That’s the hook they use to keep women in service positions emotional, physical, financial caretakers all so men can avoid the one thing they fear most: being accountable. The whole "you don’t want to die alone" narrative is a deflection from their own reality, where they're already spiritually and emotionally isolated.
Reader’s Note:
I was minding my own cosmic business, just laying low and scrolling through TikTok, just letting the algorithm do its thing. And then boom a video pops up of a young woman talking about the quiet tragedy of men dying alone in nursing homes. At first, I thought it was just another passing clip, but something about it grabbed me by the spirit. It wasn’t just the story of the man getting dressed up for a daughter who never showed. It was the way the nurse said, "Whatchu crying for? You wasn’t around when she was a child…"
That hit hard and deep. Because what we’re witnessing now is the long game of patriarchy playing out. Not just in marriages. Not just in fatherhood. But in the end. In death. And the more I sat with it, the more I realized this isn’t new to me. I’ve seen this. I’ve known this. It’s the same thing I’ve been speaking on for years: men don’t realize the weight of what they leave behind until there’s no one left to carry it.
So, I decided this needed to be more than just a passing clip. It needed to be a soul sermon. A reflection. A reckoning. A reminder to every woman who’s ever been told “you don’t want to die alone.” Because that line? That’s not a prophecy. That’s projection.
In this piece, we’re pulling back the sterile curtain of elder care to show what really waits on the other side of emotional absence.
We're talking:
The empty rooms.
The daughters who don’t come.
The wives who said, “Don’t call me ‘til he’s dead.”
And the lie that women are somehow destined for loneliness.
Nah. Let’s call this what it is: Hospice and hubris. The final scene of a script too many men wrote with disappearing ink. Now let’s break it all the way down.
This is Soul Soil where the dirt is sacred, the truth is grown, and the voice is ours.
From spirit to scar tissue, from memory to metaphysics, from one real woman to another. I will not sanitize the sacred. I will not polish pain to make it palatable. We are born to speak through silence. We walk barefoot here. We speak from the bone. This ain’t content. This is ceremony. Welcome.
SECTION ONE: When Visitors Stop Coming
The Rooms Are Quiet, But the Karma Is Loud!
There’s a special kind of silence in nursing homes that hits different. Not the silence of peace. Not the silence of rest. But the silence of regret the kind that wraps around your ankles like cold water and makes you sit with everything you didn’t do.
See, when men get older, many of them don’t just lose strength in their bodies they lose access to connection. Because when you spend your life building power instead of presence, nobody comes to visit the empire once it crumbles.
These homes are full of stories. Men who fathered children but weren’t fathers. Men who had wives but didn’t love. Men who “provided,” but never nurtured. Men who kept showing up in court, but never showed up at school.
And now?
They’re sitting in these homes with TV reruns and nurses who hand them pills but don’t know their birthdays. They wait by the door, they comb their thinning hair, they spray cologne for visits that never come. And when the daughter who used to wait at the window as a little girl finally says, "Don’t call me 'til he’s dead,” oh, now everybody wanna ask why she’s so cold.
But the real question is: Where was he when she needed warmth?
This is the part no one talks about when they tell women, "You don’t want to die alone." The truth? They already are. Right now. In beige-painted rooms, with bed alarms and plastic chairs, surrounded by echoes of people they never chose when they had the chance. They thought legacy was about money. They thought provision would cover up absence. They thought a young woman would push their wheelchair when age hit. But she cashed the check and kept it movin’. Because you don’t get love in death that you didn’t give in life.
These men aren’t just dying. They’re being forgotten on purpose.
This ain’t vengeance. This is cause and effect.
This is the real end of the patriarchal road. This is what happens when you live like everyone is replaceable and find out too late that you were.
SECTION TWO: Hospice & Hubris – The Final Curtain of Male Entitlement
Where the Ego Goes to Die... Alone.
By the time most of these men get wheeled into hospice, it’s not just their bodies that are shutting down it’s the delusion. Gone is the bravado. Gone is the bass in the voice. Gone is the control, the car keys, the calendar they never made time for anybody else on.
What’s left?
A bed. A button. A bag of regrets and a body that can no longer fake it. This is what unchecked male entitlement looks like when there’s no more performance to hide behind.
And let’s be real, Hospice is not where you go to heal. It’s where you go to face yourself. And a lot of these men ain’t built for that. Because what happens when the wife you neglected doesn’t come? What happens when the son you shamed stops answering? What happens when the woman you thought would wipe your ass in love decides her peace is more valuable than your past?
Hospice is the stage where hubris gives its final performance and there is no standing ovation.
Some of them try to repent. Some get sweet real quick. Suddenly it’s “tell her I love her,” or “I wish I’d been there.” But the room don’t echo back. Because by then? The audience is gone.
And even the staff know: you reaped this. That “patriarchal safety net” they thought they had? It has holes. Big ones. And now they’re falling through. This is the season of karmic accounting. No matter how loud they barked in their youth, death don’t flinch. It just asks: "Who loved you enough to hold your hand at the end?" And the answer? Ain’t always pretty. But it’s always true.
SECTION THREE: She Said “Don’t call me ’til that MF is DEAD” – The Silence of the Wives (and Daughters)
Closure don’t always come with a goodbye. Sometimes, it comes with a blocked number.
There’s a hush that comes over a woman when she’s finally done. Not petty. Not vengeful. Not dramatic. Done. And when you hear a woman say, "Don’t call me ’til that MF is DEAD," don’t rush to judge her sit your ass down and ask why she had to build that sentence out of her own survival. Because what they forget is that little girls remember. They remember the no-shows. The cold shoulders. The “go ask your mother.” The clumsy apologies that only came when someone else was watching. The quiet rooms where they cried themselves to sleep while he laughed in another woman’s arms or poured another glass. And when those girls grow up into women who heal? Who do the work? Who become the mother and the father? Who build their peace from scraps? They don't always want revenge. They just want distance. And they’ve earned it.
So, when that call comes in "He’s in hospice. He wants to see you." and she responds with silence, or even "Nah. Let him go in peace. But don’t call me,” know this: She’s not being cruel. She’s choosing not to re-open the wound you already left her to stitch up on her own. She is honoring herself in a way he never did. She’s protecting her timeline.
She’s not answering emotional subpoenas from men who didn’t even bother to show up for her first heartbreak, her first period, her first anything.
Y’all always wanna talk about “daddy’s little girl.” Until that little girl realizes daddy was never really there and she stops performing loyalty to a ghost. Let her be. She made her peace. And she don’t owe anybody a performance at his deathbed.
Not every absence is cruel. Sometimes it’s sacred.
SECTION FOUR: The Fable of Women Dying Alone – The Lie They Keep Telling Us to Keep Us in Line
Because fear is easier to sell than freedom. Let’s just go ahead and rip this dusty lie straight off the bone: Women dying alone is not a plague. It’s a projection.
They’ve been pushing this fear since women first started waking up and saying, "Nah, I’d rather be alone than be lied to in a king-size bed." And suddenly the headlines start screaming: "Single women over 40 more likely to die alone!" "Better settle, sis before it’s too late!" But guess what? Women ain’t afraid of being alone. They’re afraid of being unseen in relationships they’re already dying in.
Let’s talk numbers.
Let’s talk scenes.
Let’s talk real life.
Go walk into any nursing home on any given Tuesday. You’ll see the women: Daughters bringing mama flowers. Grandkids wheeling grandma down the hall. Friends braiding hair, playing cards, laughing like life still matters. And the men? Most of ‘em are alone. Sitting in the TV room staring into space. Not ‘cause women abandoned them, but because they burned every bridge in their lives thinking they'd never need to cross it again.
Women don’t die alone. We die surrounded. Surrounded by sisterhood. By legacy. By love we created in the gaps men left behind.
You wanna talk about someone dying alone? Talk about the man who cheated and left his wife when she got sick. Talk about the man whose own kids won’t pick up the phone. Talk about the man who kept starting new families and left all of them fatherless.
This fear-mongering tactic? It’s just another leash. Another whisper from the system saying, "Don’t get too bold, sis. Don’t leave the man. Don’t choose yourself. You’ll regret it." But the only thing we regret? Is how long we believed it.
So no, I will not shrink.
I will not settle.
I will not marry a man just to have someone call the coroner.
Because women like me? We don’t die alone. We die free.
FINAL WORD: The Ones Who Chose Themselves
Let them say what they want. Let them write the headlines.
Let them call us difficult, bitter, too much, too late, too loud, too old.
Let them tell their scary little bedtime stories about the “lonely woman” with no one to wipe her tears at the end.
Because we know the truth. We always did.
We are not dying alone we are dying whole.
We are dying with our dignity intact, with our laughter echoing in the souls of the women we mentored, raised, and loved.
We are dying with clear eyes, full hearts, and stories that didn’t end in resentment.
We are not cautionary tales. We are blueprints.
The real tragedy is not the woman who dies without a man next to her. It’s the man who dies surrounded by nurses but haunted by the silence of every person he chose not to show up for.
So let this be a homegoing for the lie. We bury it here. We scatter its ashes across the timeline. We plant truth in its place. And to every woman reading this, if choosing your peace means you walk alone, you ain’t walking lonely sis.
NikitheOracle