I have sometimes depended on the kindness of strangers

It takes a village to raise a 45-year-old

When my mum died, it didn’t take long to hit me that I was alone.

Completely, utterly, involuntarily alone.

Alone in the way that people mean when they tell their partner or parentified child, “I’m so glad we’ve got each other, I don’t know what I’d do on my own.”

Alone like a Hallmark movie heroine who plans to spend Christmas re-organising her spreadsheets (until she gets snowed in at a Vermont farm and falls in love with a humble local who turns out to be a billionaire philanthropist).

Alone like one of those elderly people who dies in their flat and aren’t discovered until six months later, unread letters barricading their front door and TV blaring as Ben Shephard intones for the 180-millionth time, “You’ve found your tipping point.”

As an introvert who always struggled to develop close relationships, lost friends due to chronic illness and is living through a loneliness-enhancing global pandemic that stubbornly refuses to end, I’d neglected to plan for this eventuality, to gather the kind of local community that provides daily check-ins and freshly-baked lasagnas.

In the first few days, a lot of people sent supportive notes, all of which I appreciated. A few of them, with genuine concern, I’m sure, sent messages like, “I hope you have some support,” but never contacted me again which made me think ….From who?

I don’t have a partner, siblings or kids. My nearest relatives live on the other side of the city and my remaining parent is 5000 miles away. They’re keeping in touch and my dad came to stay for ten days, which allowed me to enjoy some nice moments for the first time since my mum died.

But for the most part, it was just me on the sofa, tears streaming and hands shaking as I phoned — among many others —the coroner, the funeral director and the local council to find out if I was entitled to stay in this flat or would be forced to move out.

No one squeezed my hand, wiped my tears, or shared the workload.

I realised pretty quickly that rather than lean on some pre-existing network of life-long besties, I was going to have to find care wherever it was offered and in whatever form it came.

Every day, I’d have to reach out, piece together enough company and comfort to last until bedtime, and then wake up and do it again.

Don’t get me wrong, I have friends.

I’m fortunate that I haven’t gone a single day since my mum died without someone checking in on me in some form, often the same handful of people, but sometimes others, too.

Any text, email or phone call is appreciated, any act of kindness is welcome. You couldn’t be too kind, couldn’t contact me too much.

I don’t need time or space or privacy to grieve, I need to feel like I won’t be left to wither and die.

Most of the friends who’ve been the most concerned, attentive and supportive have never met me in real life, including one who lets me call her for hours at a time despite her own health struggles, and never makes it seem like she’s doing me a huge favour (even though she is).

When I was sitting by my mum’s hospital bed, waiting for her heart to stop beating and wishing it never would, I messaged an online pal in Australia who I normally share shielding woes and Wordle scores with, and she chatted with me until I packed up to go, helping me feel like I wasn’t totally alone.

My MA writing cohort have variously checked in on me, offered expert advice when needed and insisted I attend our monthly writing group despite my inability to offer any feedback, just letting me sit and nod so I can be among more friends I’ve never met.

As much as I appreciate all this kindness and connection, I don’t know enough people to fill all the hours I somehow have to survive, and that’s where total strangers come in.

When I didn’t know what to do for my mum’s funeral, the members of a clinically vulnerable patients Facebook group went through options with me, shared what they’d done and most helpfully of all, reassured me that my mum wouldn’t want me to go into debt for the sake of a ritual.

I posted about how lonely and lost I was feeling on Reddit, and people were nice to me there, too. On Reddit! Three of us even formed our own group off-site to chat and exchange support, and another sends me regular notes of encouragement, despite not knowing me at all.

What’s saved my life more than anything has been The New Normal’s Good Grief online meetings. I attended my first within days of my mum’s death, tears starting during the introductions as I turned off my camera and sobbed, head in my hands. This won’t help, I thought, It’s too depressing, everyone feeling so sad.

But somehow, just by listening, maybe contributing a bit, not having to cheer up or worry what anyone thought of me, I felt lighter. From the moment the host said “If there’s one, there’s two,” to the end of the meeting when they told me to come back, I felt like I mattered and for the first time since the earth moved off its axis, I cooked and ate a meal. I wish that feeling had lasted more than a few hours, but it helps keep me going.

Still, I need more.

I used to joke (not tastefully) that I’d rather die than call the Samaritans, my social anxiety making the thought of reaching out when in distress seem impossible.

Since my mum died, I’ve phoned them several times. I always feel a bit ashamed, like it’s the desperate actions of a social reject with nothing to live for. In calmer moments, though, I see it for what it is: a gift.

It’s incredible to think that there’s a network of people who are there 24 hours a day, waiting to listen and engage, for free! (Plus, if it’s good enough for James Acaster, it’s good enough for me.)

I try to see them — and the kind people at Marie Curie and Cruse, who I’ve also contacted more than once — as the modern version of the kind of society people used to live in, where it took a village to raise a child and we cared about the people close to us on purpose, on principle.

Is it always an ideal experience to call a mental health or bereavement helpline? No, but what is? Has Marie Curie accidentally disconnected me three times? Yes, of course.

Sometimes Samaritans gives you a Liverpudlian woman who you can chat with as if she’s a beloved auntie, sometimes you get a posh bloke who keeps intoning, “At least you have your memories,” as if that’s any comfort at all. Either way, getting grief-stricken thoughts out of your head and into someone else’s has a pressure-relieving effect. (As the brilliant comedian Maria Bamford puts it, “When the suicide hotline has a 45-minute wait, call anyone!” ) (She also says “If you stay alive for no reason at all, please do it for spite.”)

I’ve joined Facebook group socials for people Coviding alone and chatted and laughed for hours when I never thought I could. Last week, I even went to an in-person event held by a new Covid cautious group, the first time I’d socialised IRL since 2019 but hopefully not the last.

I wish it hadn’t taken my mum dying to discover that (not to go all Sally Field at the Oscars but) people like me. Some people, anyway. They like talking to me and spending time with me and aren’t just humouring me because they feel sorry for me (although frankly, I’d appreciate anyone who’s doing that, too).

I wish it hadn’t taken this tragedy to crack me open. To make me realise that there’s so much love and kindness in the world, so many people who want to help and connect, even if they don’t know you yet, even if it doesn’t feel like it, even if you think you’re alone.