Relief

Relieved. Grateful. Joyous. 

Those are the feelings that directly follow after, "It's not cancer."

I'm kind of an expert on this topic.  In the last 3 years, I've heard it twice.

The first time ended up being an endometrioma, which is the result of endometriosis. 

This time, it was a little pea sized lump in my breast.  After two months of mammograms, doctors, and ultrasounds, a breast cancer surgeon at a Nattional Cancer Institute accredited cancer center finally said those magical words that made everything else better. "This feels like normal healthy tissue", which roughly translates into "It's not cancer".

People keep asking me if I'm stressed about the wedding.  Nope.

I refuse to worry about what will undoubtedly be one of the happiest days of my life.  I worry about things like life altering health problems, not marrying my love surrounded by all my favorite people.

Today, I feel relieved and grateful and joyous. Time to polish my dancing shoes!

Violence. Part I

"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."

     - Isaac Asimov

Leaving work a tiny bit late, on my way to meet friends to celebrate a birthday.   Not wanting to be late, anxiety propels me down the steps to the underground trolley.   A small crowd of people is gathered looking expectantly down the track. 

Ugh. This means that there has likely been some problem with a trolley car and that there are people waiting at every stop before this one. The only thing I hate more than waiting for a trolley, is imitating sardines with strangers in a packed car.

I notice a co-worker standing on the platform, hanging back from the crowd.  We smile at each other and chat a little about the pitfalls of public transit.

Eventually, a trolley car pulls into the station, already full.  When the car stops, there is a mad rush for the door.  People clamor to cram themselves into the car like salmon swimming upstream.

My co-worker and I roll our eyes and laugh.   When this happens, the next trolley car that comes up is typically nearly empty.   "No thanks!  I'll wait."

A few minutes later another trolley car pulls into the station.  There are some people in the car, but I do some quick calculating and figure that even with the small handful of salmon that were left behind from the last one, it won't be that full. 

"You coming?", I say to my co-worker.

"Nah, still too full for me.  I'm in no hurry.  See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow!", as I wave and hop on the trolley.

I find a seat next to a 50-something woman who is playing solitaire on her phone.  She's petite, which is perfect because I'm less likely to elbow her while I touch up my make-up.

It's a typical after work train, people generally look a bit tired.  Some are zoned out. Some reading or playing games on their phones.  After the second stop, there's noise on the back of the train seems to be getting louder.  The voices are not the average high-schoolers getting loud on the way home.  The voices are more adult.  More purposeful.

"Come on man. Why you gotta do that?"

"You got a problem. Mind your business."

etc. etc. etc. etc.

 When people from the back of the train start to move towards the front, I feel compelled to turn around.

They're both standing in the middle of the aisle.  One man facing the front of train, slapping his chest. Another man, dressed in all black, faces him.  The rear-facing man picks up his backpack in a seemingly threatening manner.

In disbelief, I stare.  How can a backpack be threatening? He doesn't really have a gun in there.  He can't have a gun in there.  People don't really carry guns in backpacks...do they?

The air on the train has shifted. What was stale and stuffy is now electric.  Anger. Fear. Bravado. Panic.

The man in black unzips the backpack, reaches in and partially exposes a black gun.

Trapped on-lookers gasp. Out of my mouth spills, "Please don't shoot him!" 

The man with the gun hears nothing, but the sound of his own heartbeat.  He hears no voice of logic.  He hears no rational thought.  He hears no voice of love and compassion in his head.  He hears only anger and ignorance.

The men continue their puffing at each other and the man with the gun takes it out of the bag.

I quickly make my way to the front of the trolley where I can see the driver is trying to watch the track in front of him and watch the scene unfold.  He clearly can't see through the crowd. 

I catch the driver's eye in the mirror and say in a loud clear voice, "That man has a gun. Out right now.  Do something.  Call whoever you need to call."

Just then the driver pulls into the station and open the doors.  I say to the passengers around me.  "He has a gun. Get off now."  Again, they spill through the doors like salmon.  This time in a very different kind of hurry.  We tell the people who are waiting to board to get out of the way and stay off the trolley.

As I was going up the stairs to get above ground and to safety, I looked back to see a picture I won't soon forget.  A dark subway tunnel from the side. Bewildered people standing around gaping. Two men at the back of an illuminated trolley car, one with a gun pointed.  A few people still sitting on the car, waiting for the trolley to start moving again.

Those people, the people sitting still waiting, are the ones that haunt me.  Totally desensitized.  Perhaps uncaring.  Perhaps they've just given up.

From the relative safety of the corner of 22nd and Market above ground, I called the police.  It was clear that the trolley hadn't gone anywhere.  Neither of the men had come out of the exits.

A few minutes later, it was clear that the trolley had started moving again, because a whole new crop of people were walking up the steps oblivious to what was happening a few yards in front of them.

Next thing I knew, I was on a bus heading in the same direction as my former trolley. More alert to my surroundings.  On edge, but unharmed.  Wondering, what could push a man to pull a gun on a stranger?  This wasn't a robbery.  There was no further aim.  There was no goal. The only purpose for pulling that gun was to scare a stranger into shutting up.

As the bus passed 20th street, I saw a familiar face.  The unarmed man from the train was running passed the bus.

Apparently no one noticed anything.  There was no mention of it on the news or in print.  It was as if it never happened.