Missing
Today marks three years since my friend ("friend") Mary Ann died. I have written about her before. I have been looking for a replacement dish since writing that entry, and although I have found other Corningware crockery I have not found a good match for the dish I broke. But I still remember that dish, and I still remember her.
Since she died another person I talked with regularly also died. A few other people have ended their relationships with me. Some others have just disappeared, and I never hear from them any more. I suspect at least one of them has died.
My social circle has changed quite a bit since I started to work. For the most part it has gotten smaller. I don't associate with very many people who live in poverty any more. There are a few people (probably fewer than five) with whom I have regular conversations, and although those conversations are nice they are different from the ones I had before.
I can't tell you whether I miss Mary Ann, but I feel she is missing. I do miss talking with her, and with my other former correspondents too. I still feel bad about how she died, and about our bad interactions as we were dying. I regret prioritizing a bike ride over phoning her, because I never talked with her again. I feel upset about the cancer, and about how COVID just made everything worse.
I feel different about losing the people who died compared to the ones who stopped associating with me. Losing the dead people feels worse. Even though I think neither set of people will associate with me again, the dead people won't be able to associate with anybody else either.
This is what aging is about. The social supports that helped you get through the days fall apart. Some people are able to find new supports. Others of us find our worlds getting smaller and smaller.