Herself speaks:
One Friday morning in November of 2007, I huddled wretchedly at the edge of an exam table while a surgeon reviewed the results of an ultraound of my gallbladder. When he entered the room, the first words out of his mouth were not, "Hello, I'm Dr. So-and-so," but rather, "How did your gallbladder get SO BAD?" And bad it was. I was scheduled for surgery at 5 PM that afternoon. I went home to ensure that we had everything we needed for the Offspring and the pets, and to gather a few personal items to take to the hospital. I called my parents (who were thousands of miles away) and my mother-in-law (who was caring for my young niece and nephew) to let them know. I e-mailed my telecommuting office to inform them I’d be out for a couple of days. Finally, I telephoned my Beloved at work and provided him the schedule for fetching the Offspring after school. There was no one else who could do so.
It was a complicated routine that year, with one in high school, one in middle school, and one still in grade school. Release times were at half-hour intervals, and the last pickup was not until 4:15. I mentally ran through the plan and determined that by the time my Beloved gathered them all and settled them in at home to look after themselves for a few hours, it would be unlikely that he would get to the hospital until quite close to 5 PM – and possibly not until after.
I took myself to the hospital at 3 PM as required. Except for occasional brief ministrations by the pre-op staff, I had only my thoughts and the pain from my gallbladder for company. The minutes crawled by as I watched the clock.
Middle school gets out first. Right now, my Beloved is probably picking up Offspring the second. I opened my book, but I had too much discomfort to concentrate on reading. No one was there to distract me with conversation, to agree that yes, IVs are yucky, or to poke fun at the traditionally dreadful hospital gown with me.
Offspring the third, who will be most surprised and disturbed by the change in routine today, is getting out of school now. I fiddled with my iPod, but the music was not helpful. There were no reassurances that it would all be fine, that I would feel much better soon, or that another set of surgical scars did not matter.
Finally, the high school bell is ringing, and Offspring the first will be walking to her pick-up spot. Nobody to tell me that no, it was not likely that I’d wake up in the middle of the anesthesia, but yes, it was quite likely that I would in fact wake up without incident when it was all over.
Did the pickups go smoothly? Are they all at home now? Are the Offspring worried? Will my Beloved make sure that they all know what to have for dinner? Is he on his way here? There was no hand to hold.
The surgeon arrived at 4:45 and asked whether there was anyone to whom he should speak before we got started. I could tell him only that my husband was on his way but was not there yet. He rolled his eyes ever so slightly, I thought. I did not want to annoy or inconvenience him or the staff by any delay, and I did not know exactly where my Beloved was en route, so I assured the surgeon that we did not need to wait for my husband. He excused himself to scrub. I watched the doorway.
At 4:55, I handed my glasses to the pre-op nurse at her request and as nonchalantly as possible asked her to say hello to my husband for me when he arrived. Promptly at 5 PM, the OR technician appeared and asked, “Ready to go?” He released the brake on the gurney and positioned it to be wheeled down the hall.
As I had suspected but had fiercely hoped would not happen, I would have to go into this surgery without any goodbye. My Beloved was not there. The medical personnel were all strangers. There was no one there to console me. I was alone.
I tried to convince myself that I was fine, to remind myself that this was not a life-or-death situation, to tell myself that I was brave and strong and merely wanted - but did not need – someone familiar to be there with me. Half-formed thoughts scattered as an icicle of despair blossomed within my core and swiftly enveloped me entirely. I was too stricken for tears to flow; they seemed to freeze into the corners of my eyes. I could find no words to help myself. I was bereft. Without hope. Lost.
The anesthesiologist accompanying my gurney down the hall noticed my distress. In his infinite mercy, he said kindly, “Let me give you something to help you relax.” He pushed a needle into my IV, and I remembered nothing more until I woke up in post-op.
The horror of being so alone still haunts me.
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Reflecting afterwards, I had to acknowledge that responsibility for those terrible moments rested solely on my shoulders. I had deliberately avoided becoming close to other people besides my Beloved, and had reaped what I had sown – a terrible isolation at the moment when I most needed a companion. I had to take steps to try to ensure that I would not face such a situation again. I had to find some friends.
I therefore crawled out of my shell and began tentative efforts at establishing friendships. It was quite tricky at first. My difficulties with reading other people and understanding their motivations generated occasional frustrating and uncomfortable moments. Awkwardness. Insecurity. Mental fatigue. It was so hard. Nevertheless, I persevered. I was motivated for the first time to try to build the types of human bonds that I had essentially shunned for over a decade.
The Universe must have recognized my Herculean efforts, for it smiled upon me and delivered to me a very small handful of exquisitely wonderful people who have become my friends.
Now, while there is still a chance that I may face some terrible future moment alone, that possibility does not frighten me as much as it once did. I have had joy in the company of my friends that serves both as counterbalance against isolation, and also as warmth when the chill of despair threatens to take root. I have confidence that if I have the courage to call upon my friends in a time of need, that they will be there for me. This is miraculous to me.
It is a remarkable happiness to have these friends. They have taught me so much about themselves, about myself, and about humanity in general. Because of them, I have learned that there are much larger things at stake, far beyond and much more important than my own tiny crisis on the way to the OR over three years ago.
I understand now: that horrific loneliness can happen to any of us.
Yet I know now too: I can make a difference.
I try my very hardest to be readily available to these people who are so important to me. I try to keep an eye on them; I try to look after their well-being. The minutiae of daily life are at times just as wearying as sudden larger difficulties, and I want my friends to know that regardless of whether things are big or small, I am here for them, and it is my pleasure to help in any way that I can. They are not alone.
On each occasion that I interact with my friends, and with every small service that I am able to perform for them, I feel as though I am warding off the beast of loneliness -- not only for myself, but for them as well. I am building a protective wall of baked goods around my friends, one muffin at a time. And that bulwark shelters me, too.
If I can prevent even one of them from ever feeling as alone as I felt in my moment of despair, then my time on this planet has been well served. This is my wish, and this my prayer.
Amen.
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