David McElroy

Twelve hours ago, I was lying on a hospital bed with an IV in my arm, waiting to be wheeled into surgery.

I wasn’t worried about dying. But I felt completely alone.

I was just having a hernia repaired, so I wasn’t in serious danger. Until I had a sudden abdominal obstruction late last December, I had no idea the problem was even there. Doctors told me at the time that I was fortunate that the intestine which poked through the hernia hadn’t been damaged, which would have caused serious surgery.

Even though it wasn’t considered serious, though, I was nervous. I’m not fond of being knocked out and cut on. An old friend who I’ve known since high school was kind enough to pick me up early Thursday morning and take me to the hospital. She sat there with me and talked as I was being prepped.

But as much as I appreciated her concern and help, I couldn’t help feeling very alone. I’ve had surgery only three times in my life — all in the last 15 years — and each time I’ve had one of these emergencies, it’s been a time when I’ve been alone in life.

As I lay there this morning having an IV inserted and having various equipment attached, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something symbolic about that. Was it just a coincidence that each of my medical emergencies have happened when I’ve been alone?

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As I drove home late Tuesday night, I realized that I’d just had a genuine human connection with someone. The entire interaction didn’t take more than 60 seconds, but it was powerful.

I have a friend who’s going through something difficult. She has to find a new place to live quickly. She’s short of money. She’s incredibly stressed.

I ran into her Tuesday night and told her something I was going to do that would bring her a couple hundred dollars, which she badly needs. It wasn’t a big effort for me, but it was huge for her. She first turned down my offer, protesting that I should take the money instead. I insisted and she hesitantly accepted.

Our eyes met for a few moments. Not the quick, polite kind of glance people exchange all day, but the kind during which neither of us looked away. For a few seconds, everything else dropped away — the noise, the distractions, the sense of being rushed. She knew I cared about her as a person. And I knew she knew.

The interaction was brief, but it was real. As I drove home, I realized how rarely that happens anymore.

I realized that most of my interactions with other people don’t feel like that. They feel thinner. Mediated. Less real. Like I’m interacting with a simulated version of someone instead of the person himself or herself. That realization — combined with the feeling of having briefly connected with this friend — made me hungry for more of what was real.

And it made the digital simulations around me seem like what they are — very pale imitations of the human connection that we all need.

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When postmodern American society dies, everyone will rush to write the autopsy.

Journalists will focus on whatever was going on right before the end. Historians will frame the story in light of the decades before. Economists will talk about income inequality or GDP or national debt. Sociologists might talk about groups they saw as oppressive. Theologians might say we lost faith in God.

There will be some truth in many of those things — and many others — but I suspect the core truth will be found by something they’ll all overlook.

Individuals became so selfish that they were no longer willing to treat strangers with respect and decency.

Something has changed about how people treat each other today. We’re not as polite. We’ve lost the sort of manners that used to be expected among strangers in middle-class society. We believe that only suckers are honest if cheating will bring an advantage.

No society has ever been perfect about any of these things, but fewer and fewer people in postmodern America stick to the “social script” that used to allow us to feel a sense of community.

We’ve lost our way — our values — and unless those things radically change, our society will fail.

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