I have experienced loneliness many times in my life but until recently I lived my loneliness without being aware of it. In the past I tried to overcome my sense of isolation by plunging into work projects and entering into social activities. By keeping busy and by committing myself to interesting and challenging work, I never had to face, in any direct or open way, the nature of my own existence as an isolated and solitary individual.
I first began to awaken to the meaning of loneliness, to feel loneliness in the center of my consciousness, one terrible day when my wife and I were confronted with the necessity of making a decision. We were told that our five-year-old daughter, Kerry, who had a congenital heart defect, must have immediate surgery. We were warned, gently but firmly, by the cardiologist that failure to operate would cause continual heart deterioration and premature death. At the same time he informed us that there were many unknown factors in heart surgery and that with Kerry’s particular defect there was about twenty per cent chance that she would not survive the operation.
What were we to do? We experienced a state of acute worry, followed by a paralyzing indecision that lasted several days.
There was no peace or rest for me, anywhere, at this time. I, who had known Kerry as a vigorous, active child, bursting with energy, whether on roller skates, a two-wheel bike, or in the pool, was suddenly forced to view her as handicapped. In spite of her exuberance and her seemingly inexhaustible energy, there in my mind was the report of the X-rays and the catharization showing a significant perforation and enlargement of her heart.
Visions of my daughter were constantly before me. I roamed the streets at night searching for some means, some resource in the universe which would guide me to take the right step. It was during these desperate days and nights that I first began to think seriously of the inevitable loneliness of life. I was overcome with the pain of having to make a decision, as a parent, which had potentially devastating consequences either way. If I decided on surgery, she might not survive the operation. If I decided against it, the possibility of a premature death would always haunt me. It was a terrible responsibility, being required to make a decision, a life or death decision, for someone else. This awful feeling, this overwhelming sense of responsibility, I could not share with anyone. I felt utterly alone, entirely lost, and frightened; my existence was absorbed in this crisis. No one fully understood my terror or how this terror gave impetus to deep feelings of loneliness and isolation which had lain dormant within me. There at the center of my being, loneliness aroused me to a self-awareness I had never known before.
At last a decision was made, primarily by my wife, that we had no choice but to go ahead with the surgery, immediately, while we were both alive and able to give Kerry our strength and love. We explained the problem to Kerry simply. She quickly accepted the idea of the operation with that measureless trust and confidence which, a young child feels with parents long before there is any understanding of trust or confidence.
The time of waiting during the operation itself was filled with painful anguish, terrifying suspension, and restlessness—but the most terrible loneliness of all occurred several days later.
I stood in the dark hallway of the hospital, a place I had repeatedly traversed with restless and weary footsteps. Kerry lay beside me in her wheelcart watching television. The light reflected in her eyes as she watched the program. Momentarily the shots, the tubes, the large incision across her chest were forgotten. I do not know how long I stood beside her. My mind was empty of all thought and feeling. Suddenly she looked at me. There were tears in her eyes. “Daddy, why is that little boy crying?” she asked. I looked for a moment, then I knew; I saw an episode I had witnessed many times in the past week.
The boy’s eyes were transfixed, glued to the windows, looking below—expectant, watchful, waiting. Waiting for someone to come to protect and comfort him. Waiting for someone to rescue him from abandonment. Waiting. There was no one. He was alone—totally, utterly alone. Outside, people moved rapidly up and down steps and along the walk. Cars hurried down the highway. Inside, the public address blared out doctors’ names. Nurses’ aides shouted to children to get to sleep. But this child sat up in bed—his small body rigid—his heart breaking. Waiting. I knew in that moment he experienced a crushing loneliness, a feeling of being deserted and forsaken. He was quiet and frightened. Silent tears slipped down his face. What could I say to Kerry? She wept in sympathy. She did not expect an answer.
When I could no longer bear his suffering I entered the room. I stood quietly beside him for several minutes. Then the words came, “I know. Right now there’s no one. No one at all. Your Mama has left you.” He burst into painful, racking sobs and sighs. His grief was momentarily broken. All his silent agony burst into convulsive moans and piercing cries. A nurse entered. She glared at me. She spoke angrily, “Now see what you’ve done. Why don’t you leave him alone?” Then, turning to him, she spoke firmly, “You know your mother isn’t here. She left you after supper. She told you she’d be back in the morning. All the crying and shouting you can do will not bring her back. Stop. Stop now. You’re keeping the other children awake. Lie down. Go to sleep. Your mother will come tomorrow.” I stood by silently; as the nurse left the room, I followed her.
Walking beside her, I said, “You can’t leave him that way. He is painfully lonely. He feels cut-off from all meaningful ties. He will harbor this terror a long time. Go back. Tell him you care. Hold his hand. Say something gentle.” She answered, “I can’t. I have other duties.” I suggested, “Tell him you would like to stay but you have certain duties to finish first—that you will look in again soon.” Hesitating a few moments, the nurse returned to the child’s room. She spoke softly this time, “I’m sorry your mother isn’t here with you now when you want her. I must give out medicine to other children but I’ll be back. Maybe this will help,” and she handed him a sucker.
Beside Kerry again, I could see a faint smile cross the child’s face as he put the sucker in his mouth. There was a moment of peace. Then the silent tears continued to flow until he slipped into heavy, uncomfortable sleep with the sucker still in his mouth. I knew he would never forget this experience of loneliness just as I would never forget sitting alone in my daughter’s room waiting for the slow, restorative process following her heart surgery.
For many hours I had been forced to ration to Kerry small cubes of ice—just enough to moisten her lips and mouth—one small piece each half hour. In between Kerry’s begging, pleading voice asked for more. I had stated the limit directly and told her why it was necessary. But her lips were dry. She had been without liquids almost forty-eight hours. I felt dry too. I wanted to share this experience with her and had refrained from liquids myself. I felt her extreme thirst and yet worked feverishly to arouse her interest in other matters. Each new thought excited her momentarily but she always returned to the cry for ice, entreating with such urgency that each episode left me feeling the oppressor. The hours passed slowly and finally the glorious moment arrived when a real portion of liquids could be taken. The surgeon ordered a full glass of Coke. She drank it in a frenzy in two or three gulps and within a few minutes fell into a heavy sleep. I was exhausted, feeling her anguish, hearing her distressing cries for ice, exhausted with the effort of distraction and diversion.
It was a peaceful time. I was alone. I felt elated, full—yet empty, and a strange aura of peacefulness settled within me. I stared blankly at the floor. I do not know what forces within me caused me to glance at Kerry, but as I did in an instant an absolute terror overcame me. Suddenly I felt completely desolate and alone. I was aware of being depressed by and conscious of my own solitude. Something vague, hidden, crucial was before me. I could not understand but something seemed wrong in the way she was sleeping.
I noticed a slight tensing, her arms pulled away from her body, the fingers twisted and extended. Her entire body grew rigid. She went into a series of jerky, stretching movements—contortions—convulsions—grotesque and terrifying. Immediately I realized she was having a brain seizure. Her entire being was in a state of extreme agitation. She began biting her tongue. I slipped a pencil in her mouth, shouted for the nurse, and urged that the surgeon be called immediately. The nurse looked in briefly and left. I stroked Kerry’s hair and whispered her name, but each time I touched her she moved away with violent, gross movements. I had to hold her body because she twisted and turned so violently there was danger she would fall off the bed. In those moments I experienced indescribable loneliness and fear and shock. In some measure my body writhed with Kerry’s. I paced, and stretched, and turned as I witnessed the seizure. The most intolerable feeling was the realization that she was beyond my reach, beyond my voice and touch. She was in pitiful plight—entirely by herself. She was without anyone or anything. I tried to commune with her. I whispered her name softly, gently, over and over again. “Kerry, Kerry. Kerry, my darling. It’s Daddy. I’m here right beside you. I won’t leave. Kerry, I’m here. Kerry. Kerry. Kerry.” She opened her eyes. A horrible sound issued from her throat—then several more utterances of anguish and pain and fear. She screamed three words as she saw me—three awful words filled with agony and stark terror—words and tones that I shall never forget—“No You Bad.” I answered, “It’s all right, Kerry. It’s Daddy. I’m here. I’m beside you.” Her entire body was stiff, yet in constant motion. She jerked up and down, flailed her arms and legs at me, and tried to kick me. I was certain she did not recognize me. She was in a state of shock and experiencing a semi-conscious nightmare. In her dim state of awareness she thought I was a doctor who was about to administer a shot. The muscles in her face were tight. The mouth was open and the jaws distended and distorted. The stretching and agitated movement continued as she seemed to be struggling to escape, to find comfort, to find a resting place.
At last the surgeon arrived, took one look and shouted to the nurse, “Brain Edema. I’ll have to give her a shot of glucose.” The word “shot” struck the center of her terror. She tried to form words to speak, but no sound came; she shook violently in an effort to scream out an alarm. Then came an instinctual cry, emitted from deep within her being, a cry of raving terror followed by excruciating moans. I continued saying her name, whispering softly, gently, trying to offer strength, knowing all the while that she was lost to me yet knowing also that I alone realized her pain and terror. Her wails were so piercingly effective they reverberated ceaselessly everywhere inside me and in the room. The doctor asked me to leave but I refused; I knew I had to stay whatever happened. Kerry’s eyes were wide and fitful. She continued moaning and uttering the weird, painful cries. The nurse pushed me aside to hold Kerry while the shot was being administered. Only a small amount had been injected when Kerry gave such a violent jerk that the nurse let go and the needle fell out. Again the moaning continued and one word rang out distinctly, clearly—a plea, a beseeching, final cry for help. She held the word “Mama” a long, long time and then the moans and furious motions and cries resumed. I held her arms as the surgeon inserted the needle again. She looked at me with utter contempt and hatred. Her eyes were full of pain and accusation. I whispered, “I know how much it hurts.” I could feel her pain and terror in my own nerves and bones and tissues and blood, but at the same time I knew in that moment no matter how fervently I lived through it with her, how much I wanted to share it with her, I knew, she was alone, beyond my reach. I wanted so much for her to feel my presence, but she could not. She was beyond my call, beyond the call of anyone. It was her situation in a world entirely and solely her own. There was nothing further I could do. Each time she screamed her voice ripped through me, penetrating deeply into my inner being.
At last it was finished. The nurse put up the sides of the bed. Then she and the surgeon left. It was dark. Kerry and I were alone again. Kerry’s cries and the grotesque, agitated body movements continued. All I could do was stand by. I tried to stroke her forehead but when I touched her she stiffened, screamed in pain, and moved violently away. I wanted her to know I was there, extending my compassion; I wanted her to see I suffered too; I wanted her to realize I had not left her. So I repeated over and over again, “My darling, Kerry. My sweet, Kerry. I’m here. Right here. Daddy is beside you. I won’t leave you. Not ever. Not ever.”
At length, she fell asleep. I left her room and stood outside her door to keep anyone from entering to disturb her. I stood in a frozen position for several hours, not moving at all, completely without feeling, and in a state of total nothingness. I tried in many ways to express this experience immediately afterwards but I could not. It remained within me, a tremendous constricted mass. Each time I tried to form a word the mass rose within me and I choked and sputtered and the muscles in my body tightened. My mouth closed. The sounds were shut off and the intense experience settled inside me again. There was no way to share this loneliness, this experience of fear, and shock, and isolation. It was an experience which held its own integrity but was so far-reaching and sharp, so utterly pervasive and gripping, that when I tried to speak only weird and painful cries, like Kerry’s, came from me. I distinctly felt that I had failed her and that she had faced this great crisis alone.
Later she remembered the doctor who held her while a shot was given her but she did not remember her father who stayed beside her during the terrible ordeal and who suffered along with her, totally isolated and alone. As I dwell upon this experience of mutual loneliness, I realize how completely beyond my most imaginative comprehension is the heart surgery itself, when my daughter lay on the operating table and her heart was removed from her body while a mechanical pump pushed blood through her arteries and veins. Is the horror of this lonely existence perceivable or knowable at all? What does it mean in the life and growth of an individual child?
Kerry remained in the hospital two weeks. When we took her home, she was completely recovered physically but her nightmares and terrors continued for several months after she left the hospital.
During the two weeks while she was in the pediatric ward, we never left her side. I had many opportunities to observe children experiencing isolation and loneliness. It was at this time that I felt a strong urge to look into the heart of the lonely experience. Starting with these experiences before and during the hospitalization, I began to discover the meaning of loneliness. I began to see that loneliness is neither good nor bad, but a point of intense and timeless awareness of the Self, a beginning which initiates totally new sensitivities and awarenesses, and which results in bringing a person deeply in touch with his own existence and in touch with others in a fundamental sense. I began to see that in the deepest experiences the human being can know—the birth of a baby, the prolonged illness or death of a loved relative, the loss of a job, the creation of a poem, a painting, a symphony, the grief of a fire, a flood, an accident—each in its own way touches upon the roots of loneliness. In each of these experiences, in the end, we must go alone.
In such experiences, inevitably one is cut off from human companionship. But experiencing a solitary state gives the individual the opportunity to draw upon untouched capacities and resources and to realize himself in an entirely unique manner. It can be a new experience. It may be an experience of exquisite pain, deep fear and terror, an utterly terrible experience, yet it brings into awareness new dimensions of self, new beauty, new power for human compassion, and a reverence for the precious nature of each breathing moment.