“Ewww,” I hissed, “She touched you!”
“I know.”
“What did she say?”
“‘I’m in pain.’”
S. went into a coffee shop then and I waited outside with the dogs. I thought about what it must be like to live without human touch. In the course of an hour, I probably touch - or get touched by - my husband dozens of times. I wondered if the absence of physical connections with others is at the core of loneliness. I wondered, too, how I might degrade if everyone I touched was repelled. So much of what is expressed or perceived can be conveyed only through touch. It was easy to imagine how restricting my ability to fully communicate could propel me into a persistent state of malaise and frustration. I would likely feel melancholy much of the time, angry sometimes, and profoundly isolated all the time.
I tried to conduct an experiment and refrain from touching S. during a short drive to the grocery store. I instantly felt guilty, like a liar, a fraud. I reached my arm around his and squeezed, making silent amends for withholding my real self. My research lasted fewer than five minutes. I decided instead to make note of the non-romantic ways in which I communicate through touch. There’s handshaking, hugging, I’m-right-behind-you shoulder tapping, get-outta-town arm shoving, fist pounding, high-fiving; countless ways to say pay attention or I care or you can get through this or I’m scared. So much of the time words aren’t sufficient - or aren’t necessary at all; sometimes the spoken word simply violates delicacy, tenderness.
Encountering the homeless woman bore these realizations and one other: I still would not want her to touch me. Even after admitting to myself how bleak a life devoid of human touch would be, I would withdraw from the grasp of someone who I fully acknowledge may desperately need to connect. What if I am that woman someday? I’m going to have to give that some thought…
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