Echo in the Night
It was two weeks before Christmas when I checked into the rehabilitation centre. Thered simply been no beds available before then. Honestly, I was relieved to finally have the referral in hand; everyone in town praised St. Georges Medical Centre, and Id heard nothing but good things.
Still, a little pang stirred inside me. Christmas was right around the cornerour old traditions, mince pies, the tree, and all that. Ive loved Christmas since I was a boy: the thrill of hanging tinsel on the tree, decorating the house, that peculiar mix of joy and comfortable chaos that comes with the holiday rush. This year, I would have to let all of it go.
From the start, I kept telling myself that it wasnt the end of the world, that Id still have plenty more Christmases ahead, and there was every chance Id be home by New Years.
And I rather thought I believed it.
***
Theyd placed me in a cosy two-bed ward with a telly; my roommate was a woman half my age. They set me up with plenty of useful routines: physiotherapy, light workouts. I even signed up for the gym, partly because I quite liked the physio instructors cheerful manner.
The doctors kept insisting I was making great progress, recovery well on its way.
I smiled, nodded along, but inside I felt deflated.
For the first time in my life, I wasnt preparing for Christmas. No shopping for presents, no pondering what to cook, nor which shirt to wear for Christmas dinner. The season rolled on somewhere beyond my reach, quickly passing by as though it belonged to someone else.
I told myself again, Your health comes first. You can always celebrate with your roommate. It ought to have reassured me.
But on the 23rd, my roommate got discharged. When the door shut behind her, I realised I was entirely on my own. Silence settled inabsolute, hospital quiet.
***
On Christmas Eve, my children rang in the morning. They wished me merry Christmas, asked after my health, promised to drop in sometime after the holidays.
I understoodthey had their own families, their own traditions. Midday was a smattering of text messages from old colleagues.
And then night came.
***
From my bed, I listened as others from the ward gathered in the hallway after the Queens speech for their own celebration.
Tally-ho! Merry Christmas! All the best for the New Year! they called.
I remained where I was.
There seemed an impenetrable wall between me and all that merriment.
I felt utterly unneeded.
***
I reached for my mobilecraving the sound of another persons voice.
Who to ring, though?
My contacts list was long, but none seemed right. Gracea school friend I havent seen in years, though we occasionally give each other a thumbs up on Facebook. All perfectly polite and anaemic.
Simonmy ex-wifes brother. No point calling him.
I kept scrolling.
Edwardmy son. Of course, hed pick up. Hed talk, even come straight over if I needed him.
But I couldnt let him see me like this. Hes always known his dad as the strong one.
Nobody else seemed suitable either. In that moment, I realised there was not one person I could call simply to say Merry Christmas. It felt like my call would be intrusive, out of place. Unwelcome.
Who can I call? Anyone at all I muttered into the sterile hush.
And then, quite unexpectedly, I found myself in tears.
I had everything: a house, a career, experience, dozens of acquaintances. Yet, right then, I had nothing. Not really. Not anyone.
***
That realisation startled me. With a sudden urge to escape, I threw on my overcoat and stepped outside. The cold struck my lungs, sharp and invigorating.
There was a small, snowy square next to the centre. I wandered over, not really knowing whysimply needing to move.
A man sat alone on a bench, about my age, maybe older. He wasnt gazing at the festive lightsjust staring into the endless night.
My heart gave a twist. I wanted, suddenly, to say something. Anything.
I spoke quietly, Evening.
He turned. Smiledgenuinely, with little crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
And a good evening to you. Merry Christmas, he said.
I smiled back in spite of myself. Such a simple, timely phrase. Inside, something shifted.
What brings you out here?
No one to talk to at home, he replied in measured tones. My wife passed three years ago. My daughter lives in Germanyshe rang this afternoon, wished me well, but shes busy. So, here I am. What about you? From the hospital?
I nodded.
Yes, recovering from an illness. Realised tonight I had no one to ring on Christmas night. Plenty of numbers in my phone, yet not a soul I could actually call.
He didnt seem surprised.
Yes Loneliness sneaks up on you. One day you realise: if something happened, no one would know. No one would hear. No one would come, he said, eyes meeting mine. But then, to keep from disappearing, you have to take a chance. Speak first. Like you did, just now. That makes you brave.
I dont feel brave
Thats of no matter, he replied gently. No ones born brave. You become brave by facing life, even when it turns its back. And, well if you dont come by tomorrow, Ill still be here. Because now, I know you exist.
His sincerity warmed me; Id spent so long hoping for someone to rescue me from loneliness, Id not realised I could be someones rescue, too.
***
Climbing the ward stairs, I discovered a small folded note in my jacket pocket. My new acquaintance had carefully written his number, hand a bit unsteady.
The emptiness hadnt vanished, but something kind had kindled therea new echo, a borrowed voice:
Ill be waiting
For the first time in ages, I stopped dwelling on what Id lost and thought instead about possibilities. Not in grand fresh start termssimply, tomorrow. The morning.
Maybe Ill ring him, I mused, as I drifted off to sleep, just to say, Good morning, George
I learned that sometimes, the only way to escape solitude is to risk reaching out firsteven if all you say is hello.
