Private Lives: Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.
I was the sick passenger on the No. 2 train, the one responsible for the line's delay. It was I who kept New Yorkers from their destinations, and prompted the notice that thanked them for a quality they're not known to have.
It was a recent Tuesday evening, at the tail end of rush hour. In spite of the announcement advising otherwise, I was leaning against the subway doors. In my left hand was an oversize umbrella and a handbag; on my right shoulder was a duffel bag stuffed with sneakers and athletic wear. I'd been planning to go to spin class, but had stayed late at the office preparing my boss for a trip.
I pulled out Susannah Cahalan's memoir about mental illness, "Brain on Fire," and picked up where I'd left off that morning, Chapter 27: "Brain Biopsy."
The next stop was Wall Street. More commuters got on than off. It was cramped, hot and stuffy in there. Susannah Cahalan was describing getting a 5-inch-diameter section of her head shaved. As we entered the tunnel that goes under the East River her father was holding back tears. The neurosurgeon prepped for the operation. Possible complications were described, inspiring in me a slight swoon. I felt that my armpits were sticky, and took a deep breath.
While we approached Borough Hall the doctor made an S-shaped incision with a scalpel. Skin was parted, tissue cut and holes drilled in the writer's skull.
Lightheaded, I scanned the train for an empty seat. In the middle of the car there was one.
By the time I get there it will be taken, I reasoned. Besides, I'm really fine.
I went back to the book; the author was in the recovery room now. The reunion with her parents heartened me but there was something about the words "head wrapped in white gauze."
I thought, we're going down.
The lights in the train dimmed as I lumbered toward the vacant spot. A man took the seat, but he must have sensed I was about to land in his lap: As quickly as he sat down he shot up. Once I was seated, I looked down at my umbrella handle and determined it would be a nice place to rest my head. The next thing I knew I was slumped on my seatmate surrounded by strangers asking if I was O.K.
A lady fanned me and asked, "Are you hot?" I nodded.
"I'm a nurse," she continued, while another woman with long dreadlocks asked if I wanted her water.
I knew where I was and what had happened, and that in a moment I'd be just fine.
"Station stop is Nevins Street," I heard the conductor say, and then, "We're being held here at the station due to a sick passenger."
My God, he was talking about me!
"We thank you for your patience."
I knew I had to get out so the train could advance. I was inconveniencing hundreds of strangers. How many times had I cursed under my breath when trapped underground? I tried to get up but I couldn't. Another woman rubbed my back. She said, "There's no hurry, just take your time." I wondered if I'd woken up in the Midwest.
After a few minutes passed I gave standing another try; this time the nurse and the woman with the dreadlocks locked their arms in mine. They guided me toward the doors, while the third woman carried my bags. I was steered down the platform toward a bench, and within seconds two police officers appeared, followed by the conductor.
So this is what happens while we're all waiting to move!
The policewoman asked for my birth date while her partner wondered if he should call an ambulance. I told him it wasn't necessary; I'd just fainted, it had happened before. He assured me they'd just take my vitals. This sounded reasonable.
The ticket booth clerk checked in on me, and said my necklace was "fabulous!" I told her I'd bought it at Nordstrom Rack in Union Square.
"She's definitely better," the policeman said.
The clerk then asked me how much I'd paid for it, and when I answered, said, "You could have gotten the same thing at New York & Company for half the price!"
When the emergency medical workers arrived, the conductor got back on the train, and I urged the three women to do the same.
"There'll be another train right behind it," the nurse said.
She must not have lived in New York City for long.
By the time the next train arrived, my heart rate was back up and my strength was approaching normal. I thanked my three fellow passengers for their generosity, and reflected on how I'd misjudged the citizens of this city.
Considering all the good will, I figured, why not work this to my advantage? and asked one of the police officers for a ride home. She laughed and said, "No, we don't do that." Then she pointed to my open handbag and said I was a pickpocket's perfect target, adding, "You're lucky you didn't fall on the tracks. This is New York City; you can't walk around all unaware."
This was the treatment to which I was accustomed. I knew I was better now. So I gathered my things and walked up the subway stairs, then caught a cab deeper into Brooklyn, and safely returned home.
Anne McDermott is an executive assistant at a real estate development company and a writer and performer.
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