Friendship
My sister spent much of the time after her husband died talking about loneliness. It was not a passing complaint or an occasional bad day. Loneliness was the lens through which she viewed her life. Whenever we spoke, sooner or later the conversation would return to the same subject. She wanted a best friend. She wanted someone to share a coffee with, someone to go discount clothes shopping with, or someone to go gambling with. I knew it was not me.
I listened. I tried to sympathize. And I tried to help. I suggested countless ways she might meet people. Community groups, volunteer opportunities, classes, social gatherings, seniors' programs—anything that might help her make a connection. She would sometimes agree that it sounded like a good idea. Sometimes she seemed genuinely enthusiastic. Yet when the time came to take that first step, she simply could not do it.
I never fully understood why. Fear, anxiety, lack of confidence—perhaps it was some combination of all of them. She always had an excuse. Whatever the reason, the result was always the same. She remained alone while continuing to want a best friend.
At the same time, her alcohol intake was steadily increasing. The consequences became impossible to ignore. Her memory faltered. Conversations became repetitive. Everyday tasks grew more difficult; she could not use a washer or dryer, for example. Eventually she was diagnosed with alcohol-related dementia.
As her condition worsened, I found myself taking on more responsibility for her care. I helped her move from one place to another, always hoping that the next home would provide the support, stability, or social connections she needed. Each move carried its own mix of hope and disappointment.
Eventually, it became clear that she could no longer manage on her own. I assumed enduring power of attorney for her. With considerable lack of insight on her part and more than a little sadness on mine, I moved her into a mild memory care unit. She has her own small suite. It is a lovely place with lots of activities, but she refused to engage in any of them, even when I suggested that I accompany her.
Something remarkable happened. She met another resident, a woman whose memory challenges were much like her own. They began spending time together. They sat together at meals. They chatted in my sister’s apartment. They shared stories, even if those stories were sometimes repeated several times, and not always accurate. Somehow, their limitations did not get in the way of friendship. In fact, they may have made friendship easier.
When I visited and saw them together, I felt something I had not felt in years: relief. She seemed finally happy. She spoke about having a friend.
There was an irony in it. The thing she had wanted for so long arrived only after dementia had taken so much from her. Yet I cannot see it as a tragedy. What I remember now is not the years of loneliness, of refusal to make an effort to get a friend; she found one. For that, I remain grateful.