How Do We Know When It's Time to Stop Living Alone?

Do we wait until we have a stroke or break a hip?

On my walk the other day, something pulled me toward Shirley’s house. When I ran into her at the library a while back, she told me she was moving to an assisted living facility in the Willamette Valley. I thought she’d already be gone. When I saw someone moving around in the partially stripped living room, I decided to introduce myself to my new neighbors.

But Shirley was still there. (Photo is AI-generated, not Shirley). Eighty-something with red hair and an unsteady gait, she invited me into her warm living room. As I settled into a leather easy chair, she looked around her house, one of the first built in the neighborhood. “I don’t want to leave. I love my home.” She struggled for words. “I need the care. I know I waited too long.”

It’s a big two-story house full of classic paintings and expensive furniture, the cream-colored carpet pristine, as is the garden Shirley has tended all these years. Since her husband Bob died, she has carried on alone, with help from her kids, her church, and hired workers. But now, it’s time.

JoAnn down the street moved into a senior facility last year. She had fallen, broken her leg, and lay on the floor for hours before she could get help. Tom, who lived three doors over, has Parkinson’s Disease and is staying with his son. Across the street, Barbara, only in her sixties, just lost her husband to a heart attack. One by one, the long-timers are leaving, and new people are moving in. After twenty-six years, I’m becoming one of the old-timers.

As we talked, one of Shirley’s daughters was busy packing. Pictures were down, keepsakes boxed, and items priced for next week’s estate sale. Soon it would be just an empty house.

I first met Shirley and Bob over twenty years ago when I was working on my book Shoes Full of Sand.* I wanted to know about the wild land to the east of our neighborhood. When we bought our house, which backs up to theirs, we had been told the property was going to be turned into a golf resort, but nothing seemed to be happening.

Bob would know, everyone said. He did. Bob, who had worked for the Department of Fish and Wildlife and now managed the vacant land for the owner, knew every animal, plant, and human being in the area. He also knew that the resort project had been postponed indefinitely due to a tragedy in the owner’s family.

My husband Fred and I sat with Shirley and Bob, sipping tea and eating cookies as I took notes that became part of the last chapter of my book.

Over the years, before her hearing faded, Shirley heard me practicing music. She heard my dogs barking. I heard the lawnmower and Bob chopping wood. Occasionally she would telephone to ask things like, “Did you see the bear on your street?” or “Did you lose power yesterday?”

We exchanged information about animal visits, development threats from the nearby airport, fallen trees, and our husbands’ failing health. We ran into each other at events in town, and I sometimes paused on my dog walks to chat while she worked in the garden. But we didn’t sit down and visit, even after we both lost our husbands.

She shook her head. “I’ve always been so busy.” Me too. In fact, I had only come out for my walk because I was running out of daylight. I planned to walk for 30 minutes, then rush back to work. But something told me to knock on Shirley’s door.

Moving is one of the hardest jobs I know. It’s physically demanding and emotionally draining. You live in a state of chaos for weeks or months. Shirley’s kids are doing most of the labor because Shirley can’t. After over fifty years, the home she and Bob built together is being taken apart piece by piece to be divided among the family, sold, or given to charity. It’s hard to watch. It’s like a pre-death, to be honest.

Shirley’s one-bedroom unit at the Mennonite home in McMinnville won’t have room for most of her possessions. It does have a beautiful view and nice walking trails, she said. But it’s not the same.

One by one, my older friends are leaving their homes for senior residences or rooms in their children’s homes. Most only go when their health or their money give out. The rest of us are holding on with both hands, torn between getting rid of stuff in preparation and keeping it all until the last bloody minute.

I told Shirley that’s one of the reasons I walk so much. I'm trying to keep the old body going.

I was surprised Shirley waited as long as she did. But how long is too long? Do we wait until we have a stroke or fall and break a hip, or should we start packing now? There’s no set age for it. Some people are a mess at 65 while others are still vigorous and independent at 95.

Perhaps we should ask ourselves the questions medical professionals ask about the “ADAs”–Activities of Daily Living? Can we clean ourselves, dress ourselves, and feed ourselves? Are we able to maintain our home, shop for groceries, prepare meals, pay our bills, and use the telephone? Have we been diagnosed with an illness that will eventually make us unable to live alone?

My father refused to leave his house in California, despite frequent falls and a slew of medical problems, until the last time he went out in an ambulance. He was 96 and had been lying in his bed for two days before I found him there. At that point, he couldn’t do anything about anything. His kids and grandkids did it all.

For those of us who don’t have family nearby, the biggest question is who’s going to help us if we don’t have a pack of kids and grandkids to care for us or help us move?

Well. . . A much younger friend from church is moving to a new house this week. She sent a group text to parishioners that she needs helpers. I have no doubt that she will have them. I have seen St. Anthony’s parishioners in action. Reach out. Make friends. Help each other. It’s the best solution for those of us who are on our own.

We who live alone have a lot to figure out. We’ll be looking at this whole situation in detail in future posts.

I am so glad I was drawn to knock on Shirley’s door. We had a chance to talk and to hug and to acknowledge that we care about each other.

Moral of this story: Go see your neighbors before a moving truck shows up in the driveway. Sit and talk. What on earth is so important you can’t spare an hour to be with another person, especially one who lives alone?

The vacant land that brought us together so many years ago is still undeveloped, except for one new street that has been carved out for a few homes. Firethorn Lane. The big to-do we were warned about in 1998 never happened. With luck, it never will.

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* Shoes Full of Sand, published in 2011 by my own Blue Hydrangea Productions, tells the story of our move from California to Oregon and our early years adapting to the rural life on the coast. You can buy the Kindle version on Amazon for $2.99. I currently have the only unused print copies. I would love to share them with you. If you give me your address in the comments, I will send you one for just $5, cash, check, or Paypal (sufalick@gmail.com).

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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. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my new memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available now at your favorite bookseller. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.