when you’re the only one eating it?

In an article at On Purpose Woman Magazine, Johnston offers some good ideas for planning and preparing meals for one. She also offers suggestions for connecting with other singles by forming a group where the members take turns cooking and sharing the leftovers; hosting a cooking dinner where everyone works to prepare the meal and they all go home with leftovers; or sharing bulk shopping and meal prep with a friend.

These are great ideas, but what if you are sick or injured and don’t have the energy? What if you get caught unprepared like I did last week when my body went kaput?

Ideally, we have a team of family, friends or church mates who activate the “meal train” and make sure you don’t go hungry. I will be looking into forming my team in future posts. But what if we don’t have that yet? How do we get nutritious food?

Here are some options:

1. Don’t let your fridge and pantry go empty. Prepare! Here in tsunami country, we are always being urged to have at least two weeks’ worth of supplies on hand. I don’t. I won’t starve, but what I have is not very appealing. In my freezer last week: two pork chops, two loaves of bread, five bottles of Dead Guy Ale, and some questionable popsicles.

I’ll make my spinach soup, I thought. It takes onions, frozen spinach, milk, and one can each of Campbell’s cream of chicken and cream of potato soups. I got out the big pot, chopped the onion, turned on the burner, and . . . discovered I did not have the soups I was sure I had in my cupboard. I looked around. I was feverish and brain-fogged. Maybe I had already gotten them out. No. I didn’t have them at all. I turned off the burner and stored the chopped onions for later.

I cried a little then made a cheese sandwich.

My friend Cheryl, who eats an all-natural vegetarian diet, fills her freezer with homemade “TV dinners” ready to thaw and eat as needed. It takes some time and effort, but she always has something healthy to eat. I could do that, too.

Folks used to grow, can, pickle, and preserve fresh foods for winter so there was always something to eat. My dad grew up on a ranch, where most of his food came from the land. Considering all the reasons we might not get to the store, maybe it’s time to rethink that plan.

2. If you are caught unprepared and determined to handle it yourself, there are some options if you live anywhere near a city. One is preordering your food to pick up in the parking lot, ala COVID.

I ordered groceries from Fred Meyer, using the online app. In theory, I got everything I asked for. But:

• I have a five-pound bag of potatoes, enough to cover me for a year.

• I have a massive bag of salad, enough for a family of six.

• The ranch dressing does not taste good, and that’s why I never buy that brand.

• The jar of pasta sauce is tiny and will not go far.

• The chicken thighs are miniature, not the “southern” ones I usually get.

• The box of tea bags is half the size I usually buy.

• None of the things I thought of after I submitted my list are there because you can’t change your mind.

Ordering groceries online takes very careful ordering, paying attention to quantities and sizes. It rules out on-the-spot decisions–those artichokes look good, I think I’ll get one, or I think I’ll get fish instead of chicken, or oh yeah, I forgot I needed butter.

I was feeling pretty poorly when I put my order in. I was also a bit daunted by the app. But I avoided walking through the store with a cart and standing in line to check out. That’s not nothing.

Ironically, I was in the Fred Meyer parking lot trying to figure out how to let them know I was there when my friend Laura called. I had missed her earlier text offering to buy my groceries for me. Sigh. It was too late. I trusted an app. Would I trust my friend to pick out my food?

She who can’t do it herself has to give up some control.

I’m putting Laura on my team.

Preordering did not get the heavy bags from my car to my kitchen, and that’s something to consider. My father didn’t buy groceries on his own toward the end because of that car-to-kitchen transfer. He could lean on his shopping cart like a walker as he picked out his groceries. A worker would help him transfer the groceries from cart to car. But once he got home, what then? He devised methods with his walker and wheelchair, but it was a pain and he would go days with nothing to eat except Hungryman frozen meals which had all the wrong ingredients for a heart patient.

3. Delivery is an option. I’m not sure which companies will come all the way to where I live, but I plan to try it.

Instacart handles Fred Meyer’s deliveries as well as many others. There’s a service fee and, sometimes, a delivery fee. This could add up.

I looked up DoorDash, thinking they only offered McDonald’s and Taco Bell here, but they SEEM to also work with Yummy Bowl (Chinese), Momiji’s (Sushi), Taste of India, and several grocery stores. I need to try this, too. Uber Eats is an option in some places.

4. Prefab meals delivered to your home. If you’re like me, your social media is loaded with colorful photos of meals delivered by companies like Factor, Hungryroot, and Hello Fresh. They’re not only easy but claim to be healthy, offering low-carb, low-cholesterol, Mediterranean, or whatever type of meal you need. In most cases, you receive a “meal kit,” with all the ingredients ready to prepare. I don’t know how much prep this requires, whether one could do it while unwell.

They do offer less shopping and fewer dirty dishes, but all that plastic packaging bothers me. I wonder if I would really enjoy the meals. Would the cost be more than buying my own groceries? I believe they offer one meal a day. What about breakfast and lunch? I have more research to do.

Will we all be eating our meals from plastic packages sometime in the near future? Yikes.

Meals on Wheels is an option for seniors over 60 or disabled persons who qualify. From what I have seen, the food isn’t thrilling; it’s institutional. But it’s cheap, and somebody will bring it to your house, with the bonus that a human being is making sure you’re still alive. If you’re willing to pay full price, some of the qualifying hoops are eliminated. The meals average about $5 a day.

You can get Meals on Wheels short-term if you’re ill, recovering from surgery, etc.

Caregivers who are unable to go shopping can also get them.

Always a Challenge

Feeding yourself when you live alone is always a challenge. Produce goes bad before you can eat it–I found four moldy ears of corn at the bottom of my fridge the other day–so you can’t buy much in advance. Food tends to be packaged for families of four; it’s hard to get just enough for one. Frozen meals of the sort we used to call TV dinners are usually loaded with salt, cholesterol, and other unhealthy ingredients.

When you’re sick, it’s even harder to eat nutritious meals when you aren’t up to shopping or cooking. What if you can’t make a call or get up to answer the door? When that happens, we need other people, whether we want them or not.

Even if all we have is a cold, we’re not going to feel like cooking. If we’re determined to take care of ourselves, we need to fill our pantries and freezers with good food, scout out the delivery options, and be ready when it hits the fan.

Let’s Talk

I have barely scratched the surface here. I honestly don’t feel very well, and I still don’t have answers as to why. But let’s get the discussion rolling. Have you found yourself alone and short on food? Have you tried delivery services, prepared meal plans, or other options? How well did it work? What are the advantages and disadvantages? What do you do when you’re feeling lousy and need something to eat?

I have written quite a bit about cooking for one:

When You Eat Too Much or Too Little Alone

How Do We Cook Just Enough for One?

Avoiding the Ew in the Back of the Fridge

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

We have a problem. Judging by the record-breaking reaction to my last post about my day in the ER and its aftermath, an awful lot of people live in fear of serious illness or injury, not just for the obvious reasons (pain, disability, death) but because we don’t know how we’ll manage it alone.

First, thank you all for your caring and support. Thanks for sharing your stories. I really appreciate it. And welcome to the many new subscribers who have joined the discussion.

As soon as I know what’s wrong with me, I will let you know. I spent three more hours at the hospital today talking to my doctor and having tests, and I still don’t know, but she listened and cared, and that made me feel better.

It has been a long ten days. I’m still living with the pain and low fever that sent me to the ER. Everything on my calendar is canceled. One person brought Communion and cookies on Saturday. Otherwise, I have been alone. I’m a limp noodle camping on my sofa, alternating between screens and sleeping. It’s getting old.

A week and a half ago, I drafted a different post about why my hammertoe surgery did not happen. I had gotten a last-minute ride to the clinic in Lincoln City from my neighbor, Robb. I was on the table. I said I was nervous. I told the doc my toe wasn’t hurting anymore. I admitted I had hoped he would call in sick, not that I wanted him to be sick, but . . .

Do you still want to do it? He asked. Sigh. Yes.

Then he asked if I was okay with taking hydrocodone for pain afterward. Say what? No, I said. I’m allergic. It’s on my chart. Plus, I have to be able to work. I’m playing the piano at church tomorrow and Sunday.

Big pause. He looked concerned. He said, “I usually recommend you keep your foot up and do nothing but walk to the bathroom for the first five days. If you’re sitting at the piano with your leg down, it’s going to swell and hurt and–can you get anyone to sub for you?”

“They’re all out of town,” I said. As reality set in, I remembered I cancelled last time because I had to play for a wedding at church. And now—Is all this church music that important? Which is more important, my toe or making sure St. A. has a piano player?

I think we should cancel, the doc said.

Picture an avalanche falling with a great crash. I dragged Robb there. I had been planning for weeks how I would get by while not being able to walk as well as usual–not realizing I wouldn’t be walking at all AND I would be on strong pain medication. And alone.

The last time I took hydrocodone, I was barely conscious for two weeks. My mother took care of everything.

The nurse came in with the syringe for the numbing shot. “I think we’re canceling,” said the doc.

I felt like an idiot. But the next day, the day before the chest pain hit, I was overjoyed to have my life back. It was not all my fault. I didn’t know what I was getting into. As Robb said, it was a good “dress rehearsal.”

The whole toe thing was relatively minor. But I learned a few things we can apply to any medical situation for which we are able to plan ahead.

• Start asking for a ride early and keep at it. Don’t give up like I did. I was all set to drive myself when Robb volunteered.

• Communicate better. I told the doctor and his nurse multiple times that I live alone. It never seemed to register, and that’s on them. But I did not tell them about my weekend church gig and other plans on my schedule. When the doc said I could drive myself home, I assumed I was free to live my life as usual, except for limping around with a boot on my foot. He probably did not realize I lived an hour away. Communication may be humans’ biggest problem.

• Insist on knowing in advance exactly what it will be like afterward. Will you be able to go about your usual life, or do you need to cancel everything? Will you be able to drive? What kind of pain meds might you need? How might those meds clash with what you’re already taking? Can you shower or bathe? How long will it take to recover?

Armed with answers, you can recruit friends, set up meal deliveries, confer with your other doctors, gather some books and movies, and clear the calendar to do it right.

As for sudden, unexpected events, like whatever has got me living on the couch and wondering if I will ever feel better, we need to have a plan and a team in place. Not someday but now. My priority for the next few months will be to FIGURE IT OUT, all the way from who to call for help to what if I die. I don’t want to be sitting here in pain again thinking, I’m all alone. I’m not ready, and I don’t know what to do.

I don’t want to drive myself to and from the ER when I know I shouldn’t. I don’t want to be leaning on my kitchen sink wishing I had something decent to eat because I don’t have the strength to shop or cook. I don’t want to be lying on the couch wishing someone would bring me a glass of water. I need a plan. We all do.

If we live alone, it always comes down to this: We’re doing a highwire act without a net. Most of the people I encounter, particularly in the medical field, don’t understand that no one is waiting to catch us when we inevitably fall.

We need to get some needles and thread and start making our own damned net.

We have a lot to discuss. Upcoming posts will include: building a team, making sure we have something to eat, having someone to advocate for us, getting the paperwork in order, and more. Feel free to add to the list.

As it turned out, St. Anthony’s did have a Mass last week without music, and it was fine. I watched it online.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

I never expected this. Things went crazy enough on Friday when a friend drove me to Lincoln City for toe surgery that did not happen.

It seems the doctor failed to communicate that I’d need to spend the next five days with my foot elevated except for trips to the bathroom, and I failed to communicate that I planned to play the piano at church all weekend and had a busy schedule that week. Could anybody cover for me? Nope. Since my toe didn’t hurt anymore anyway, he recommended we not do it.

Ironically, I have spent the last five days on my sofa or a bed in the Newport ER anyway.

Sunday morning, I woke up with a big pain in my upper chest, centered around my collarbone and esophagus. I thought it was gas, BAD gas. I had eaten a meatball sandwich for lunch and too much shrimp with cilantro and rice for dinner. But it didn’t go away.

After many hours lying awake, I dragged myself to church to play the 10 o’clock Mass, sang the psalm from the altar while hoping not to faint, and scurried home. No Cafe Chill open mic. I needed to rest. Why didn’t I stay home and let others at church deal with having no music? How could I sing with this going on? I don’t know. I suffer from the fallacy of indispensability.

Sunday afternoon I developed a fever. Should I go to the hospital? Kathy, my neighbor and emergency contact, had a concert that afternoon. The ER is a zoo, especially on weekends. If I could just wait until Monday and see my primary care person . . .

Sunday night, I thought, “I need an advice nurse.” I Googled it and wound up talking to a “Dr. Li” in San Francisco. Dial-a-doc. Crazy, I know. But she sounded real and concerned. She recommended probiotics, ginger tea, and a hot pad. I wasn’t up to driving to a store for probiotics and ginger tea, but it was something. Dr. Li didn’t think I needed to go to the hospital. And no, she was not a bot.

Sunday night, I slept in my clothes on the sofa for ten hours straight, then woke up and called my doctor’s office. She had no openings until next week.

I put clean clothes on my dirty body and drove myself to the ER. Wait, what? Yes, I drove myself. I considered calling a neighbor, but I didn’t. My pain wasn’t bad enough to call an ambulance. We don’t have Uber rides around here.

I can hear y’all yelling at me and I haven’t even finished writing this yet, but I could drive. I had pain and a low fever, but I could handle the car, and I knew I would need a ride home when it was over.

I was imprisoned in a beige ER cubicle with a hard little bed for nine hours. Between tests and visits from nurses and nurse practitioners (no docs in this rural ER), I dozed and semi-meditated, startling every time a door slammed or a machine beeped.

I had nothing to eat during all that time and drank only the water from the bottle I carried in my purse. I knew I needed Tylenol for the fever, but no one offered. I needed a pillow and a blanket. No one offered until a nurse named Chris came to my rescue mid-afternoon.

EKG, X-ray, CT, blood and urine tests, strep test, “GI cocktail,” needles in both arms, and long periods of sitting there alone and scared. Suddenly I didn’t care about 99 percent of the stuff I cared about the day before. Was I going to die at 75 like my mother or maybe not even get to 75?

I thought about the many times I accompanied my parents or my husband to the ER. While they were in bed, I was busy making phone calls, getting whatever they needed, managing things at home, and keeping them company. I’d be the one going to the nurses’ station, saying, “Hey, we’ve been here for hours. What’s the holdup?” or “I think they’re getting worse. Can you send the doctor in?” or “Could she maybe get something to eat?”

As the unaccompanied patient, I had no one to do that stuff. I wouldn’t want to make anyone sit there the whole time with me, but boy, I could have used an advocate.

At the end of the day, the nurse practitioner in charge leaned wearily against the counter and told me a) I was not going to die, b) she still didn’t know what was going on, and c) she was being so thorough because she had had a previous patient with similar symptoms for whom things had gone very badly. I don’t remember now whether the patient died or had a burst aorta, but it wasn’t pretty.

The tests showed: bacteria in my urine, elevated white blood cells, and some fluid around my lungs and pericardium, but my heart was basically okay and most parts “unremarkable,” which is a good thing in medical terms.

Discharged at 6:10 p.m., I walked out into the sunshine on rubbery legs and drove myself home.

I have been alternating between screen time and sleeping ever since. I’m up to 57 days in my current Spider Solitaire winning streak. I finished the last episodes of “Hacks” on HBO. It’s one of the best shows I have ever seen. I’m caught up on NPR’s “Fresh Air” and episodes of CBS’s “Elsbeth” and halfway through the Josh Johnson comedy special, also on HBO.

I have discovered that daytime broadcast TV is even more awful than it used to be and not worth staying awake for, especially with all those commercials for drugs that sound more likely to kill you than cure you.

I have been daydreaming about owning a robot I could order around. Go get my pills. Bring me some water. Scramble me a couple of eggs. Turn off the light. Charge my phone. I could be rude to a robot without hurting its feelings.

It takes a huge effort to prepare food or get dressed. I can do it. But it took me an hour and a half this morning to convince myself to get up and go to the bathroom. Breakfast was marionberry pie eaten out of the pan. Last night after an omelet dinner, I craved something cold and sweet. I ate a lime popsicle that expired in January 2025. It tasted good.

There are so many lessons here that it’s going to take several posts.

I don’t know how many of you watched or even received the live video post I recorded on Tuesday. If I looked bad then, I look twice as bad now, so I will spare you photos of my face.

I lost enough dignity when the CT guy, one of the most attractive young men I have ever seen, had to fasten my hospital gown over my chubby old body when I just could not figure it out.

I have an appointment with my regular doc coming up and probably more tests. Has this been brewing for a while or did it happen suddenly? How much fun would this have been if I HAD had the toe surgery and was dealing with all that pain, too? God was looking out for me there.

In spite of all my blathering, I was NOT prepared for this. As I sat with my pain, I questioned my entire lifestyle. Can I live alone in this big house when any minute an illness or injury could render me unable to do ANYTHING? What if I couldn’t speak and nobody knew?

Clearly, I have work to do. The writing and music that occupy most of my time are important, but I need to get all my emergency systems in order. In view of the near-weekly funerals I have been playing for, I also need to do all the end-of-life stuff. Maybe I won’t live to 97 like my father. For sure, I won’t have kids to handle everything. Operation Figure It All Out is on.

I’m also considering gathering my church friends when I’m feeling better to make a mutual help-each-other plan, not just for those who are alone but also for those who are taking care of partners who cannot be left alone. Stay tuned.

Dear friends, if you get hurt or suddenly have a fierce and terrifying pain, are you prepared? If you can’t speak for yourself, who will? Who/what is your backup plan in an emergency?

When we’re well, freedom and independence are great. We can deal with leaky pipes, awkward holidays, and even loneliness. But what if it all turns upside down—and at some point, it will. THIS is the thing that determines whether or not we can live alone.

Together, we’re going to figure it out.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

It’s 1893. Among the many families, couples, and single men racing to claim homestead land in Oklahoma is an unmarried woman named Minnie Hoopes. She is determined to create a home completely alone in wild country miles from anyone she knows.

Minnie’s story is told in the book I’m currently reading, In the Great Quiet by Laura Vogt. I needed a distraction. I’m having surgery on my little toe today. I am feeling anxious, not just about the surgery but about how I will cope alone afterward.

It’s a tiny thing. A toe. The rest of me will be fine. Today across the world, people are having open heart surgery, cancer surgery, brain surgery even. These are life-threatening and cannot be undergone or survived alone. But it’s still freaking me out.

Up until 10:30 last night, I expected to drive myself an hour north to Lincoln City for the procedure. All of the likely friends were busy, but at the last minute, my neighbor stepped in. I know the timing is bad for him. Part of me wants to call and say, “That’s okay. I’ll handle it on my own.” But a wiser part is saying, Accept the help; his schedule is his to deal with. Thank you, Robb; you’re the best.

Meanwhile, back to Minnie. I’m okay alone within a community I can call for help if I need to. But Minnie’s shade of alone? I don’t think so. Day after day, night after night with no one to talk to, no one to help her, her only distraction a few tattered books she brought from home?

To claim her land, Minnie has to fight off men who dismiss her right as a woman to homestead alone. Even once the land is hers, it is a big empty space with no shelter and only wild plants and animals to eat. She has more practical skills than most women of her time, but how can she do all this alone, especially when her nearest neighbor, over a mile away, is a gunman she doesn’t trust?

I wouldn’t know where to start.

In the deep of winter, Minnie thinks she might be hearing the voices of her ancestors or of the indigenous people who occupied the land before. Is she losing her mind?

“Before the crackle of the woodfire, with the moan of an oncoming storm, I dragged a quilt atop my knees. I raised my fingers before me, considering my reddened, knobby knuckles. Just cold. Not frostbitten. I flung my head back and sighed, tales wandering inside my mind. Sakes alive, course I wasn’t infected with hysteria.”

She goes on: “I’d expected foreboding and terror during lonesome nights on the prairie. But even after the horrors I’d experienced, I felt ease. The shadowed, muted parts of myself felt at home in the wide dark.”

When I’m awake in the night, I can’t go five minutes without checking my cell phone. Imagine being out on the prairie alone, knowing nobody is coming to keep you company or to save you if you get hurt or fall ill or the wind destroys your patchwork cabin.

I’m only a third of the way through the book, but I’m enjoying it. I suspect romance is coming, along with plenty of trouble.

Into the Great Quiet is a fictionalized version of the author’s great-great-great grandmother’s story. It feels raw and real. Unlike the characters in most American frontier tales, Minnie becomes increasingly conscious of the harms the American settlers have inflicted on the indigenous people they forced off their native lands.

It’s far different from my solo life where I suffer alone in my house full of appliances and entertainment, my fenced yard with its deck and hot tub, a bustling beach town four miles away, and neighbors who, if I let them, will upend their schedules to help me.

I have been feeling a bit sorry for myself the last few days. Another friend died last Friday, the same day I played the piano at the funeral for my friend John. My body has been less than cooperative. I miss my husband. And there’s this toe surgery. But come on, I have all kinds of options Minne Hoopes never imagined having.

Could I do what she did? I don’t know. Could you? Say you had the opportunity to claim a piece of land in the wilderness where you would live by yourself. All you have is a couple of horses, some basic tools and supplies, some guns, and some old books. And winter is coming.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. My thanks to Laura Vogt for a great distraction from my tiny troubles.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

When my “nomo crones” (non-mothers) friend Donna Ward sent an email asking us to “like” the social media pages for Singlehood Australia, I had no idea what a deep rabbit hole I would be falling into.

Donna, author of the fabulous book She I Dare Not Name, which I wrote about here, is the CEO of Singlehood Australia, which fights for equal rights for unmarried people. She is also instigator of the International Singlehood Advocates Network.

From these sites, I found a link for Singles Equality in the U.S. and links to numerous other organizations. Holy cow. This is big.

I’ll be honest. Aside from the occasional lousy restaurant table, I have not felt discriminated against for being alone. I have felt the burn for not having children, and I feel discriminated against as a woman sometimes, but for being single, not really. Maybe there’s some cushioning in being a widow and being straight as opposed to never married and/or LGBTQ. Maybe it’s that I have enough money to live comfortably and have never tried to buy a home on my own. Maybe I’m just naive.

I squirm at the idea of claiming I’m being discriminated against in this country in 2026. There has always been and always will be a majority of people who think everyone should be married and have children. They will sometimes make us feel angry, hurt, or left out. But we don’t have to take on their unwitting rudeness—just like I don’t have to dwell on the words of the woman who dissed me last week for not having children. She has a huge family and probably can’t imagine being alone.

But I do see some issues.

1. Filing income tax returns as a couple in the U.S. has advantages. You get even more deductions if you have dependents (and you can’t count your cat.)

2. We pay more per person for utilities; it costs the same to heat or cool a home, no matter how many people live there.

3. When we travel, we may pay extra if we aren’t part of a couple.

4. When we’re ill or injured, hospital staff may refuse to speak to anyone who is not a blood relative, and they may suggest we can’t go home after a procedure if we don’t have family to help.

5. On the job, bosses may assume we’re free to work overtime and cover for co-workers with families.

6. Landlords may be reluctant to rent to singles, and banks may be wary of offering loans to one person.

Singles Equality has a “Singles Bill of Rights” on its website. They say, “U.S. government, commerce, and culture discriminate systemically against single people. This bias, also known as singlism, permeates laws, economics, healthcare, business, entertainment, and news media.”

They go on to list the rights we should have, noting that in the U.S. single people technically have all the rights listed. “The problem is those rights are not being exercised.”

Both the Australian and American sites declare that despite the large number of people who are single, our laws and culture seem to consider the traditional nuclear family, rather than the individual, as the basis of society.

That’s a lot to chew on. If you follow the links, you could be reading about this all day. If any of this resonates with you, read, comment, get involved. Fight for equal treatment in every aspect of our solo lives.

Let’s Talk

Each thing on the list could and probably should be a separate discussion, but let’s start with the basic question: As a solo person, do you feel discriminated against financially, socially, in health care, housing, work, or other ways? When, where, how? Tell us about it.

Photo from the Singles Equality website

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

Standing in line to pay for my groceries, I watched the woman ahead of me bagging her food and thought about how many decisions we had each made by 2:30 in the afternoon.

One of the things people don’t consider about living alone is that we have to make every decision ourselves. Most of the decisions are small, but they add up.

For a trip to the grocery store, we need to decide: which store, when to go, where to park, how many bags we’ll need, what to buy, which brand, which size, which flavor, how to pay for it, and what goes in what bag? Can I afford the ham and the salmon? If I can’t find the oyster crackers, will saltines work? Do I really want to pay $2.99 a can for Progresso soup? All the while, we’re thinking: I know I forgot something.

It’s no wonder I waited to do my shopping this week until I had nothing to put together for supper on Wednesday night. I churned over the possible options. A salad? Nope, out of greens. Something with rice? Nope, almost out of rice. A grilled cheese sandwich? I had already eaten too many carbs and too much cheese.

Did I have time to go to a restaurant or get takeout before choir practice? I’d have to try it. Where? Off the Hook? What should I order? Um, um, um, fish tacos. $16.99. Fattening. Eat all three tacos or take one home for later? So many decisions! Here comes the bill. How should I pay? How much should I tip?

Decision-making starts for me before getting out of bed. Should I get up now or try for more sleep? Have I waited long enough since my thyroid pill to take my stomach pill? Shower or bath? What should I wear? What should I eat? Of the umpteen tasks on my list, which one should I do first? What can I let slide for another day? Should I go for a walk now or practice music for tomorrow’s church service?

The phone rings. Should I answer it or assume it’s a nuisance call?

If I decide to get something fixed in the house, whom should I call, how much am I willing to pay, what kind of replacement do I want if an appliance is irrevocably broken?

Is that strange pain bad enough to go to the ER? If I need a prescription, do I feel well enough to go to the pharmacy? Should I ask someone else to do it?

It goes on and on.

Sometimes I wish I still had a mother to take care of everything. Kids don’t realize how lucky they are until they grow up and face a world of decisions nobody else is going to make for them.

A recent article at vegoutmag.com makes it clear we’re not imagining that we make an awful lot of decisions.

“People who live alone may not just be managing a household — they may be performing every role a family of four would distribute, and the exhaustion they feel may not be laziness — it may be the accumulated weight of being the cook, the cleaner, the planner, the fixer, and the emotional support all at once.”

Do I hear Amen?

Writer Lachlan Brown says, “If you live alone, you are running an operation that most people never fully account for. Not just the cooking and the cleaning, but the planning, the scheduling, the budgeting, the maintenance calls, the grocery lists, the mental load of remembering everything with no one to hand anything off to. In a household with multiple people, those tasks get distributed, often imperfectly, but distributed nonetheless. When you live alone, they all land on you. Every single one, every single day.”

Brown cites research by The Decision Lab that suggests the average adult makes somewhere between 33,000 and 35,000 decisions per day. Those who live alone make even more. As decision fatigue sets in, we make poorer choices or avoid making choices altogether. For me, that’s when I play endless games of solitaire or watch one mindless TV show after another, the key word being mindless; I don’t have to think for a while.

I’m not alone. From The Decision Lab, which studies how people make decisions:

“Have you ever gotten to the end of a busy day, looked in the fridge, and had absolutely no idea what to make for dinner, despite having an abundance of food available? Or sat in front of your TV scrolling through the endless movie options on your streaming service but failing to find anything you’re interested in? Or perhaps looked in your wardrobe, which is overflowing with clothes, but had ‘nothing to wear’? On all of these occasions, you were likely experiencing decision fatigue, the mental exhaustion we can get after making decisions over and over again.”

In essence, your brain says: I’m tired and I refuse to make another decision.

Brown acknowledges the benefits of living alone, including freedom, quiet, and not having to negotiate, but at the same time. there’s the exhaustion that comes “from the unacknowledged weight of operating a full household with a workforce of one.”

He offers some suggestions.

• Acknowledge how much you’re doing and that you have reason to feel tired. Forgive yourself if you can’t get it all done.

• “Ruthlessly reduce the number of micro-decisions in your life.” Simplify your meals and create routines that can run on autopilot, sort of like how I wash clothes on Sundays and water the plants on Wednesdays, and I go straight to my desk after breakfast Monday through Saturday.

• Build social contacts into your life. Find someone with whom you can talk things through. This is a tough one for a lot of us, but as Brown says, it’s not a luxury; it’s a necessity.

When I got home from the grocery store, I decided to put the perishable groceries in the fridge and then sit down to write this post while it was fresh in my mind. The saltines, bagels, and rice could wait.

I decided to have salmon for dinner. I decided it was delicious.

Let’s Talk

Have you thought about how many decisions you make in a day? Some are tiny, like which socks to wear or what to eat for breakfast. Others are more burdensome. Call the plumber? Plan a trip to visit the family? Plant a garden? Quit your job? Sell your house? Adopt a pet?

• Decisions, decisions, decisions.

• Do you have regular routines that help lessen the need to make decisions?

• Are you good at making them and sticking to them? Do have any advice for making it easier?

• Do you have someone to help you figure out what to do?

• Do you get tired of making decisions and just veg?

Photo by Viki Mohamad on Unsplash

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

On what would have been the forty-first anniversary of my wedding with Fred, I ponder several things that seem connected in this adventure of living life alone.

1. At a church potluck on Sunday, I purposely sat with people other than the choir so I could get to know them better (See Talking to Strangers). All was good until one woman a bit older than I am leaned forward and asked about my family. “Where are your children and grandchildren? Do they live around here?”

“I never had any children,” I said. “My husband passed away. It’s just me.”

She turned to the white-haired lady next to her and chuckled. “She missed out on all the fun.” They went back to talking to each other about their huge families, and I went to get a second piece of cake (I know, I know, but it was soooo good).

There was no consideration of what else I might be besides a mother, no thought that I wanted to be a mother and grieve for the kids I never had. Just ha, you missed all those soccer games, runny noses, and sibling squabbles. Bam, I was shut out of the mom club again.

What about my music? What about my books? What about all the work I have done to improve this home I love? What about the trips I take by myself? What about the days I sit on the deck talking to robins and hoping to see the elk? I have a full life; it’s just different.

Ouch.

2. At The Ethel Circle, a Facebook group for older women, a discussion in which widows and divorcees were asked what they miss about being married surprised me. More than half said, “Nothing!” or “Good riddance” or “I’m better off alone.” Where is the love? The grief? I understand enjoying our freedom. I understand how divorce can be better than a bad marriage. But even when I was divorced from my first husband, before I met Fred, there were things I missed about being married, including his whole side of the family. I know I would have to adjust my life considerably if Fred were still here, but I do miss him. I would welcome him back with hugs and tears and gladly make room for him.

3. I have been reading a book titled Body and Grace: A Woman’s Hike to Wholeness on the Pacific Crest Trail. Author Dami Roelse writes about the long-distance hikes she has taken since her husband died, leaving her alone in her sixties. Hiking portions of the PCT until she had hiked the whole thing was her way of adapting to her single status.

She didn’t do it all alone, but she did hike by herself quite a bit. In one chapter, she writes about how she went out in the night to relieve herself and couldn’t find her way back to the hammock where she slept. She was in the forest, everything looked the same in the dark, and the battery on her flashlight was dying. For fear of getting lost, she paced a small area for hours in a shirt and underpants, waiting for daylight, getting dangerously cold. In the light, she saw that her hammock was just ten yards away in the next clearing. Scary.

Nonetheless, she kept hiking alone, getting more and more confident. In the chapter I just read, she is camping alone at 11,200 feet in the Sierras. Surrounded by granite rock formations and alpine plants, she writes, “I’m fortunate to have found joy again. Sharing this hike with a partner wouldn’t be the same. The vulnerability of being by myself is teaching me to trust. My trust in life has grown since I lost my husband. He was my rock, in case something went wrong. Now the rocks in this valley are my companions. They provide warmth from the sun and glimpses of distant locations. New places don’t scare me, the unknown doesn’t scare me any longer.”

I can’t say the same. In nature, I worry about bears, mountain lions, snakes, and bugs. What if Roelse slips and falls? What if she meets a bad person on the trail? The unknown does scare me, whether it’s walking in the wild or driving in Portland, Seattle, or San Francisco. I may do it, but it frightens me.

I won’t be walking hundreds of miles at high altitudes, mostly because I don’t want to. A couple miles close to home is plenty for me. And I have heard all of your advice and scoldings about the adventure I shared last week. I bought a cute new water bottle, I will take my phone and ID next time, and I’ll trade the dangerous walks for something safer, or take a friend with me. I am also getting serious about going back to the gym. I heard you all.

My mountain-hiking challenge is playing “Sweet Georgia Brown” at open mic and finishing with a flourish even though I got lost in the middle. Then accompanying a friend on “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” even though I have never played that song in public before and we have not practiced together. My challenge is trusting that I can do it even though I’m a self-taught guitar-playing folksinger masquerading as a real musician.

My mountain-hiking challenge is facing a world that doesn’t understand people like me (and maybe you) whose lives are not wrapped around their children and grandchildren because they don’t have any or are estranged from the ones they have.

My mountain-hiking challenge is playing the grand piano at my old church for my friend John’s funeral on Friday and having toe surgery next week, recovering mostly on my own.

In some ways, just living my life alone, I am metaphorically hiking at high altitude every day, deciding every step where to plant my feet, what to carry, and where I will go, hoping I don’t fall or wake up a rattlesnake.

Know what I mean?

Let’s Talk

Does any of this strike a chord with you? Have you been the victim of heartless comments about your lack of children or a partner?

How do you feel about those Ethel comments about missing being married? If asked what you miss about your husband (if you had one), what would you say?

What are the challenges that you take on and conquer in your own life?

P.S. I’m surprisingly content on this anniversary. I do miss Fred, but I also know that he would be very old and quite possibly unwell if he were still alive. We lived a beautiful love story to its completion. Not everyone gets to do that.

PPS. Oregon author Cheryl Strayed, whose book Wild about hiking the Pacific Crest Trail alone became a bestseller and a terrific movie, lost her husband last week. Brian Lindstrom, a terrific documentary filmmaker, died of progressive supranuclear palsy at age 65. So sad. Cheryl has two teenage children. She is strong and will get through this, but I feel for her.

PPPS. In past posts, I mentioned watching “The Lying Game” on Netflix. I was totally hooked, but I don’t recommend it, not because it’s bad, but because the show was canceled midstream and viewers are left hanging. At the end of the last episode, several major questions remain forever unanswered. It’s one of those times you scream at the TV. “That’s it??? WTF???” Save your sanity; Watch something else. Better yet, go for a walk.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

I found myself in a pickle on the beach the other day. Although it was sunny and almost warm up above, down on the sand, the wind blew so hard my eyes filled with tears and I struggled to walk as it pushed against me.

It was late afternoon. Bored with my usual after-work walk, I had chosen to visit South Beach State Park with its broad, clean beach. I’m scheduled for toe surgery later this month and won’t be able to do my walks for a while, so why not enjoy the sand now?

In the distance, I saw a few kite-flyers enjoying the breeze, but all I wanted to do was walk from the steep bank where I had skied down the sand to the beach to the next place I could get back up to solid ground. It was maybe three-quarters of a mile.

The path from parking lot to sand is steep, so steep I can go down but not up. The last time I tried it, I vowed never to do it again. I thought the entrance by the viewing platform for the handicapped would be easier.

Not so much.

I’m in my 70s, overweight, and arthritic. I have osteoporosis and a few other issues. I woke up that morning with hipbones screaming, but after a day of moving around, I felt good—until I tried to climb up that hill.

The sand was soft and loose. My feet slid backwards and I fought to stay upright. I kept trying, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. A few feet up the hill, I flopped down on my bottom, surveying the beach below and wondering how the hell I was going to get out of the sand.

I scooted backward on my rear a couple times, settling into indentations in the sand, panting. Okay, again. I pushed back a couple more butt steps. I still had maybe ten yards to go. This was never going to work.

Hoping no one saw me, I flipped over and crawled on hands and knees to the top, only to discover this was not the right place. This hill just led into impenetrable bushes. I would have to go partway down, scrabble a bit to the right and climb again. Curses.

When my dog was alive and we were both healthier, I used to ask her to pull me up, and she did. Half Lab and half Staffordshire bull terrier, she was strong. Now, I needed help, preferably young people who could drag my grandma body up to the handicap platform and the paved trail beyond it.

No one was around on this windy weekday afternoon as the waves sparkled in the sun and kites hovered in the air above the jetty.

I slowly walk-crawled my way up and collapsed on a bench, wheezing and fighting to catch my breath as I poured the sand out of my sneakers. My heart pounded. Visions of heart attacks danced through my mind. I had forgotten my phone and my water. I had no identification with me, just my keys. I was an idiot.

If I wound up in an ambulance, I didn’t know who to have the paramedics call.

I’m out of breath again just thinking about it.

I got up and walked the paved trail slowly, pausing at every bench. When I ran out of benches, I considered sitting on the ground, but the mosquitoes were out, and I needed to get to my car and the red water bottle sitting in the cup-holder.

A young couple walked by. I said hello. They ignored me and kept going. A middle-aged man with two large dogs walked by, smiling. “Great dogs,” I said as they passed.

I pressed on. Was this trail always so long?

I was never so glad to see the glint of sun on cars in the parking lot.

Does this mean I can never walk alone on that beach again? Maybe it does. I hate that. Why don’t the people who run our state parks create easier ways to get onto the beach? How about building a couple of stairways with the money earned from our new parking fees? It’s still free to walk on Oregon’s beaches if you can figure out a way to get there without parking a car.

Some of the other beaches around here have easier entrances but aren’t as nice. Am I doomed to look longingly from the wooden platform, remembering how the sand caressed my feet?

I can hear Julia Hubbell of the Too Old for This Sh*t Substack yelling at me. Get to the gym. Get in shape. Lose the weight. Stop eating pastries for breakfast. Buy some damn walking sticks. Don’t give up.

I know all that. I’m working on it. I’m just saying I had a come-to-Jesus moment, and it scared me, especially because I was alone.

I want to blame genetics. I come from women who are short, round, and nonathletic. My female ancestors did a lot of housework and childcare, but even my sainted mother, who died when she was ten months older than I am now, couldn’t walk a block without getting out of breath. Go for a hike? Join a gym? Are you kidding? So, I’m fighting against generations of women who wouldn’t even try to do the things I do.

Last week, I visited Mike Miller Park, where I hiked among the trees with not a soul around and so many steep sections full of protruding tree roots that I was one trip away from disaster. I knew it was foolish. But I have never wanted to be one of those women who can’t take a walk without a cadre of other old ladies in hoodies and sneakers going at a set time every day or, shiver, walking around a shopping mall. I prefer to grab my keys and go whenever I feel the urge. I think I get that from my father. And I probably won’t stop until I have to.

But I will walk the other beaches in the future. It’s all the same ocean.

Can we do it alone? Yes, most of the time, but we do need to apply some common sense. Go where there are other people around to help in an emergency. Carry your ID, your phone, and your water. Accept that some things would be wiser to do with a friend or a big, strong dog.

Also, crawling is embarrassing, but it works. Otherwise, I’d still be sitting on that hill of sand.

Let’s Talk

Have you tried to do something alone that frightened you? Did it make you worry about getting old alone?

Do you seek out companions for walks and other physical activities, go alone, or just stay home?

Are there things you absolutely won’t do alone?

About the Photos

I’d go back down and take a picture of the hill I had to climb, but . . . no. I borrowed the photo at the beginning of this post from the South Beach State Park website. The second photo, with my dear Annie in the foreground, shows the handicapped viewing platform I was trying to get to. The ocean is off to the left.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

I hate making phone calls. If I can sneak by with a text or email, I will, not because I don’t want to talk to anyone. I do. I just get nervous. What will I say? What will we talk about? Will they not remember who I am or not want to speak to me? What if they’re busy and I interrupt something? If they’re not there and I have to leave a message, will I stutter something stupid?

It’s crazy because 99 percent of the time, it’s fine.

That was not a problem for my friend John Garcia, who died last week. I have mentioned him a few times before here at the Substack. I last spoke to him on May 4, his 93rd birthday. Our conversation was short. He was ready to go. He couldn’t do anything for himself anymore. He asked me again if I would sing at his funeral.

We were phone buddies, the kind where when you see their name on Caller ID, you smile and always answer. Both widowed, living alone a couple miles apart, we had been friends since we sang together at Sacred Heart Church.

John missed his late wife Michelle terribly. His own health was bad for at least a decade, so bad it was a miracle he was still alive. Yet when I asked him how he was, he would fob it off. “Still here.” And then he’d turn it around. “Enough about me. How are you?” He read all of my posts. If I sounded sad, he called.

I called him, too, because I cared enough and enjoyed our calls. He always thanked me, saying how good it was to hear my voice.

We talked about everything—Church, politics, health, clothing, dogs, bears, home repairs, philosophy, our pasts. There were no limits.

He was an interesting man, an orphan who was adopted late in his childhood, a career military man who served much of his life in Germany, a leader in the Knights of Columbus, a gourmet cook, and a grandfather. In his last years, his wife’s little dog Hiccup was his companion and the only thing he worried about leaving behind when he died.

He brought me meals when he cooked too much. He gave me his “extra” TV. When my pellet stove pooped out and I had no heat, he brought me a portable heater. He would not accept anything in return.

John had everything arranged for his death, down to picking out an urn and the songs for his service. After he passed, I was saddened to see a plea on Facebook for someone to provide a home for Hiccup. Apparently, that part of John’s plan fell through. Many people were eager to adopt her. She’ll be all right, but it proves you just can’t control what happens after you die.

Why didn’t I take her? I just don’t like tiny dogs. Forgive me. And she was so fluffy my allergies would have gone nuts.

John had kids and grandkids whom he loved and saw as often as he could, but he lived alone in a mobile home down one of the many forested roads here in South Beach. I suppose his family will be cleaning it out and selling it. That’s how things go.

His funeral Mass is next week at Sacred Heart Church in Newport. Some of us who left Sacred Heart during the reign of an impossible priest will reunite with old friends that day.

I’m going to miss my friend John. I hope he is healthy and happy in heaven now. He earned it.

As I grieved, I wrote a long poem that may not be my best work, but I think John dictated the last line: Go be the voice for someone else.

There are so many people who live alone, who rarely hear from anyone. The phone only rings with nuisance calls and reminders about doctor’s appointments. Be the voice that calls with no agenda except to connect, not out of duty but because you care. If all you can manage is a text message, do that, but reach out. Be the voice that asks how are you and really listens to the answer.

BTW, what did I say to John on that last phone call when his hospice nurse was holding the phone for him? “Talk to you later.” I knew that was unlikely, but that’s what came out of my mouth. Maybe someday I will.

Let’s Talk

Have you had a friend who made you feel heard and loved?

Do you have someone to call when you’re feeling down?

Are you good about calling people to catch up?

What stops you?

*************************

Mother’s Day is over, thank God. This year’s Mass was excruciating with all of its glorification of motherhood, but I worked my way through the day with music, a beach walk, and many episodes of “The Lying Game” on Netflix. Next year, I will know better than to look at Facebook the day AFTER Mother’s Day. Oy, the mother-and-children photos.

How did you do? Are you ready for Father’s Day?

This has been a prime week for author-centric scams, and it’s only Tuesday. I had an offer to be interviewed on a BBC show that turned out to be from someone who doesn’t work there, someone who when I finally decided they might be the real deal, asked me for money. I wrote back that I don’t pay to be interviewed.

I have also received two emails allegedly from author J.K. Rowling inviting me to be featured at her new book club. Why on earth would the Harry Potter author be interested in my books?

And my favorite, a guy sent an email to my address praising me and my book, wanting help me get it the exposure it deserved, except it was not my name and not my book. When I wrote back that I was not about to work with someone who couldn’t get my name and the title of my book right, he apologized and sent the exact same email with my name and book title plugged in. Uh, no.

It’s a sad world when you can’t be sure anything is real. I promise these words came from my very own brain through my fingers onto the keys of this old HP computer.

Be wary, but don’t let it spoil your day.

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.

See these roses? They’re lovely. I bought them for myself. $11.99 at Fred Meyer’s. I tossed the “Mom” decoration after I took the picture. Ain’t no moms in this house.

I was shopping for vegetables and burrito ingredients, but everywhere I looked in that store was something about Mother’s Day. Flowers. Cards. Candy. Gifts and food for special Mother’s Day meals. A little champagne for your mimosas?

As if everyone who comes through those doors is planning a big Mother’s Day party.

Look again, marketers. I know you’re just trying to make money, but many of us do not have children, or if we do, they’re not around. Some are grieving for children who have died. Many of us, especially here on the coast, where the average age is over 65, have lost our mothers. We’d rather not be reminded.

I’m sure everyone who saw me buying the roses assumed they were a gift for someone else. No, they were a gift for me and not because I’m anyone’s mother.

For those of us who are not mothers and/or have lost our own mothers, Mother’s Day (and likewise Father’s Day) can be a painful kick in the gut. It does not help that people assume all women of a certain age are mothers, grandmothers, and even great-grandmothers. They seem offended when you try to tell them you don’t qualify for the Mother’s Day special.

This is a good weekend to stay home, but I’ll be sitting on the piano bench looking at an undeserved carnation while the moms at church stand for a blessing and Father Joseph goes on about the glories of motherhood.

I did convince one priest in my past to honor all women, mothers or not, but I don’t see that happening at St. Anthony’s.

I used to get a lot more upset about it, but after all these years, it’s just annoying, like having a mosquito in the house and not being able to find it when you want to turn off the light and go to sleep.

There’s nothing wrong with celebrating moms. Mothers give an awful lot of themselves to their families and could use a little appreciation. Dads too. Just leave me out of it. Let me treat it like a normal Sunday, passing the day with chores, music, and a long walk. Let me disappear until Monday, when people stop yammering about motherhood and posting photos of their beautiful families.

My advice for you: If Mother’s Day is uncomfortable, stay off social media and don’t go to restaurants or other public places where you’ll find yourself alone in a sea of happy moms and grandmas. Take a hike. Binge on your favorite TV series. Work in the garden. If you have no one around, ignore the festivities, and do what makes you happy. If that means buying yourself some flowers or candy, go for it. We are all worthy of a treat.

If you do have children who go all out for Mother’s Day, have fun, but don’t let them push you into doing something you won’t enjoy. It’s your day, after all.

To all, be aware that Mother’s Day can be hard. Don’t make it worse by assuming everyone has something to celebrate.

Let’s Talk

How do you feel about Mother’s Day? What do you usually do on that day? If people assume you’re a mom and you’re not, do you correct them? Do you go out or hide away?

If you are a mother, does the day usually live up to your expectations? Tell us about your best and worst Mothers’ Days.

More to Read

“Why This Childless Woman Chooses to Celebrate Mother’s Day Alone” by Y.L. Wolfe

“Surprise! Not Everyone’s Happy on Mother’s Day” by The Cobh

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller.