An elderly friend, a woman in her mid-70s, calls me several times a week with the same problem: She can’t figure out the buttons on her TV remote.

I go over what she needs to do, step by step. This has been going on since early January, so finding the solution has an easy, established routine. It never takes long.

Before we’re done, she’ll write directions on a Post-it and stick it somewhere visible. I’ve been to her house, so I know they are there, everywhere, in fact, but I don’t think she likes to use them. Or maybe she’s growing forgetful, which is a kinder way to describe what is likely happening to her.

I think she would rather call me, or sometimes Mrs G., than do anything else. She has no family, only a few close friends, most of whom live on the mainland. She’s probably lonely.

Until the phone calls started, I never thought what it would be like to be alone.

I haven’t been alone since I met Mrs. G. in 1984. If I need help with something, she’s the first person I turn to. If I have a question about something, I can shout across the house and get an answer. I ask her so many questions, in fact, that she gets mad at me for asking them.

But she answers them.

Who would I call if Mrs. G. wasn’t around? Probably our daughters. They are college-educated young women with jobs and responsibilities, a logical choice. But my fear is that as they get older, they will behave as I did when my own mother would call in the latter years of her life: too self-absorbed to really, truly listen. I guess I was a poor son.

My mother would call with questions about her cellphone and internet access, and I had no patience then. I carry that guilt like Jacob Marley carries chains, and my hope is that my daughters were not paying close attention.

To be honest, life now seems finite for the first time, and my friend’s situation has become a subtle reminder of what can happen.

My friend has lived a life full of travel and experience. She created a successful business that held its own in a competitive market. And she lived on her own terms — as much as she can. If she wants a martini and a cigarette at happy hour, she has the right to indulge. And she does.

But she outlived those who were closest to her. And now, being alone can have consequences.

In April I got a taste of what that really meant when my friend wound up in a hospital emergency room.

For five hours I nagged nurses and doctors who decided not to question my presence. Half the time I was the only other person in the room, and it gave me chills to think about spending that time alone.

The next day I found myself arguing with a patient rights advocate about ignoring my friend, and a few days after that I blew up at an administrator when the hospital lost my friend’s wallet, clothes, slippers, everything she had arrived with. Eventually, someone found her stuff.

Mrs. G. views my behavior as atonement for not listening more to my mother, but I don’t want to give it any deeper meaning.

I like to think that it’s the right thing to do. Let’s leave it at that.

Reach Mike Gordon at 529-4803 or email mgordon@staradvertiser.com.