Some years ago, I had a 93-year-old client who was depressed. Try as I did to interest her in attending programs in the medical day care program where I worked, she resisted. One day, in response to my encouragement, she made a comment that has stayed with me ever since. “It’s hard being the last one.”
I was reminded of this comment 10 years later when I traveled to New Bedford, Massachusetts, to visit Ethel, my mother’s last living friend. My mother had died at 95 after eight years of increasing dementia. Ethel, on the other hand, was still youthful, vibrant, sharp, and independent at 97. She lived alone in a small apartment, took care of her own needs, and drove herself to the synagogue every Sabbath morning.
Ethel, who was to die two years later of ovarian cancer, insisted on meeting me at the synagogue. She would drive there herself, she said. Later, as we sat in her living room and reminisced about New Bedford and the friendship she shared with my mother, she talked about her life, her children and grandchildren, her daily routine, and the highlight of her week: attending synagogue services as she had done for decades.
Now, she confided, it was not the same. For years, she had sat in a row with six friends, all widows. Now, they had all died and she was alone.
“I go to the synagogue every Saturday morning just as I always have. But now, I shut my eyes and make believe that I am sitting there with all my friends. It is not easy being the last one,” she said.
Same message; different messenger.
In the recent past, I have lost many people in my life including my husband, Shelby. Four friends have died. Others have moved away to be closer to their children or other relatives. Some days, I sit and count those of my friends who are left. My list is growing shorter.
One morning I spoke to Phil, a dear friend and neighbor who was 74. Phil has Parkinson’s disease and his condition was making it hard for him to live alone. His husband died six years ago from melanoma. Phil is an inspiration. He greets each day with a smile and does what he can to live a full life. He is a painter, filling canvases with bright, eye-catching colors and shapes. He had continued to bowl, play pickleball, and walk, all activities compromised by his weakening body and the lack of control of his movements. Phil is Christian and I am Jewish, a fact of eternal fascination in our relationship in which we share our diverse customs and practices.
Some weeks later, Phil decided, reluctantly, to move to the East Coast to be near his two nieces. His condition had continued to deteriorate, and it was time, he thought, to relocate. During our last conversation, I wished him Godspeed and promised to visit him in Pennsylvania when I visited the East Coast. “You can’t get away from me that easily,” I said jokingly. Phil choked up and announced that he was going to quote me something from “Fiddler on the Roof.” Then he recited with feeling, ”Mazel tov, mazel tov, mazel tov…” (good luck). He left a week later for Pennsylvania.
The next day, I looked for my neighbor Stuart. We always tried to schedule our respective dog walks close to four in the afternoon so we could schmooze. When I returned to Tucson from the East Coast that September, I brought Stuart a blue hat with WOOF across the brim. We matched: my Woof hat is black; his is blue. My dog is Farfel; his is Teddy.
The conversation was devastating. Stuart’s wife, Carol, had decided they had to sell their house and move to Palm Springs to be near their son. Carol has neck and back problems and can no longer play golf and tennis as she did when she was younger. Her two closest friends in Tucson had died. Stuart could no longer play golf because of his arthritis and now, he said, his memory is not the best. It would be better, his wife decided, to be near their son. She has taken charge, he noted ruefully.
Two days later, I returned home from an errand and saw the For Sale sign hanging on Stuart and Carol’s house. I knew it was coming, but seeing the sign was painful. Here today and gone tomorrow, I thought. In a month or two, they will have moved and most likely, I will never see them again. I will not be driving to Palm Springs and they will not be returning to Tucson.
Change came all too fast … a mere two weeks later. I had told Stuart not to move without a big hug from his friend and fellow dog walker. And so I sat with them in the backyard of their home while the movers wrapped their furniture and carried their possessions to a waiting moving van. We hugged; we said goodbye and then, in a second, they were gone. Had they really lived here? Our friendship seemed gone in an instant.
And so it goes. We can celebrate our grandchildren, talk about our latest excursions, or take pride in our pickleball victories. But the downside of aging is the losses that start coming ever more frequently as time goes on.
Some days I wonder if it will be me saying, “It is hard being the last one.”
Judith Manelis is a writer, editor, and journalist whose work has appeared in American Jewish newspapers and magazines. Her book “This Shall Tell All Ages: Art, Music and Writings of the Holocaust” was published by United Jewish Appeal. Names in this article were changed to protect privacy.
