The Lie I Used to Tell It occurs to me at odd times. Like when I’m walking down the basement stairs with my bright red laundry tub resting on my right hip, my left hand clutching the rickety railing. I think, I could fall down these stairs and hit my head on the cement floor. Or break my hip. I could be down here for days, weeks even, before anyone would notice I hadn’t been on Facebook. Or that I missed my hair appointment. Or I wasn’t answering my phone. I could end up like Terri’s mom. She fell down her basement stairs and broke her hip. And because she, like me, lives alone and doesn’t have a lot of friends stopping by, she was in her basement for almost a week before someone found her. Weak, dehydrated, and covered in her own urine. At 87 years old, she didn’t have enough upper body strength to pull herself up the stairs, knock a phone off its cradle and call 911. These thoughts float through my mind as I contemplate the very real possibility that I may live the rest of my life alone. Solo. Unpartnered. Uncoupled. What Are My Chances? […]
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