Dying Single In Los Angeles
Randy’s last cig.
When my time comes, I will likely die alone in my apartment. That is the reality for singles in the city. We’re flying through the masses solo. I’ve been living in the same apartment building, just off Sunset Boulevard, for almost a decade now, and in my time here, three people have died alone, one just before I moved in. The four died of different causes, from falling and hitting their head to suicide. Some might think dying alone is tragic, but would it be better to die in a cold hospital around strangers? My dad passed away in the white, sterile environment of an ICU. It was a terrible experience. Every day he was there, I wished I could take him to his music, books, and garden. He died looking up at unfamiliar faces, in a stranger’s bed.
One of the four deaths was a friend and next-door neighbor of mine, Randy Scarbeary. His was the most recent. Death was expected, as he was in his 70s and not in the best health, but I thought it would take longer. He died from cardiac-related issues, on his couch, with his cat. Death came as he lit a cigarette. The barely burnt cig was sitting across from his spot on the couch, in an ashtray on the coffee table. I know lighting that cig was one of the last things he did. He never wasted cigs. That last drag could not have happened in a hospital. Surrounded by the treasures he collected as a leather worker and as a musician who traveled as the drummer for FBC Band of Ft. Wayne, Indiana, Randy died, exercising his free will.
I did not always think it would be best to die alone at home. It took Randy’s death and spending time in his apartment after he passed to change my perspective. For a few weeks, I convinced Randy to stay in hospice care because he was looking frail and his doctor insisted he have round-the-clock care. They gave him his own room. It reminded me of my dad’s hospital room. White walls, small bed, tv. When I walked in to visit Randy the first time, he was sitting up on his bed, still looking like an old rockstar. His tattooed sleeves the only art in the entire facility. He complained about the pancakes and bacon and was worried about Boots, his cat. I told him Boots was safe and that he should be happy about being in a home where all of his needs were being met, but I was wrong, and it makes me remember my dad’s desperation to leave the hospital. They deserved to die in their colorful space.
One night, Randy called me, saying he was leaving the hospice. He returned home to ring in the new year with Boots. May 2nd, he died. Now, as I prepare to hand his keys to the apartment manager, I understand the importance of dying in one’s own home. For days I’ve sat on his couch, looking at his last cig and his collection of little treasures, slowly coming to understand that death was merciful in waiting until he was home, free to live his last days without compromise, in peace.
Aside from my change in perception of solitude and death, I have started to question what friendship means. Would any of my friends look after me once I’m frail and close to death? Would they visit me in the hospital or at least keep me company via text? Would they care enough to distribute my belongings once I’m dead, or let an apartment manager throw me away? Would they celebrate my life, together in ceremony?
No one but me visited Randy when he was in the hospital or hospice care. He only had Tina, his ex-wife, who would check on him daily from Florida, and me. A man who gave his best years to the world as a musician died without getting back the same connection he so freely offered.
The church was mostly full for my dad’s funeral service. I didn’t know who a lot of those people were. His current wife at the time was especially questionable. She was gone so much it was like my dad was single. Besides a handful of family members, I know they weren’t all making time to connect with my dad. Even I was lacking. I wonder who in that crowd was truly his friend. No one held a proper ceremony for Randy. I was going to organize one, but when I thought about the days I sat with Randy in the hospital, watching him reach for his phone and look dejected at seeing no texts or calls besides Tina’s, I stopped planning.
I expect an end like Randy’s for myself. I think a lot of us single city creatures will have an end like the four Hoover Street dwellers. Despite our bullshit, I continue to love people, but I’d rather die at home alone with my cat.
