I’ve often thought feeling isolated is one of the biggest threats to the patient community. When you are struggling to manage the demands of a medical conditions on top of the rest of your life, it is not uncommon to feel like you are the only person dealing with your particular set of circumstances, that no one else could possibly understand what it’s like to be you.
It’s lonely.
It’s been about six months since I finally gave in and had cataract surgery. The circumstance that pushed me into the decision after almost two decades was that, for the second year in a row, I went to my religious holiday services and couldn’t read the book. I sat there next to my chosen family, in a room with hundreds of people who could join in the communal response readings, or just follow along when they wanted to. But I couldn’t. I had to squint or bring the book up to my nose, to even get close. Or pretend, like bad karaoke when you don’t know the words. As a woman in my 40s, it was embarrassing.
And it was lonely.
Intellectually, I know what it does to older people who start to lose their sight (and their hearing). They feel isolated. Depression sets in or gets worse.
I hadn’t gotten that far yet, but I was frustrated, and I knew I could get there easily. And I was already depressed due to other, unrelated events. I did not need compounded depression.
I made the decision right there in that sanctuary. It would be done by the next holiday season. I even announced it to my friends to make it harder to back out again.
As this holiday season approached, I wasn’t thinking much about whether the surgery had countered my previous frustration. I never think about the holidays. I go every year, but only at this time of year. Somehow, the holidays always sneak up on me, and I register to attend at the very last minute (sorry, event organizers!).
Besides, reading in general had gotten a lot easier, and I had seen my friends several times since. It just wasn’t in my head until I was there, once again surrounded by hundreds of people, some of whom were friends, but the majority of whom weren’t. Strangers, but not. We had our culture, our beliefs, in common. And once a year, I connect with that.
I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed it until I couldn’t do it.
But this year, I heard my own voice connected to the group’s. The guy next to me was always a tick behind everyone else, and a couple rows in front of me, a woman’s high-pitched voice stood out, but we blended all together into one community, reading and singing. If I wanted to just listen, I could. That was my choice. I had control. And I could jump back in whenever I wanted.
It wasn’t lonely.
It was a good night.