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2002-08-09
11:28 a.m.
This morning, like every other weekday, I went to wait for the bus to take me to work. The bus arrived within thirty seconds of my reaching the stop, and I took my seat, adjusted myself comfortably, and pulled out Tender Is the Night, an F. Scott Fitzgerald book I’m reading as research for my novel.
A few stops later, an unassuming lady sat down next to me and stared straight ahead as bored as everyone else and trying just as much to look like she didn’t care that the world was around her. Utterly engrossed in my book, I barely noticed when she had gotten up to get off the bus as her stop approached. She walked to the front of the bus, stood holding onto a bar by the steps to get off, the bus came to a full stop, and she promptly fell over backwards, causing a sudden gasp from the collective passengers and the lagging gasps of those who weren’t paying attention or didn’t know what had happened.
My first thought was to walk casually to the front of the bus to see what had happened to the girl because if anyone knows how to handle people in horrifying situations, I do, but there were several other people hovering over her already, and I figured the last thing she needed was more people crowding her breathing space. So, I continued reading my book while the bus driver called for an ambulance, a nurse announced, “She’s bleeding,” or, “She’s breathing,” or something of the sort, and a firetruck arrived sporting flashing red lights and a screaming siren.
A firetruck?
Apparently, the ambulance couldn’t get there as quickly as the firetruck, so a fireman got on the bus and started trying to figure out what had happened. Before too long, the girl was awake, and the first thing she said was, “What happened? Why am I crying?”
I thought that was an interesting question.
Several weeks ago, in the middle of the night, I awoke feeling wide-awake and bored. At the time, I was still smoking, so I stepped outside for a smoke in the pouring rain. Before I even finished my cigarette, I decided I didn’t feel too well, so I tossed the cigarette to the ground only half-finished, closed my umbrella, and returned to the warmth and comfort of the livingroom. I turned on Nick at Nite because I find that’s one of the most calming things I can do, but before I could even figure out what show I was watching, I decided I REALLY didn’t feel well and I should just go back to sleep.
Since I had gone outside for my smoke, I had, of course, changed from my pajamas into real clothes, so when I returned to the bedroom, I had to change back into my pajamas. No sooner than I had crossed into the bedroom and unbuttoned my jeans, I fell loudly to the floor, hitting my head on the corner of the dresser on the way down. It hurt like hell. I remember the darkness darkening into blackness and I remember awakening upon hitting the floor, but it became clear to me immediately that I had passed out and I wanted nothing more at the time than to settle into sleep. Obviously, I hadn’t the energy to pick myself off the floor, so I considered going to sleep right there in the corner on the floor, but then I thought I was going to puke and I made my way quickly and painfully to the bathroom where I sat on the floor in my underwear and awaited the looming lurch like a punch to the stomach with about as much concern as boredom.
While I was in the bathroom, Rob woke up and wondered what the hell I was doing, so he came to see if I was okay, and things began to calm down a bit. I don’t remember if I puked or not, but I think I didn’t. While I waited to see if the puking was going to happen, Rob asked what I had been doing sitting on the floor, and I told him I fell. I don’t know if I told him I passed out or not. Things are a bit fuzzy for some reason. Before too long, I made my way stumbling back to the bed, and I gladly went back to sleep as though nothing had happened.
These things happen in my life; it’s no big deal.
Everyone else on the bus was waiting patiently, as though they didn’t really care if they made it to work on time or not. I was rather amazed by that. I believe I would’ve imagined everyone looking sternly at their watches, wishing they could turn the minute hand back a little bit so they wouldn’t arrive late to work. I guess nobody cares that much about getting to work on time.
People are obviously more important.
Several years ago, when I was in college, I was walking to school one morning when someone in front of me on the sidewalk collapsed in a heap. I was late and I didn’t have the first clue as to who this woman was, so I didn’t even bother to look at her as I passed her by. Later that evening, I found out that one of my coworkers had seen me from a window many stories up in a nearby building, and he couldn’t believe I had just left her lying there on the sidewalk.
Now, it’s not like I have no regard for my fellow human beings; I’m just really unimpressed with these minor travesties. By the time the ambulance arrived this morning, I was bored with the events transpiring around me and irritated that nothing more interesting had happened. The most interesting thing I encountered was the eerily appropriate phrase I read as the bus finally pulled away from the girl who had fainted and the ambulance that had swallowed her whole: “It is hard for those who have once been mentally afflicted to be sorry for those who are well.”
It may seem harsh and it may seem egotistical, but the plain fact of the matter is that once you’re mentally ill, you never again believe that anyone has it worse than you. That’s part of the reason I’m good at dealing with people going through rough times. I can’t imagine losing hold on reality in the most desperate of situations. It’s the ridiculous, everyday, boring circumstances of life that hold absolutely nothing for me and send me spiraling into an infinite abyss of chaos and confusion.
This girl today didn’t even have it bad enough to need me. If she had required some serious help, I would’ve been much more effective than a nurse or a fireman. They’re too drilled into the foundation of reality to offer much in the way of support for those traumatized by horror. Only the truly, severely traumatized need the help of someone who’s had it worse than they, and then they can come to me because nobody’s had it worse than I.
