The Train

I am working at some law firm, then. Some common, New York, two-named law firm. I work for a typical, smart-mouthed, New York, Jewish woman who wears flowing kaftan-type outfits to work, claiming that it keeps her from being one of “them.” Otherwise, of course, she is the epitome of “them,” whatever they are; she is heartless and insulting and critical, and her distaste for me is palpable. I am saved from her loathing, on most days however, because I have broken two disks in my neck. I do not know this through my agony yet, through my endless, ever-present physical torture.  All I know is my arm hurts.

My arm huts more than I could ever put words to. My arm is the center of all worldly pain by the end.  How it started is too unbearable. At that moment, in that office, I am forced to leave my desk (I am that woman’s secretary) and flea to a caucus room – forced from my desk by a combination of mind-numbing pain in my arm, and endless brutal criticism by this woman.

I am there, in the small caucus room, sitting in one of three chairs. There are no windows. It is maybe six square feet in size. My head is in my hands and I am weeping. I am weeping out loud (and yet, silently into my own hands so no one will hear) I cry so hard, for so long, that I fall from the chair to my knees. Folded up into my own knees, face pressed into my hands, I start to rock, as if a child in a crib.

“How does this serve You? How could this possibly serve You? I can’t sleep. I hurt every moment. I can’t breath. I am in so much pain, that I may kill myself – and I’m not even sad. I work in this terrible place. I am an awful wife. I can’t even be a good mom. My best friend is dead. I can’t even pray. How could this possibly serve You.” By then, I have stopped weeping, and cry quietly into my hands, beginning to calm.… “But You are not a merciless. This must serve You. How could this serve You? How? But if this serves You, I am willing. Maybe I suffer for someone else? Someone else who could not bear it? Whatever it is, if it is Your will, sign me up. I am so grateful for my beautiful , sober life. The life You have given me. So sign me up, but please, please help me to suffer with more grace. Help me to suffer with more grace. Help me, this moment, to just stop crying. Just that.”

It is later that I will write to my doctor, in perfect calmness amidst the agony, and say that I am running out of options. And somehow, as the earth spins and rotates, I will be moved through time. Days and nights will pass and I will sit in the car beside Tommy that next Wednesday, and I will notice that he is quiet. I will notice this, and then forget it until much later. I worry about being intibated awake, which is how they will begin my surgery. I will worry about that job. A million thoughts will flow by as we drive to Good Samaritan Hospital to have the broken disks in my neck removed.

And simultaneously, every single moment that passes, just as it has unfolded for days and weeks and months, every moment that blockage in Tommy’s artery, just outside his heart, will continue to grow, closing like an pursed mouth, allowing less and less blood into his heart.

It is later that he will stop what he is doing and consciously think, “I don’t feel well.” By then, I am in surgery. He will, thank God, leave where he is and go back to Good Sam. He will stop being quite so quiet, and he will say those words, “I don’t feel well,” and choose to stay with me.
Every moment – every, single moment of that agony of mine, was about Tommy. So we would be in that hospital with that doctor at that moment in time. Weeks and weeks of wanting to cut my arm off with a hacksaw, of sleeping on the couch for only a few moments at a time because of the pain, of vomiting after commuting to the city because I hurt so much. Every single second was about that freight train headed toward Tommy. So okay, You, Whoever You are, Whatever You are, sign me up. …and thanks.