Echo in the Night
Two weeks before Christmas, I was admitted to the rehabilitation unit at St. Johns Medical Centre in Bath. I hadnt managed to come in earlier there simply werent any beds free.
When it comes to health, you cant take chances, so when my GP handed me the referral letter, I was honestly relieved. Everyone in town spoke highly of St. Johns, their reputation was second to none.
Still, I couldnt quite shake an odd feeling deep down. Christmas was right around the corner traditions, mince pies, crackers, and everything else Id known since childhood.
Christmas had always been a special time for me. I loved putting up the tree, decorating the house, and getting swept up in the seasonal flurry. But this year, Id have to give it all up.
From my very first day, I kept trying to convince myself it really wasnt such a big deal. This wouldnt be the last Christmas, after all; perhaps by New Years Day Id be back home.
And, for the most part, I believed myself.
***
My room was quite cosy just two beds and a telly. My roommate, Emily Parker, was half my age and already settled in. There were plenty of treatments lined up: hydrotherapy, occupational exercises, all designed to get me back on my feet.
I really threw myself into it. Not a single session missed. I even signed up for the small gym, mainly because the physio instructor, Helen, was absolutely lovely.
The doctors told me my recovery was on track, that I was making great strides.
I smiled, nodded along, but inside I felt strangely empty.
For the first time in my life, I wasnt buying gifts, didnt have a shopping list for Christmas pudding, wasnt planning which jumper to wear.
Christmas was happening somewhere else, passing by as if it hardly existed.
Health comes first, Id repeat to myself. Ill celebrate with Emily, it will still be Christmas after all.
On the 23rd two days before Christmas Emily was discharged. When the door quietly shut behind her, I was alone. Truly alone, with only the soft hum of the corridor beyond.
***
On Christmas Eve morning, the phone rang my children checking in, wishing me a happy Christmas, promising theyd visit once the holidays had calmed down.
I understood they were busy, had their own families, their own plans. Colleagues sent festive text messages during the day
And then, it was night.
***
I could hear, through the thin walls, the distant sound of laughter and singing as the other patients gathered after the Kings address.
They clinked their plastic cups of squash or weak tea, cheering, Merry Christmas! Heres to the New Year!
I stayed where I was, unmoved.
It felt as if there was an invisible barrier between myself and their cheerful noise I wasnt a part of it all. Worse, I didnt think anyone truly missed me.
***
I reached for my phone, desperate just to hear someones voice.
But who to call?
My contact list stretched on and on.
Rebecca an old schoolfriend I hadnt seen in decades, though we liked each others photos on Facebook now and then. Convenient, but utterly shallow.
Mark my ex-husband. No point calling him.
I scrolled onward.
Stephen my son. Of course hed answer. Hed have kind words, would even drop everything and rush down if I asked.
But I couldnt bring myself to appear weak hed always seen his mother as strong.
None of the other names meant anything, not tonight. Not for this. It would have felt intrusive, even strange, to call any of them to say Merry Christmas. I doubted theyd feel differently.
Who am I meant to ring? Just someone I whispered into the sterile silence.
And then I began to cry.
I had everything a home, a career, decades of memories, so many acquaintances.
And somehow, nothing at all. No one.
***
Fully aware of this fact, I grabbed my coat and headed outside. The cold air caught my breath.
There was a tiny park across the road, the trees dusted with snow. I crossed without thinking, just needing to move.
On a bench, beneath a lamplight, sat a man of about my age, perhaps a little older. His gaze drifted past the lighted windows of the city, out into nowhere.
Something within me twisted. I wanted to say something, anything.
Evening, I managed.
He looked up and smiled, a real gentle smile, with crows feet fanning out beside his blue eyes.
And to you. Merry Christmas, he replied.
I couldnt help returning the smile. The simplicity of those words, the warmth behind them, made something flicker in my chest.
What brings you out here? I asked.
No one to talk to at home, he said, matter-of-fact. My wife passed away three years ago. My daughters in Australia. She called this afternoon, wished me well, but said she was tied up. So here I am. Are you from the hospital?
I nodded. Recovering from an illness. And tonight, I realised theres no one I can really ring on Christmas night. Hundreds of contacts in my phone, and I couldnt think of a single one I could actually call.
He didnt look surprised.
Yes loneliness creeps up quietly, doesnt it? Suddenly you understand that something might go wrong and no one would know. No one would hear, no one would come. You have to take a chance like you did tonight, speaking to me first. That shows youve still got spirit.
I dont feel strong at all
That doesnt matter, he replied gently. Strength isnt something youre born with. You find it when you meet life head-on, even when it turns away from you. And you know what? Even if you dont come back tomorrow, Ill still be waiting. Because now I know you exist.
He spoke with such sincerity that I suddenly realised Id been waiting for someone to pull me out of my loneliness without once realising I might be that person for someone else.
***
On my way back up to the ward, I slipped my hand into my pocket and touched the scrap of paper the man Henry Thomas had handed me, his number carefully penned in neat, shaky writing.
The emptiness inside hadnt vanished, but a small warmth blossomed there: the echo of a strangers voice.
Ill be waiting
For the first time in weeks, I found myself thinking not of all that I had lost, but of what might happen tomorrow. Not tomorrow in the sense of some new life just, simply, tomorrow. In the morning.
Maybe I should call I thought, drifting to sleep, just to say, Good morning, Henry
And so I learned that sometimes, to feel alive again, all it takes is a single word spoken in the darkness.
