When Randy and I were still watching TV, we got hooked on a reality show for a short time called Alone. In it, so-called survivalists are dropped into some remote wilderness with nothing but a backpack (which contains a video camera, of course). Whoever lasts the longest without calling to be picked up (referred to as tapping out) wins. Season 13, which starts this week on the History Channel, is the first world championship and drops 12 contestants in the Arctic Circle, just in case you’re interested in watching it. Apparently, viewers like the series because it is a “masterpiece of human psychology.”
That’s not why we watched it.
Some of my friends called Randy “MacGyver.” For those of you who don’t know the reference, it comes from a classic 1980s TV show of the same name. To MacGyver something means to fix, build, or improvise a solution to a problem using only the tools and materials conveniently on hand. It describes resourcefulness and the ability to create clever, makeshift solutions out of everyday items. And honestly, after being married to the man for 50 years, that describes him perfectly. I have a garage full of tools and materials (junk) he kept conveniently on hand to live up to his nickname.
For Randy, the series Alone was all about what he could learn from these folks improvising whatever it took to survive from the stuff they chose to bring in their backpacks. He also watched the episodes over and over again as they explained why they chose to include one thing or another in the backpack. It was like MacGyver College to him. I probably should have paid closer attention.
Being dropped alone in the middle of a remote Canadian wilderness, or in Patagonia, Argentina, or even in Mongolia is one thing. Surely finding yourself living alone in a comfortable house with a swimming pool in a nice neighborhood just 15 minutes from some of the best beaches on the Gulf of America isn’t the same. Is it?
Not physically, for sure. But psychologically, after the death of a spouse with whom you’ve had a good, satisfying, and healthy marriage for 50 years? Maybe, just maybe, it could be similar.
I’m 72 years old. I’ve never lived alone. Never had the opportunity. Never thought about it. Probably could never have afforded it. Nothing like being thrown into the deep end and told you better know how to swim.
There have been many times over the past 50 years when I’ve wanted to be alone for a short time. And since we were in the military for more than 20 years, there were times when one or the other of us were gone for extended periods of time. But that’s not the same as living alone.
I realized the other day that every single thing in the house, and even the house itself, is now owned by me. Just me, alone. That gave me pause. In the spirit of brutal honesty, I don’t know if I’m up to the challenge of assuming that much responsibility. All. By. Myself. Yikes! I’m finally just getting used to the idea that there’s no one but me who’s going to take the garbage out.
I’ve done (with help from family) a lot of the tasks that widows have to do after a husband dies. His clothes went to the homeless shelter. I cleaned out the bathroom drawers and cabinets he used. (What, pray tell, does a man do with 25 empty toilet paper rolls, even if he is nicknamed MacGyver?) I joked with my niece that she’d probably find 10 tubes of toothpaste in various levels of use. She laughed at me, thinking I exaggerated. There were 12. When you don’t live alone you sometimes have no idea what’s going on in the areas and locales of the abode you share with another person.
Lynn and I have been working to clean and organize the garage and courtyard (the outdoor area surrounded by a fence next to the garage) we built to accommodate his MacGyver “I’ll use that scrap of pipe, or wood, or picture frame some day” addiction. As his collection of “I’m sure I’ll find a use for that someday” outgrew the garage, the Homeowner Association Rules nazis had to be appeased by fencing in the unsightly piles of junk he was collecting.
Each week, now that he’s gone, we filled the trash and recycling cans to the brims. We took one load to the aluminum scrap yard yesterday (and came away with $80.75), and two loads to the dump. I imagine he’s not happy about the things we’re throwing away. But I’m alone in this house now and I’ll never, ever, ever, ever use any of that stuff. It weighs on me, just as it did when he was alive. I’m sorry, Rand, you know how I’ve felt about this for years now. And since I’m now alone, I get to make the big girl decisions.
I wonder, though, whether I’ll really be happy living in a place that’s relatively sterile and clutter free. Because that’s what living alone will turn into for me. Just about every drawer, cupboard, or closet I open is filled with Randy’s things. The only things that are mine, and that I am loath to give up, are books, puzzles, yarn, and my clothes.
It’ll probably take me a year to understand fully that I now live alone. And it’ll take me a year or more to sort through things that were just his. I’m grateful I don’t have to record it all for a TV audience who will watch and judge every move I make to see if I’m going to tap out.
I’m grateful that for all the crap that Randy collected and I had to live with over the years, we’d come to a place where we were both comfortable with the way we lived together.
I’m grateful I haven’t had to be alone these first many weeks after Randy moved to heaven permanently. My friends and family knew that being alone right now was not the best thing for me and they stepped up to make sure that didn’t happen.
I’m not quite ready yet, though. When I walk back into this house alone for the first time after I return from his Celebration of Life tour we’re embarking on this week, it’s going to be hard. Maybe harder than I can even imagine.
But I also know I don’t have the option of tapping out. Alone, perhaps for a season, perhaps for the rest of my life, is what I will learn to live with. I’ve read that some even learn to enjoy their aloneness, that they use it to embrace self-care and personal growth.
That’s how I’m going to frame this new reality at Grathen’s Last Resort…as an intentional opportunity to foster creativity, recharge, and build self-reliance.
Still, feel free to call for a reservation if you’d like to spend some time in Florida. I’m betting I’ll be up for company anytime anyone wants to visit.
P.S. For those of you who may not already know, Randy’s Celebration of Life will be on June 24, 2026, at 6 pm at Heartland Worship Center in Camdenton, Missouri. His internment, with military honors, is scheduled for August 14, 2026, at 1 pm at Sarasota National Cemetery in Sarasota, Florida followed by an open house at our (my) home.
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