Shedding a tear (or two) at the sound of silence

Last week, as dry January came to an end, I saw a social media posting that caught my attention. It was a picture of a hand holding a glass, in which, was a generous measure of a dark malt whisky – the caption read ‘Hello darkness, my old friend’. Just for clarity, it was not my posting, I’m still alcohol free, and will remain so until Jane comes home, and we can celebrate with some champagne. After all she has been through, I think it will be at least two bottles at that!

The caption is a line from Simon and Garfunkel’s classic song the Sound of Silence. I was never a great fan of Simon and Garfunkel songs. Perhaps if I say I thought the Rolling Stones (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction released at the same time, was more my kind of music, you will perhaps understand why. However, time passing can sometimes mellow opinions, and the social media post did strike a chord. So, I listened to the song once again. You can too, here. The words resonated.

Paul Simon was writing about a very troubled time in the US and the worlds history - not that the US troubles have got any better or the world has become a better place either. Whilst some 60 years later, the song possibly still reflects the current zeitgeist, the song’s lyrics resonated with me for very different reasons, more of which in a moment.

Now, some of this blog’s readers will recognise that silence is often used in therapeutic conversations. Sometimes as a prompt to someone to say something about the issues they are facing without interruption. Or to enable the person to process their thoughts and feelings without distraction; and to reflect and gain clarity on possible ways forward. In a therapeutic sense, silence can be a powerful and enabling approach for the therapist to draw upon. However, it seems to me that in a non-therapeutic context, silence is often viewed a as space to be filled somehow.

For example, why do so many folk have their tv on, even when they are not watching it? We are just as guilty. As a couple, we love music, listening to it, making music and apart from Taylor Swift, we share a similar taste in music. However, whilst Jane always drives with her music playing, I like to drive and talk. She has her music headphones on while she runs, I walk in mindfulness silence. Billy, our parrot hates silence, and will chatter away all day to avoid it. Sometimes he makes sense other times he just whistles the blues.

And be honest now, how many of us have fallen out with a loved one where the result is a stony silence between you and them. A silence that can last an hour, a day, or even longer. I know I have. At such times, I have sometimes been accused of sulking, or not wanting to address the cause behind the falling out. Whatever the reason, sooner or later someone needs to speak to break the silent deadlock. This type of silence can be corrosive. But it is not the only type of a silence that can be damaging.  

Since Jane has been in hospital, I have encountered silences that can be equally challenging. You have probably had similar experiences. You know that silence that becomes all engulfing as you wait for a promised phone call that never comes (in my case, from the staff on Janes ward). And the associated silence, that’s punctuated by only of the sound of an unanswered phone ringing, as you finally give in and ring the person who promised to ring you.  

Then there is the silence that comes with its own soundtrack. In the 32 days since Jane’s brain bleed, I’ve watched everything on tv I wanted to and much that I didn't. I soon turned to asking Alexa to play my favourite music instead. So, she obliges, and I sit of an evening listening to music I have already heard many times. 

Paradoxically, this produces a different kind of silence. In that silence, I have found that for the first time in a long time, I’ve heard loneliness knocking at my door. Please rest assured dear reader; despite shedding some tears on more than a few evenings recently, I’ve sent loneliness packing. I thank you all, for the support you have unconditionally given Jane and I. It is appreciated, although you will perhaps never know how much.

Jane has endured her own sound of silence this past week. A promise of a life affirming operation, only to be dashed at the last moment. Not once, but twice. This was a frustrating silence and pause in her recovery. Thankfully, yesterday Jane had her much needed operation. It was an anxious afternoon. I was able to take her to the operating theatre, tell her I loved her, and sealing our love with a kiss.

What seemed like a long 5 hours later, she returned to the ward. Jane held my hand, opened her eyes and gave me a smile. It was a special moment, and I gave her a welcome back kiss. Everything went as planned with the operation, and this felt like a big step forward on Janes recovery journey. I was silent on my drive back from the hospital, but it was a truly grateful silence.        

Now I try to never judge or condemn others. Unconditional positive regard is my watch word. But I also have my failings, see above. It seems to me however, that those who could reassure and/or confirm what might be happening to folk like Jane in these moments of high anxiety, are too often unable to do so. I don't know why. On Jane's ward the busyness is something to behold. I have sat there as the ward phone has rung and been left unanswered. I don't believe for one moment that those who have been caring for Jane have intentionally remained silent. I guess in the moment they have other priorities to address. That said, our experience has made me reflect on how my own NHS organisation communicates with service users, carers, families and colleagues. As I have found, the sound of silence, whatever the reason, is never going to be right or helpful.