The Fifth Chair | Image - Fall 1998

The Fifth Chair - Mary Swander

Late in 1985, I was at an air base in South Korea, living in a dormitory for visiting airmen.  I woke up one morning and couldn't move.  My spine felt like it was made of steel and efforts to move my head or back or legs were met with intense pain.  It felt as if had I been successful at moving my body, my spinal column would have ripped out of my body and remained on the bed, heavy and as unbent as a length of railroad track.

My roommate, some guy I didn't know, was trying to sleep for a few extra minutes when I yelped at my first attempts to move.  This upset him and after a few minutes he angrily got up, barked at me about disturbing his sleep and went off to shower.  I, of course, needed to go to the bathroom.  I lay there until he returned.  I asked him if he would help me to at least get out of bed or go find one of the Koreans who start housekeeping work in the mornings.  He told me that he had to go, saying with exasperation, "I can't do anything about this," and he left.  Later, while I was at the primary care unit, he moved to a completely different building.

It took me a couple of hours, when the housekeeping crew finally arrived, to get assistance.  The Air Force sent over a couple of guys to help me get to the bathroom, to dress, and to take me to the doctor.  I was diagnosed with some sort of virus, I don't recall the name, I was out of it and alone.  They gave me pain killers for the symptoms and sent me back to the dormitory.  I stayed in bed for two days before the condition started to lighten.  I remember the joy of being able to turn my head without excruciating, cause-you-to-cry-out pain.

I have another Korea story about the time I managed to get food poisoned.  I was on the road with one other person who left me behind without even checking on me.  It's a pretty good story, but we need to get to Mary Swander's essay on pain, loneliness, and spiritual metamorphosis, all told with the metaphor of chairs as stages of being alone.  The essay is so much better than I am describing it to be.

My pain lasted less than a week.  While I was not surrounded by any friends or family, I was in close proximity to people.  Ms. Swander was about as close to alone as you can reasonably be in the United States.

Her story is painful and pitiful, but as she discovers more about herself and natural human behavior, she changes.  That transformation makes for edifying and entertaining reading, a fantastic mix when an author is making big life-changing points.  I don't want to sound like Pangloss here, and while I would guess that Ms. Swander would not have wished this upon herself in an infinite number of years, she is probably a better person for it.  Because she writes so beautifully and searchingly, we can partake of her growth and become a little bit better ourselves.

Sometimes you have to thank the essayist from the deeper part of your heart.  I'd like to do that now.  Thank you, Mary Swander, for writing this essay.  It will remain one that reread whenever I am feeling alone or depressed or I need a spiritual pick-me-up.