the throuple
Top 5 Reasons to Stay Open to New Friendships as You Age
The people who get you might arrive late.
You can still become someone new at 58, 78, or 98.
Dinner is less terrifying when someone saves you a seat.
A mensch with a craft beer can change your whole week.
Sometimes the thing that keeps you going… is finding your people again.
The saying goes that labels are a drag. Especially as we get older.
And sure, people love to talk about turning 50 and giving zero F***S. But let’s be honest: at 58, I still gave a few. Maybe by 80 you reach negative infinity F***S. I can only hope.
When Mom and I first walked into her assisted living facility, I could feel both of us scanning the dining room like transfer students arriving halfway through the school year.
It was high school all over again, except older and with orthopedic shoes.
No Breakfast Club tables to orient yourself toward. No obvious “brains,” “princesses,” “jocks,” or “criminals.” Just a sea of strangers and one terrifying sign:
NO SAVING SEATS.
Another sign read:
NO PAJAMAS IN THE LOUNGE.
Honestly? The stakes felt high.
This situation needed strategy.
Then Mom met Bernie.
And suddenly dinner got easier.
Mom usually skipped breakfast in favor of what I’d call a coffee marathon downstairs in the café—four cups deep, chatting on her smartphone against the rules, holding court like a retired teen rebel.
But by evening, Bernie would come by her room to collect her for dinner. Sometimes he’d text ahead:
Meet you downstairs 😘.
Always a two-top. Always the same seat across from Mom. And somehow, despite the giant NO SAVING SEATS sign, nobody ever took Bernie’s chair.
Bernie usually arrived carrying a craft beer from the tiny fridge in his room, proudly celebrating another 10,000-step day while casually mentioning the three bus lines he’d explored or the lunch he’d had with a friend after stopping at Trader Joe’s to pick up snacks for my mother. They were an inseparable two-some. Bernie, a mensch in his late 80s. Still curious. Still roaming the city. Still showing up for people, especially Mom.
Then Mom met Sylvia.
Sylvia was glamorous in that old-school, “I refuse to disappear” kind of way. Always dressed for the lobby. Lipstick on. Earrings in. Sometimes even gloves and a hat. Ready for company.
Mom liked that.
They could talk about “before.” Before assisted living. Before medications became conversational topics. Before every outing required logistics.
And Sylvia fully appreciated Bernie’s charm.
Soon the three of them were inseparable.
I’d arrive for visits and find them sitting together over coffee, chatting and laughing like camp friends who had somehow found each other again decades later.
Sylvia had kids too—a daughter who was a TV newscaster and a menschy son in Los Angeles. I don’t remember all the details anymore, but I remember the feeling I got when Mom was with Syliva and Bernie. Mom was animated again. Engaged. Busy.
There were even moments when she’d rush me off the phone:
“No honey, I can’t talk right now, I’m with Sylvia.”
Honestly? Music to my ears.
I could get used to this.
Now, Sylvia did come with accessories. Namely, an oxygen tank she schlepped around with theatrical flair. Every time I asked how she was doing, she’d fling her arms wide and announce:
“I’m still here!”
Big smile. Full performance.
And then one day… she wasn’t.
When Sylvia got sick, Mom showed up. She sat with her in her room. Talked with her children on the phone. Bore witness to the slow heartbreak of someone fading.
And when Sylvia died, Mom was gutted.
Of course she still had Bernie. But something shifted. Because what she lost wasn’t only a friend. She lost the version of herself that had come alive inside that friendship. The gossip. The coffee chats. The feeling of belonging somewhere again. The little accidental throuple they’d formed against all odds.
And I think that loss took something out of her. What struck me most wasn’t that people still make friends in assisted living. It was how deeply it still matters. At every age, we’re still hoping someone will wave us over and say: Sit here. We saved you a seat.
dōte.worthy:
the twin cities pbs (fka next avenue) platform shares this story by Patricia Corrigan on how to warm up your existing friendships
down under, men’s sheds are a thing. a very cool concept!
here is a short article from AARP on Why Friends Are Good for Your Health and Well-Being
anecdōtes:
Welcome to anecdōtes, our weekly writing prompt for those of us taking care of aging loved ones while simultaneously googling “am I having a midlife crisis or is this just Tuesday?”
This Week’s Writing Prompt:
you’re walking into your high school cafeteria and all the groups are present (the jocks, the nerds, the art kids).
who do you choose to sit with now?
who did you want to sit with then?
are you surprised by your choice?
dōt.age exists because we’re all navigating the uncharted territory of caring for aging parents, and we need to share our stories.
This isn’t about being a writer—it’s about being human and sharing our messy, unfiltered truths of eldercare.
Each week, we’ll drop a prompt.
You write for five minutes.
No polish, no pressure—just permission to be gloriously imperfect.
If you want to share what you wrote, send it our way and we’ll share it on our Substack so we can all feel a little less alone in this wild mixtape that is our lives.
SEND TO: LNahmie@gmail.com