Fear of Dying Alone

There’s an episode of “Sex and the City, “where Miranda has just moved into a new apartment and one night begins to choke on Chinese food. In a panic, she runs from room to room, unable to breathe, unable to call anyone, totally helpless. Until she throws herself against the edge of a box yet to be unpacked, thus performing a self-Heimlich and dislodging the chicken. In tears, she calls one of her best friends, crying hysterically, “I almost died! I couldn’t breathe! I’m gonna die alone, Carrie!” Carrie assures her she isn’t going to die alone, but then her voice-over adds, “The truth is, I couldn’t be certain of that.”

I live alone. In 2020, as fear of the COVID pandemic began to ramp up and things began to shut down, the reality of my situation became crystal clear as I was mulling over how much food and supplies I would need to get by for two weeks, in the event I had to quarantine. How many cans of tuna? Frozen veggies? Pounds of hamburger? A mere inconvenience, I decided, and I could certainly survive on soup and peanut butter and jelly if I had to. But then, a more insidious question came to mind: What if I got sick?

A few years ago, a friend of mine who also lives alone, fell on the ice as she was doing the mundane chore of taking out the trash, and seriously injured herself to the point where she was unable to do anything but lie on the couch. Fortunately, she had a network of ready and able friends who brought her food, prepared meals, took out her trash, cleaned the litter box, and checked on her several times a day. We talked about that time, and she told me how scared she had been, lying in the driveway, without her phone, unable to drag herself to her house. A neighbor found her and helped her inside, but that was the point where she realized how vulnerable she was. And she didn’t like it.

I don’t like it, either. I like being independent, and I do everything I can to stay that way. But as everything began to shut down and the pandemic raged on, I knew that it was probably not a matter of “if” I got sick, but “when”. While others snuggled in at home with their families and significant others, I hunkered down and made contingency plans. I wrote out instructions to take with me in the event of having to go to the hospital, since no one would be with me to advocate or provide information. I compiled a notebook of passwords and other important information, letting my daughters know it existed. I made a will (that was fun). And, perhaps most importantly, I and my other solitary women friends made a pact to keep in close contact. We texted, phoned, video chatted on a regular basis, sometimes just to say, “How’s it going?” We created a network and provided our own safety nets. Although we didn’t have physical contact that others still enjoyed, we made certain that no one was alone.

I am making plans to move in the not-so-distant future, but to where, exactly, remains to be seen. I toy with the idea of moving to a place I’ve never been, to start over and create a new life for myself. But as attractive as that is, a small voice in my head whispers, “You aren’t young anymore. Do you really want to live alone, in a strange place? What if…?” That’s when I begin to think I should be more practical. Move closer to one of my daughters. Go back to the familiar. Or stay where I am. Safe. Predictable. It’s what my fear tells me, and if I’m not careful, I will begin to believe it. I will begin to close my life down and huddle in my safe zone, and this window of independence that I have will eventually close. “I want to live a life where my kids talk and worry about me,” I joked to a friend not long ago. “Then do it!” she replied, and we laughed, knowing that although we may live by ourselves, we most certainly are not alone.