Participant ID: P05
Pseudonym: Linda
Age: 67
Gender: Woman
Occupation: Retired teacher (retired 2 years ago)
Living situation: Lives alone in a townhouse in North Vancouver
Relevant context: Husband died of cancer 3 years ago; two adult sons, one in Calgary, one in Toronto
Interview date: 2025-11-06
Interview length: 58 minutes
Interviewer: R1
Location: Linda's home

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I: Thank you for inviting me into your home, Linda. Could you start by telling me a little about yourself?

P: Of course, dear. So I'm Linda, I'm 67, I taught grade five for 39 years in the North Vancouver district. I retired two years ago, which is also — well, my husband Bill died three years ago, so I'd been planning to retire when he did, and then he was diagnosed, and then everything changed. I have two boys, Michael's in Calgary with his family, and David's in Toronto, he's single. And then I'm here, in this house we bought in 1989. Just me now. And the dog, Rufus.

I: When I say the word loneliness, what comes to mind for you?

P: Oh. Bill's chair. That's what comes to mind. We had — there's a chair in the living room there, you can see it, the one with the green cushion. Bill sat in that chair every evening for thirty-some years. And it's still there. I haven't moved it. I haven't sat in it. I haven't given it away. It's just there. And every evening I look at it and it's empty. And that's loneliness, for me. It's a particular empty chair.

I: How does it feel? Physically.

P: Hmm. I don't know that I'd say it has a physical feeling exactly. It's more like a weight. A weight that I carry around. I sleep on one side of the bed still — the right side, my side — and the left side is undisturbed for three years. So it's that. It's like half of my life is just not there anymore, and I'm walking around with that absence.

I: Is loneliness the same as being alone for you?

P: That's a good question. They've blurred together, I think. They didn't used to be the same. When Bill was alive and the boys were small, I loved my alone time. I treasured it. Now, alone is — alone has a different quality. It's not the relief it used to be. It's the default. So the categories have collapsed, I suppose.

I: Can you tell me about a recent time you felt lonely?

P: [long pause] Last Tuesday. My granddaughter's birthday. Michael's youngest. They're in Calgary, she turned six, and they did a FaceTime call, and it was lovely, it really was, but afterwards I — I just sat in the kitchen and I cried. Because Bill should have been there. He should have been singing happy birthday with me. And he wasn't. And then I made myself a cup of tea and I went to bed, but it was four in the afternoon. I was so tired. The grief and the loneliness, they make me so tired.

I: Has your experience of loneliness changed over the three years?

P: Oh, completely. The first year was — that was raw. That was acute grief. I had a lot of company that first year, people brought casseroles, my book club came round, my sister stayed with me for a month. And then the second year, all that quiet support faded, which is normal, that's how grief works, and by then I'd retired, and the days got very long. The third year — this year — has been the loneliest. Because everyone assumes I should be, you know, on the other side of it. And I'm not. I'm still in it. But nobody asks anymore.

I: How do you spend your days?

P: I walk Rufus three times a day, those walks are very important. I do crossword puzzles. I have my book club once a month, which I look forward to enormously. I volunteer at the community garden two mornings a week, that's been good for me. I cook properly some nights, badly other nights. I watch a lot of British detective shows. [laughs] More than I should. Vera. Endeavour. The Inspector Lynley Mysteries. They're company, in a way.

I: When loneliness shows up, what do you do?

P: I call David. He's the one I call. Michael's busy with the family and you can't really call someone in the middle of bedtime routine. David lives alone too, so he's usually free. We'll talk for an hour, sometimes two. He's been wonderful. I worry I lean on him too much. I worry I'm a burden. But he says I'm not.

I: Anything that didn't work?

P: My sister suggested I try one of those, you know, the seniors' singles things. A bridge group or — I don't know. I went to one. It was awful. Linda, I'm sorry, I'm using your name, but I went to it and the men there were either, you know, looking for a caregiver or they were just so sad themselves I couldn't take it on. And the women were lovely but I felt like I was performing being okay and it was exhausting. So I haven't gone back.

I: Have you sought any kind of professional help?

P: I saw a grief counsellor for about six months after Bill died. She was wonderful. I stopped going when I felt I'd, you know, gotten through the worst of it. I should probably go back. The loneliness has a quality now that I don't know what to do with. It's not grief anymore exactly. It's more like — it's the shape my life has settled into. And I'm not sure I should accept that shape, or whether I'm meant to.

I: Do you think of yourself as a lonely person?

P: I would never have said so before Bill died. Now — yes. I'm a lonely person. I think that's true. And I think I'll be a lonely person for the rest of my life, probably, because I don't see who would replace what Bill was. And I don't want a replacement. I just want him back. Which is, you know, not on offer.

I: Is there anything that's helped that surprised you?

P: Rufus. I want to say Rufus. Bill picked him out from the rescue eight years ago, so the dog is — the dog is a piece of Bill. And the routine of him is what keeps me up in the morning. Literal mornings. If I didn't have to walk him I might just stay in bed some days. So Rufus is keeping me alive, in a real way. That probably sounds dramatic but it's not, exactly.

I: Have you talked to anyone about how lonely you are?

P: My sister knows. David knows in a vague way, I try not to put it all on him. The book club ladies don't, although I suspect they suspect. I think there's a — there's a code, in my generation, that you don't burden people with your unhappiness. You make small talk and you smile and you don't bring people down. That's been hard to overcome.

I: What do you think your loneliness is telling you?

P: That love costs. I think that's what it's telling me. If you love deeply for a long time, you will, eventually, be lonely deeply for a long time. The two are connected. And I wouldn't trade my 42 years with Bill to avoid this. Not for anything. So I have to make peace with the loneliness as the cost of that love. I'm working on that.

I: If you could change one thing about how society handles loneliness, what would it be?

P: Old women. I think old women are invisible. We are — we are the most visible demographic for loneliness statistics, and the most invisible in social life. People look right past me on the bus. The grocery clerks don't make eye contact with me anymore. When Bill was with me they did. So I'd say — see us. We are still here. We have something to say. Make room for us.

I: Anything I haven't asked about?

P: Just that I appreciate this very much, dear. It's good to be asked questions someone actually wants to hear the answers to. That's its own kind of medicine. So thank you.
