Illustration by Alex Chen
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People need friends. I only realized how much when I found myself without any. Having no friends was like having a pain that latches on and doesn’t let go. Some friendships have arrived in my life with great fanfare, while others have developed slowly like a gentle simmer. I welcome them any which way.
I once had a friend who unceremoniously erased me from their life. Perhaps they felt neglected or misunderstood, but it could also be that they simply ghosted me. The breakup felt particularly final, and it proved to be. Sometimes decades must pass before hurts heal, but that didn’t happen in my case. I accepted many years ago that I’d never know why that friendship ended. I would’ve preferred an out-and-out fight. At least then, I would have known.
I’ve connected with strangers in the unlikeliest of circumstances. When I lived in the English countryside 40 years ago, I was fortunate to have a community public-health nurse visit me once a week at home for six weeks after childbirth. As much as my picturesque surroundings delighted me, it was no substitute for a friend. I was desperate for adult company: I had two babies under 14 months, a husband who was away on frequent business trips, sometimes for two weeks at a time, and I didn’t have any family members in England. Back then, I felt like I was in the witness protection program, miles away from everyone I held dear.
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The nurse told me about a Canadian in a neighbouring town who had given birth 10 days before me, and who was equally isolated and lonely. It was serendipitous. She made introductions, and we became close friends for the next 11 years, and even beyond when I returned home to Canada. True friends stay connected for decades, even when separated by oceans, through celebrations such as weddings and the birth of grandchildren, to the heartache of ill health and divorce.
Opportunities to make new friends don’t present themselves often, so I take advantage of them when they do. I am open to a friendly smile, someone who seems interesting, or, best of all, that feeling of déjà vu as if I have met this person before. Recently, I sold an item on Facebook Marketplace, and after a 20-minute chat with the buyer, I felt like I had met a kindred spirit. Our second meeting lasted two hours over coffee. Our budding friendship happened organically when I least expected it. An instant friend. Bingo, bango, bongo.
My father always told me I only needed one friend. Gill, his buddy of forty years, was the perfect friend, and my dad didn’t see the need to find another. They visited each other several times a week. Nothing special: playing gin rummy, laughing and drinking an obscene amount of coffee. One day, my dad called me from Vancouver Island – it was the first time he had phoned, as he’d only ever written to me in all the years I’d been living in England. There were no formalities when I answered the phone. Just two words: “Gill died.” I was 40 and had never heard my father cry until that day.
Then, 30 years later, I found myself in a similar situation: two friends I’d known for decades died, one moved far away to another city and, suddenly, I only had one friend. That’s one of the hazards of growing old, along with my rusty bones and lousy grey matter that forgets words before they even leave my mouth.
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I’ve been told, “No one makes friends after 60.” I hoped this wasn’t true. It’s well-known that loneliness is a killer, and brief interactions are enough to ward off illness. It was imperative that I make friends for my mental health, so I went to the seniors’ lunch to see if I could meet new people. I was reluctant to go. I didn’t see myself as a senior, even though I was. I disliked the term “old age” and, more so, admitting I belonged to that group. Several people at the centre had canes or walkers; I walk with a cane and fit right in. I had earned my spot at the seniors’ table.
My senior friends and I act like juveniles: e-mailing each other the night before lunch to see who’s going, like teenagers asking their friends if they’re going to the party Friday night. We laugh unabashedly like young children farting in the bath, enjoy a meal together and, as soon as we get up from the table, already look forward to the next Monday when we’ll meet again. Life changes from sparrow-grey to lively whenever they’re around.
We can’t choose our family, but we certainly can choose our friends. I love my family, but don’t see eye to eye with them on certain subjects like politics. I value that my friends are like-minded when it comes to the challenges in the world today.
And finally, adult children remain a blessing as the relationship gradually shifts from parent-child to friendship. They even offer me advice. I cherish their friendship above all others.
Be the friend you wish you had.
Louise Dwerryhouse lives in Vancouver.