Alone in My Home

I chose, nearly five years ago, to end my 30-year marriage. I moved four years ago into a beautiful condo, started a new job — and a new relationship.

The condo has worked out perfectly. The job has worked out great. The relationship? Not so much.

Which is how I now find myself, at age 59, single and living alone in the time of coronavirus.

Sometimes it seems as though I am the only one who isn’t sharing this time with a partner or family occupying the same space, cooking and watching TV and doing puzzles and crafts together. I have not touched another human being for more than six weeks.

And just in the past few days, it has occurred to me that maybe I never, ever will do so again.

That might sound dramatic. But hear me out: I think I’ve earned it.

Last August, I was diagnosed with a little bitty bit of breast cancer. Instead of a lumpectomy and radiation, I opted for a bilateral mastectomy, which I had in early September. At the end of January, I had my reconstructive surgery. I still have huge, glaring scars, but I don’t have breast cancer, and I now have bigger boobs than ever before. I was so looking forward to a new life, post marriage, post breakup, post breast cancer.

And now, instead, this.

I am so very grateful: grateful for my home, grateful for my kids, grateful for my extended family, grateful for my beloved friends, grateful for my job.

But it’s entirely likely that my romantic life, which really never got up and running, is now over. For good.

I am mindful that so many people have so much bigger problems to deal with, and my heart breaks for those who are in far more dire circumstances than I face.

But this is my blog, and it’s where I tell MY story. I hope you’ll stick around to hear it.

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