Even before my wife passed, she was either on the living room sofa bed or the hospital bed provided by Hospice, so I was sleeping alone. Wait, that is not entirely true. My dog lay against my back, and my cat cuddled close to me; both helped me stay warm on cold nights. They reminded me of my loss. Not just the loss of my wife, but the realization that, through fifty-plus years, I always had an intimate partner and seldom slept without her.
Yes, they remind me of too much; too many good memories. Happy they are here, partially to penetrate my lonely existence.
I keep busy running this house and practicing my guitar, and I'm able to run out for errands, but being a transplant to this nice old town has lasting consequences: I only get to know people here in a cursory way.
Longevity runs or ran in my family, and I cannot remember any family member living out their last days in this kind of situation. Family members were always visiting them until their end.
I guess this is the way it will be for the first humans who colonize Mars.