At 3 A.M., Alan Alda Forgot Loretta Was Gone — And Lost Her All Over Again

3:00 A.M.
January 21, 2026.
Seven days before Alan Alda turns 90.

For the first time in months…
he woke up smiling.

Not confused.
Not afraid.
Not heavy.

Smiling.

Because he had just dreamed of Loretta Swit.

They were back on set.
1972.
Young. Laughing. Alive.

She was teasing him the way she always did.

“You’re such a child, Alan.”

That voice.
That laugh.

He could still hear it.

Half-awake, still warm from the dream, Alan reached for his phone on the nightstand — right next to the wheelchair he now needed.

He had to call her.
Right now.

She’d love this story.
She’d laugh.
She’d say something sharp and kind and familiar.

He dialed the number he’d called for 53 years.

Ring.
Ring.
Ring.

No answer.

That was strange. Loretta always answered.

He smiled faintly.
She’d probably scold him.

“It’s three in the morning, Alan!”

Then she’d laugh.
And they’d talk for an hour.

He called again.

Ring.
Ring.
Ring.

Nothing.

Again.

Ring.
Ring.
Ring.

Then—

A recorded voice.

“The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

Alan’s heart began to race.

No longer in service?

What happened to her phone?
Was she okay?
Was she sick?

His hands were shaking now — not from Parkinson’s.

From fear.

“Arlene,” he whispered, touching his wife’s shoulder.
“Arlene, wake up.”

She stirred, then opened her eyes — and immediately saw his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

“It’s Loretta,” Alan said.
“She’s not answering. Her number says it’s disconnected.”

Arlene sat up.

Something in her expression changed.

“Alan…”

“I dreamed about her,” he rushed on.
“We were on set. She was laughing. I had to call her.”

“Alan…”

“Maybe she’s in the hospital,” he said.
“Maybe her phone broke. That’s it — her phone broke.”

“Alan,” Arlene said, her voice cracking.

“I’ll invite her to my birthday,” he added quickly.
“She’s never missed one. Not in 53 years.”

“Alan, stop.”

Tears were streaming down Arlene’s face now.

“What?” he asked, confused.
“What’s wrong?”

She took his face in her hands.

“Loretta is gone, Alan.”

He blinked.

“Gone… where?”

“No,” she said gently.
“She died.”

Eight months ago.

May 30th.

“Don’t you remember?”

The room went silent.

“No,” Alan whispered.

“You spoke at her funeral,” Arlene said through tears.
“You cried for hours. You held my hand.”

“No… no…”

The phone slipped from his shaking fingers and clattered to the floor.

So did he.

He slid out of the wheelchair, collapsing onto the cold floor — not from the fall…

But from the remembering.

It came back in waves.

The call in May.
The final conversation.
The funeral.
The grave.

He had known.

He had mourned.

And then… he had forgotten.

“I forgot she died,” he whispered.

Arlene pulled him into her arms, right there on the floor.

“You didn’t forget her,” she said.
“You forgot that she was gone.”

“How many times will this happen?” he sobbed.
“How many times will I wake up thinking she’s alive…
and lose her all over again?”

Arlene had no answer.

She just held him.

When dawn finally broke, she helped him back into his chair.

Alan picked up the phone.

Loretta’s number was still there.

He didn’t delete it.

Instead, he wrote a note and taped it to the phone:

Loretta Swit.
1937–2025.
She died May 30, 2025.
You loved her.
You still love her.
She is gone — but never forgotten.

Arlene kissed his forehead.

“And if you forget again,” she said,
“I’ll be here. Every time.”

Alan closed his eyes.

That’s what love is.

Remembering for someone
when they can’t remember for themselves.

Seven days later. January 28, 2026. His 90th birthday.

The morning light crept through the bedroom window. Alan opened his eyes.

For a brief, terrifying second, the familiar fog rolled in. The instinct to reach for the phone. The urge to hear her voice. The feeling that something was missing.

But before his hand could find the receiver, his eyes found the piece of paper.

Loretta Swit. 1937–2025. She died May 30, 2025. You loved her.

He read the words. Once. Twice.

The grief hit him again, but this time, it didn’t drop him to the floor. It just settled into the empty space in the room. A heavy, quiet companion.

“Happy birthday, Alan,” Arlene said softly from the doorway. She was holding a cup of coffee. Watching him closely. Checking the weather in his mind.

He looked at his wife and offered a small, fragile smile. “I remembered,” he said, his voice raspy. “I read the note. I remembered.”

Arlene walked over, set the coffee down, and kissed his cheek. “Good morning, my love. Ninety.”

“Ninety,” he repeated. It felt like a mountain he had climbed, only to find the summit so very quiet.

By noon, the house was filled with flowers. The phone rang constantly.

Jamie Farr called from California. “Ninety, Hawkeye! Who would’ve thought you’d outlive the whole damn camp?” Alan laughed. A real, genuine laugh.

Mike Farrell called an hour later. “Happy birthday, Captain.” “Thanks, B.J.”

They talked about their aching joints. About their families. About the past.

And then, there was a pause. The kind of pause that only exists between men who have shared a lifetime of history.

“I miss her today,” Mike said quietly. “She always sent those ridiculous, oversized birthday cards.”

Alan looked at the taped note on his phone. “I forgot she was gone last week,” Alan confessed, his voice breaking slightly. “I woke up and tried to call her. At three in the morning.”

Mike sighed softly through the receiver. “I know the feeling, Alan. I still catch myself looking for her name in my contacts.”

“It’s the brain playing tricks,” Alan said. “But the heart… the heart just wants what it’s used to.”

That evening, it was just Alan and Arlene. A quiet dinner. A small cake with two candles. A nine and a zero.

“Make a wish,” Arlene said, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes.

Alan looked at the flames. What do you wish for at ninety? When your hands shake and your memory betrays you? When the people who helped build your life are already gone?

He didn’t wish for youth. He didn’t wish for time to go backward.

He closed his eyes.

I wish to keep the good days. I wish to remember the laughs. And when I can’t… I wish to be forgiven for forgetting.

He blew out the candles.

Later that night, as the house fell silent, Alan sat by the window in his wheelchair. He held his phone in his lap.

He didn’t dial the number. He just traced his thumb over the tape. Over her name.

He imagined her sitting somewhere, in a canvas director’s chair with her name printed on the back. Looking down at him. Smiling that bright, sharp smile.

Happy birthday, you child, he could almost hear her say.

Alan smiled back into the dark.

“Goodnight, Loretta,” he whispered.

And for the first time in a week, he slept soundly. Knowing she was gone. But knowing, deep down, that as long as the note remained, she would never really leave him.