My cane may have been producing sparks as it struck the ground with purpose in New York Penn Station. NJ Transit service had been suspended for hours due to a minor derailment before the 8:16 was finally called. My feet were tingling. My lower back was burning. My shoulders were tight and my stomach was rumbling by the time I heard the train’s bell.
I’d been off for two hours and had done very little other than talk to my friend Ashley about my latest medical update. In short I told her of my growing impatience with my specialist who detect something wrong but hadn’t called back about a follow up appointment. I shared with her my philosophy that I hope what’s broken is easily fixable and the rest isn’t easily broken. I added that I’m just trying to live long enough for science and technology to find a way to completely repair my body.
I might need a shot in my back if I keep hustling like this, I thought as I caught the door to tracks 9-10 just inches from my face.
No one held the door as they hurried through it and hit the stairs. Some people were close they even tripped over my cane. I followed the crowd with one hand on the railing and one firmly on my cane. I kept pace until we hit the platform.
It looked like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. People scattered, jumping into doorways and racing down the narrow walkway as fast as they could. I could feel a twinge in my back so I cautiously made my way down a few cars and slid into a handicap section. Within minutes the train was full. For once, I was seated while able-bodied people envied me. I rode in comfort, except for random bodies dangling over me.
I thought, in this one instance where using my mind and great hearing to figure out where the train was coming in was better for me than having a perfect body.
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