![]() The answer hit her before I could reply, her face blanching, her mouth twisting into a grimace. ![]() What if someone had run into you? asked a friend when I later told her of my BART adventure. When the train lurched into motion, I planted my feet and braced myself, collapsing against other bodies when I lost my balance, all the time hunching protectively over my chest, where everything was still as raw and pink as sashimi. But I don’t look like someone you would give your seat to. When I’m not recovering from surgery, I do the same, standing up so certain passengers-Chinese grandmas with translucent visors, people with protective palms on distended bellies, mothers of children old enough to walk, but only just-can sit down. Maybe someone would see the aura of the Recently Operated Upon surrounding me and offer up their seat. Even when the train shrieked to a stop and gulped open, bodies packed inside, and I realized that I couldn’t lift my arms to hold onto the loops overhead, let alone support my weight by leaning against the side of the car, I didn’t panic. The walk to the station was okay, and the sun felt nice. ![]() And really, was I supposed to stay horizontal forever? She was right, but I needed my check, and I didn’t want to ask any friends to take the day off to drive me. This essay mentions suicidal thoughts and a method of suicide.Ī week or so after my top surgery, I went to the disability insurance office in San Francisco, an hour and a half away from my East Bay home by public transit. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |