When No One Saw Me Almost Cry in Public

Some days being alone is hard

It had been a long couple of days, full of driving and disappointment. Now I just wanted pancakes, eggs, and bacon at the Chalet Restaurant in Newport before facing life at home, including playing at a friend’s funeral in the morning, with two more funerals pending.

I figured the Chalet would not be crowded at 11 a.m., late for breakfast, early for lunch. I was so wrong. I forgot it was spring break and the coast is flooded with tourists. I forgot how busy the Chalet can get.

No tables were available; they were taking names. I gave them mine and hovered by the specials board. Two women came in. One teased that she might cut in line. Noticing the other woman was wearing an Oregon Coast Aquarium shirt, I joked that you can’t trust those aquarium people. If asked, I would have explained that my late husband volunteered there, but they went back to talking to each other.

We waited. More and more people came in, all in couples and groups. No one at the tables was leaving. I felt conspicuous and exhausted. The moody instrumental music coming through the speakers did not help. My eyes began to fill, my lips to tremble. I needed to get out of there.

I was just about to tell the aquarium ladies that I couldn’t stay when a table by the window opened up. It was too big for one person, but I took it. I stared at the flowers outside and told myself this was good; I was seated. I would get my pancakes. I would not have to cook or wash dishes.

The waitress did not crack a smile. She just took my order, whipped the menu away, and left, never to be seen again until she brought my bill.

Nobody else was alone. At that moment, I didn’t want to be alone either. It takes courage to face the world unaccompanied, and my supply of courage was about gone.

It was my third meal out alone in two days. In Clackamas near Portland, I had sat in a dimly lit booth trying not to get chicken salad all over myself while workers and friends talked all around me. In the dining room at the Holiday Inn in Salem last night, I started reading a new book while I ate a sparse stir-fry meal that cost me $40 while the bored staff hung out at the bar.

It would have been four meals out, but I decided not to leave my room for breakfast. Learning that breakfast was not complimentary at this Holiday Inn, I stayed in my room and ordered a bagel and fruit from room service. It wasn’t the best, but the woman who brought it was very nice, and I didn’t have to face other people before I was fully awake.

Two hours of slow driving later, I was writing on my phone when the waitress at the Chalet startled me with a massive plate that held enough food for two meals. I told myself I would take half home.

At my first bite, I said, “Umm” out loud. It was all cooked perfectly, the ideal balance between over- and under-cooked. The three massive pancakes soothed every sore spot in my soul. Compulsive overeater that I am, I ate every bite and vowed to eat more wisely another day.

I wasn’t the only solo diner anymore. I saw a young woman and old man each sitting alone. The woman had a big piece of chocolate cake in front of her.

I came close, but I didn’t cry at the Chalet. That was my second time fighting tears in two days. The first was outside a medical building in Clackamas. I had driven three hours in the hope that a new sleep specialist would help me conquer my rest legs syndrome and end my nights of waking every hour or two, often finishing the night on the sofa—and then falling asleep several times during the day.

I had visions of someone who, unlike the guy I saw closer to home, would truly listen and discuss the situation with me, not just pontificate for ten minutes and send me on my way.

Alas, that person was not in Clackamas. The young physician’s assistant who interviewed me said the doctor they used to have didn’t work there anymore and they couldn’t help me. All they handle now is sleep apnea and cpap machines that keep the oxygen flowing during the night. I said I have one of those that I don’t use. She aborted my appointment and offered to refund my copay.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I sit in waiting rooms hoping I can say the right things, the words that will make the provider understand and give me the help I need. I even pray about it. It didn’t work at this boutique-like office in a red brick building with no signs outside to distinguish it from the other red brick buildings. I had driven around and around before I decided to enter this one to use the restroom and discovered it was the one. Why are there no signs?

I came out wanting to weep. I got into my car expecting to weep, but then I didn’t. What good would it do? It’s kind of like when a child falls then looks around to see if anybody is watching. If someone notices and gets all sympathetic, they cry and wail and make a scene. If no one’s around, unless they’re badly injured, they brush themselves off and go back to playing.

Me, I made a few notes on my phone then got back on the freeway, anxious to get out of this crowded place with too much traffic and a young PA who saw me as a foolish old woman who cursed when she couldn’t remember the name of one of the pills she takes.

I made an appointment with the sleep med guy I don’t like. The devil you know . . .

I had decided to stay overnight in Salem so I could attend the Thursday night Salem Poetry Project reading and open mic. The poetry was great; the people were great; the pool where I swam alone at the Holiday Inn was great. But I would have been home if I hadn’t hoped for a better outcome to this trip.

Over the years, I have sat beside my mother-in-law, my husband, my father, and my friends in various waiting rooms, serving as driver, supporter, and interpreter. I wonder what this trip to Clackamas would have been like if a grown son or daughter had brought me. I could imagine them talking to the young PA, saying, “Now Mom has been . . .”

They would have figured out the route, dealt with the traffic, and taken me to a restaurant that might have been a bit more comfortable. If someone was with me, we could be angry together, and that would help. But I was on my own.

While the PA was canceling my account, I mentioned something about working. She exclaimed, “You still work????” OMG, I must have seemed a thousand years old to her. Yes, I still work. Call it play if you want. I still do something that matters.

I’ll bet you do too.

I keep hearing the words to the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby.” “Ah, look at all the lonely people.” Where are they? Sitting one chair apart at the doctor’s office or alone at big tables in a crowded restaurants trying not to cry.

Let’s talk

When do you feel most alone? How do you handle it? Have you ever felt so frustrated and lonely in public that you wept? Did it make a difference?

Thank you for letting me share this with you.

Notes

• If anyone else suffers from Restless Legs Syndrome, also known as Willis-Ekbom Disease, there’s a support group on Facebook that I find helpful.

• The food at the Chalet Restaurant and Bakery in Newport, Oregon really is terrific. Expect to wait to be seated during tourist season, and note that they are only open for breakfast and lunch.

• As for the other places where I ate, don’t bother.

• The Salem Poetry Project meets in person every Thursday. Locations vary. Check their site. The readings are livestreamed on Facebook.

  Photo by Bao Menglong on Unsplash

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How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs and cats. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.