It’s hard to be a homebody when nobody is at home.
Since August, when my wife died and my younger son moved into a college dorm, I’ve been trying to live alone without becoming lonely.
I’ve hosted co-workers to watch “The Paper” on Peacock. I’ve gone to two concerts (Billy Strings and Lyle Lovett). I’ve explored restaurants, new and old, with a young friend. I’ve watched the Steelers play on TV at a buddy’s house. I’ve gone hiking with an active co-worker. I’ve remained engaged in my church teaching Sunday School and being present for worship services. I have written notes to countless friends who sent me condolence letters.
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None of this is, or was, my pattern, but it is becoming my “new normal.”
There is a force inside me pushing me to live outside my comfort zone, and the opportunities are plentiful because friends and acquaintances — who are aware of my circumstances — have been quick to reach out. Even a college roommate, who I hadn’t seen in 45 years, came to town to visit me.
Life is funny. As a family man, I never considered the possibility that I could drift back into loneliness. I married late in life — age 38. I had been intensely lonely through most of my 20s due to my introverted nature, anxiety and overdrinking. I slayed that three-headed beast, but loneliness is an insidious foe that can worm its way back into your life.
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When our two sons were younger, our family lived in a vortex of human activity, going to sports events, birthday parties and hosting play dates. Later, as the boys got older, my wife and I did things together, but we also had separate interests. I like attending sporting events and movies; she liked woodworking and hanging out with friends.
I’ve always enjoyed spending some time alone. But solitude, if not layered with activity, has a way of causing your social skills to atrophy. I have told the story of being so touch-deprived in my 20s that I enjoyed being handed change by a clerk at my Red Food Store.
I’m not sure why it took a tragedy such as my wife’s death to shake my apathy for social connection. Maybe it was realizing that time is short for all of us and any day not spent in community with others is somewhat wasted.
I can also feel myself cherishing the times the boys visit home. My younger son popped in the other day. Watching him stand in the kitchen doorway and talk to me about fraternity matters, while eating Mayfield ice cream from a half-gallon carton, made my heart happy. I’ve got the dates circled on my calendar for when my older son will be home on Christmas break from his job in Birmingham.
I really can’t imagine selling my four-bedroom house anytime soon. Until the boys marry and have families of their own, I want their childhood bedrooms to be their safe spaces for Thanksgiving naps, wrapping Christmas gifts and sleeping off heartache.
Meanwhile, staying in the house is both bitter and sweet to me. Every square inch is a reminder of my 29-year-marriage. The memories are happy, but I still can’t sit alone in the family room and watch “Wheel of Fortune,” which was our nightly ritual. (I actually didn’t care for “Wheel of Fortune” but felt it was my husbandly duty to pretend to buy vowels.)
Other times, I was happy to drift into solitude, like on Friday nights when she went for drinks with her girlfriends, or the weekends when she drove three hours up I-75 to take care of her sick father and work in his woodshop while I stayed home and read books.
One of the reasons I haven’t considered a cold-turkey retirement is that I like the social engagement with friends in the newsroom. Although there is only a small handful of us Boomers left, I find my many Gen Z colleagues to be exceptionally kind and open to intergenerational friendships.
Also, my life has been animated by conversations with interesting people I interview for my Life Stories column, which runs Mondays in the Region section. Letting go of my co-workers and column sources all at once is more than I care to contemplate.
So, I guess you are stuck with me for a while, dear readers. During this time of sadness I have discovered that you are my friends, too, whether I know your names yet or not.
Email Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com.