Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published 11/17/2005

Charlie Writes:

I feel like I’m in a cocoon," Lisa says, as we settle in to write. "There’s no one around all day and I’m almost talking to myself."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"There are days when nothing happens. No one calls. No one comes."

"I thought you liked your time alone."

"I do, but there’s a difference between your time alone and getting lonely."

"True, and that’s the rub. It’s a balance, between having people popping in unexpectedly versus having too much time on your hands. So have you tried calling anyone?"

"I do spend quite a bit of time on the telephone. Thanks goodness for that. It’s like visiting with the person. Of course now during the hurricane I have been in touch with two of my friends in Florida checking up on them. And my friend Margaret is still away with her husband and two dogs in a trailer in Florida and I’m worried about her."

"Does she have a phone?"

"I don’t have the number."

"It’s an interesting subject, loneliness, more so now that you’re essentially homebound."

"I guess that’s where the difference is," she says. "Because normally I love my own company; I’m never bored. I can’t understand people who say, ‘I’m bored I have nothing to do’, because from morning to night I always have something to do. But it’s a different situation when you can’t get out of your house. I’m mostly aware of it on weekends when people do their own thing with family. I sometimes think I’m on a desert island."

"I think this is true for a lot of older people." I say, harking back to my years as a geriatric psychiatrist. "There can be a real sense of isolation. I think it might be worse in our country and our culture than in others, where families drift apart and the oldest generation can easily find itself cut off—or at least far away from—their nearest and dearest."

"On the other hand," she says, "I don’t appreciate people coming and seeing me out of a sense of obligation. Maybe I’m over sensitive but I have a feeling sometimes that it’s just a duty thing. I don’t want to offend anyone, but it’s like they come for a few minutes and then it’s, ‘I’ve got to run’."

As Lisa says this, I get a guilty twinge. This is me, and I think this may be a stage-of-life issue. Where I have so many balls in the air at one time, spending a leisurely afternoon with a friend is a rare thing.

"I think what is badly needed," she says, "for people such as myself, is some sort of a volunteer service. Not just for company, but to do things like shopping and errands for the homebound. I’m so hesitant to bother people if I’m running out of stamps, or a single item where I don’t want to call the grocery store to have it delivered. It’s very, how shall I put it, not embarrassing but I don’t like to constantly ask people for favors, especially if I’m in a position where it’s not so easy to return them."

"You don’t have a lot of choices," I comment.

"But people should make it a little easier."

I laugh, having heard hundreds of people over the years express this same wish. "Wouldn’t it be great if people paid attention to what we wanted? But the truth is that most people aren’t terribly in tune with those around them, they’re mostly focused on themselves. So if you don’t ask for something directly, you’re probably not going to get it."

"Only if they’re in the same situation one day will they realize what it’s like," she says.

"Yes, it’s like we’ve all got our own cocoons, with our own set of priorities and demands. At the moment I’m very focused on marketing my novel. Every day I’m giving an interview, doing a signing or presenting a lecture. And if I’m not doing any of those things, I’m working to line up more interviews, signings and lectures."

"But that’s understandable. If you don’t market your book then it won’t sell." She sighs, "I’m already dreading winter coming, when I’ll really be unable to get out." "But that’s been the case for you for a number of years. It’s not just like you’re in a cocoon, but out of necessity and fear of the ice and falls you hibernate until spring."

"I remember once having written a sentence in winter where I said, ‘loneliness is when the only footsteps in the snow are your own.’"

"So when do you get the most lonely? What triggers those feelings?" I ask, sounding way too much like a shrink.

"Late at night; I’m frequently up. I talk a lot to my oldest girlfriend, Dorothy, who lives in Florida. We’ve known each other for fifty years and have lots of memories together. Most other people think nine p.m. is the middle of the night and don’t want to get a phone call, but that’s often when I most want to talk to someone, to hear another voice. You know, I never thought I’d get to the point where I’d consider calling town hall and arrange for a friendly visitor. I’m just afraid it might be somebody I have nothing in common with and then I’d be stuck."

"What about reading or watching television?"

"I do. I read in bed all of the time. Every night I like to watch Judge Judy yelling at people from ten to eleven, and then I watch repeats of Everybody Loves Raymond. And I miss a lot of my favorite programs from the past; there’s just not a lot on television that I want to watch. I’m sometimes so desperate that I watch the shopping channels."

At which point her eyes light up and I think she’s not as desperate as she sounds.

"I suggested to the person in charge of the Caring Committee at the synagogue that they might add a little service to their volunteer activities. For instance, some people who might not like to cook, instead of bringing food they’ve made could call up and see if you needed some groceries. In fact, I enjoy doing my own cooking and would really like this."

"It seems that as people get older the things that combat loneliness in other stages of life become fewer. We’re a social species that requires human contact. In working years, we have our jobs and colleagues. As people raise families you’ve got the kids and your spouse. But later in life, it’s easy for these things that provide so much structure and human interaction to fall away. Until someone, like yourself, has long stretches of alone time."

"It is also very important," she says, "that people as they get older have the discipline to take care of themselves. You need to cook a decent meal, and feed your body in order for your mind to function and vice versa. And just because you’re by yourself, it’s no excuse to look like a slob. I enjoy my daily bath and go through the ritual of moisturizing my skin, putting on makeup and getting dressed in case a visitor comes. I want to be ready every day like it’s a new one. Because you never know who might be knocking at the door."

I get a flash of Tennessee Williams. "A gentleman caller?"

She laughs, "Wishful thinking."

"Why’s that?"

"Well, gentlemen are few and far between these days. Of course," she says rapidly changing the subject. "We’re all affected by the weather and where it’s been so rainy and dreary it pulls you down. But now that it’s sunny outside it helps the mood."

"Back to the gentleman callers, is that totally out of the question?"

"Not as far as I’m concerned, but where are they? Where is he?" She begins to hum the Snow White tune, "Some Day my Prince will come".

"I don’t know."

"In adult communities you have to realize that the women far outweigh the men. Plus, I sometimes find I have more in common with younger people."

"You have quite a few younger friends."

"That’s deliberate," she says. "Being around younger people helps keep you young and exposes you to changes in the world. Some good and some I could do without."

I glance at the clock and realize I need to get moving and work away at a very long list of phone calls. Then it hits me. "You know, if you’re really looking for something to fill some time, I could use some help with all of these phone calls."

"Of course," she says, "you know I’d do that. Did that Faith Middleton ever get back to you?" She asks, referring to the National Public Radio personality to whom I’d sent a review copy.

"No, you want to give her a call and see if you can get me on her show?"

"I’d love to, why don’t you give me some dates," she says, hunting for a pen.

Before I pack up and leave, I pass along my marketing list with names and numbers for dozens of books stores, newspapers, and radio stations. I think about Lisa’s opening remarks about her cocoon and I realize that it’s not just about human contact and physical isolation but that a big part of the loneliness equation has to do with purpose and meaning. At the end of the day, we like to feel as though something has been accomplished.

As I walk out, she’s already on the telephone—an instrument that she loves and I loathe. I pause in the hallway and listen, "Hello," she says, sounding wonderfully professional—after all, she was a publicist for many years, "my name is Lisa Hoffman, I’m the publicist for Doctor Charles Atkins who has written a marvelous book, his third with St. Martin’s Press, and I was wondering if you’d like to have him on your show…let me tell you about it..."

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