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What does loneliness feel like when it’s not just metaphorical, but physical? When it wraps around you like the scent of disinfectant, the sound of machines, and the absence of a voice? This isn’t just a Covid story. It’s a meditation on what it means to disappear, and somehow return.

Loneliness has a shape. 

Mine looked like a white ceiling. Paint that hadn’t quite dried correctly in one corner. A flickering white light that no one seemed to have had the time to fix. The frayed edge of a curtain that fluttered open at times.

It felt like the world had quietly turned its back, like a door closing softly behind me with finality, not malice. The filtered air was thick with the sharp tang of disinfectant, the kind that only a hospital can have – the kind that scrubs away germs. And warmth. Beneath the smell, the scent of cold metal lingered, like the breath of a machine that mimicked care. My mouth tasted of copper and panic, as if I had bitten hard on fear itself, raw and metallic, licking the edge of a storm that threatened to arrive anytime soon.

The hiss of the oxygen machine felt a bit like Darth Vader breathing in my ear, waiting to consume my soul, emptying my lungs of a last, rattling breath. No visitors, except the medical staff dressed in clunky, unwieldy protective gear. Astronauts navigating the landscape of a dead planet. 

I felt alone, a bit like a teacup forgotten in the rain, once warm and meaningful to someone, now nearly cold and forgotten. Gathering silence instead of steam. In this Covid ward, I was lonely. 

The loneliness didn’t barge in like a marauding beast breaking down the door. Instead, it crept in and curled up beside me, a soft cat with murderous claws. One that refused to leave. It wore the ceiling as a spotless, white shroud, waiting to wrap me in its indifferent embrace.

In that Covid ward, I lost my name. Only numbers mattered. I was no longer me. All I was was a set of statistics. Oxygen saturation. Temperature. Pulse. Bed no. 8. My identity was tethered to a monitor that emitted shrill, constant beeps like the warbling of an annoyed bird. The beeps signalled life. A constant, ongoing sound indicated the end. Every day, many of the annoyed birds quieted, with the folks tethered to them being wheeled out under white sheets. Above me, the same ceiling. A blank canvas on which my fears and regrets played shadow puppets with each other. 

Meanwhile, loneliness wore the face shield of the nurse who checked my vitals and administered medicine. It wore my own reflection when I finally asked for a mirror and couldn’t recognize the wild-eyed, scruffy person hooked to an oxygen machine.

My body fought the virus. A losing battle by all accounts. Apparently, the family was informed. Some pre-emptive grieving was done. Unaware of all this, my mind, fuelled by high-speed oxygen pumping through my useless lungs, did inventory.

Of regrets. 

Things left unsaid.

Days wasted. (Were my long, bare, and unforgiving days payback for this?)

Calls not made. Loved ones not contacted.

Friends not met.

Animals not hugged.

And here I was, just one more person occupying a bed in a room full of breathless people.

I realized what no one had told me. Loneliness isn’t just the absence of others. It’s the absence of yourself.

Your laugh, your rituals. Your place in the world. A child’s little hand, sticky with ice-cream, holding yours. The wag of a dog’s tail as she comes to greet you. A cat rubbing against you and then turning away to claim his favourite cushion, a prince filled with disdain for the hoi polloi. All of it, suspended. 

In the morning, I would be woken up by a steel needle prodding my wrist – a vampire searching for its daily quota of blood from a helpless victim. During the day, a team of doctors would come to examine me. An amoeba on a slide. They would comment on oxygen stats, urinary output, food intake, and overall status. And leave. I didn’t matter. My oxygen levels did.

Nights were worse. There would be a flurry of activity as a team of people grabbed me, sponged me with some cold, disinfected wipes, and changed my bedding and clothes. They had the calculated precision of a Formula 1 pit crew changing a tyre. Efficient, but detached. 

There were times when I wondered. Would it just be less painful to stop? To somehow disconnect the high-speed oxygen BiPAP machine and slip away like a boat unmoored from its anchor? But the heart rate monitor clipped to my forefinger would remind me of my daughter’s tiny hand wrapped around mine, squeezing gently.

And that’s when I’d feel a bit tethered.

Not to the IV. Not to the monitor. But to her. And to a partner bravely holding fort against the world. To every animal who ever waited by a gate, by a bowl, by a doorway, trusting I’d show up. I thought of Boo, a community dog who offered me something rare – trust and friendship. Would he still wag his tail and greet me with his happy dance when I came back? IF I came back.

I counted breaths because the minutes were too long to count. I whispered stories to myself, like I was still reading to Samiah. I pictured all the humans and nonhumans who had held my r45  hand, even though I couldn’t lift it by myself anymore.

Later, people said I fought bravely and I beat the virus. But that’s a lie. I was scared. Scared of letting down those who were waiting. Scared of not living up to the whispered ‘see you soon’. It wasn’t courage that carried me, it was hope. The hope of warm embraces, soft paws, and a child’s drawing waiting at home. It was also the fear of being like a pressed flower in a book, once alive and cherished, now flattened by time and neglect. 

Loneliness is odd. It’s supposed to be quiet. But it behaves like a sweater three sizes too large – it swallows you whole. You’re inside something, craving a bit of warmth, but it never quite touches your skin. Leaving you yearning.

It is a curious monster, shape-shifting and evolving. It sits in your favourite chair, sipping your coffee, looking into your eyes like an insolent teen. It doesn’t want to devour you, it just wants you to sit still. Long enough to forget you were ever whole.

If you’ve been there, you know. (If you haven’t, I hope you never do). But if your loneliness ever takes shape, know this. 

You are still here. And that light may be flickering, but it hasn’t gone out yet. 

Perhaps, the ceiling isn’t a coffin lid after all. It’s just something that keeps the sky from falling.