Lonely? Reach Out to Someone Else who Lives Alone

Be the voice that cares

Michelle and John Garcia

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?

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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?

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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.

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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.