ALONE BUT NOT
ALWAYS LONELY

A Widow Bit – April 27, 2008

By Mary Koch

            I attended and thoroughly enjoyed a terrific jazz concert last night. The music had an edge, honed by the fact that the seats on either side of me were empty.

            I didn’t feel sorry for myself that I was alone; it was my preference. I could have called any number of friends who might have enjoyed the concert. Just the night before, I’d sat with friends at a school play and the night before that, three friends invited me to go to a movie. I am not wanting for company.

            Going out alone is nothing new. I did it frequently in my 30s, before I married John. I’m finding, however, that there’s a difference between the solo ventures of a 30-something and a 60-something. There was more potential, shall we say, when I was in my 30s.

            Not that I was seeking adventure last night (although I’ll admit to certain nostalgic memories). I wanted spontaneity. Going out with others requires making plans: what time do we leave, who’ll drive, where shall we eat . . .

            I wanted to just go. Or not. I savored not knowing for sure whether I’d go until I was actually backing the car out of the driveway.

            There was no space for spontaneity during my 14 years as a caregiver. Unanticipated events that required adaptability, yes. Plenty of them. But no whim-of-the-moment activities like “Oh, quick! Come look! There’s a beautiful sunset reflected on the river.”

            By the time I’d get the Hoyer lift in position, transfer John from recliner to wheelchair, put the foot rests in place and a poncho on him for warmth, the sun would have long since set.

            During those years I learned to appreciate silently but longingly the beautiful sunsets and other events I could not share with John. I sadly realized that appreciation is greatly enhanced when it is shared.

            That’s what I was missing at the jazz concert. I could see out of the corner of my eye that those around me were relishing the music, but there was no one I could look at directly and exchange a smile of pure pleasure. No one whose hand I could squeeze or on whose knee I could tap in time with the driving rhythm.

            Reality check here. I was married to two Johns during those 28 years. Fourteen with the pre-stroke John, who would have grooved on that concert, and 14 with the stroke survivor whose injured brain, with its heightened sensitivities, could not have endured the volume, the dissonance and the tension of really great jazz. I would not have taken him to such a concert. Which meant I wouldn’t have gone myself.

            This new-found freedom is like a spring-fed lake. The water is cold. You can take the plunge, dive in and come up gasping for breath. Or you can stick your toe in, splash a little water on yourself and then wade deeper, inch by inch. So far, I’m about up to my ankles.

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