SF Britt x DALL-E 2
In my mid-twenties, I rode my bike everywhere – from grad school office hours to Friday night drinks with my friend Matt. During the summer, I would take a train and then cycle to my internship. The commute lasted a lifetime and a day and most drivers only loosely adhered to the concept of bike lane. But without the means to afford a car or live closer, I still biked daily. That's how, on that particular evening in July, I found myself cycling toward the San Francisco station to catch the 7 p.m. train.
My bike tires traced the edge of the broken white lines as I checked over my shoulder and switched lanes. Then, my bike flew from underneath and I flipped onto the hood of the car behind me. My body hurled off the vehicle and my head smashed onto the pavement. Stunned and bruised, I stood and hobbled toward the sidewalk, dragging my bike alongside.
A woman from the sidewalk rushed toward me. “Are you okay? Can I help?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” is what I tried to say. Instead, an animalistic groan forced itself from my throat. If it weren’t for her raised eyebrows, I wouldn’t have realized the sound came from me.
“Do you have anyone you can call?” she asked.
I opened my phone with one-percent battery remaining and tapped open my emergency contact list—but each person lived out-of-state. I couldn’t burden them with my crisis. I exited my emergency contact screen and considered calling Matt. Despite our Friday night drinks and study group sessions, I always thought of us as mostly acquaintances. So, I wondered, Would he answer? Would he give me a ride? I probably don’t need a ride. I can still catch the 7 p.m. train, right?
Rather than calling him, I turned to the woman and shook my head. Tufts of down dangled from a fresh tear in the elbow of my puffy jacket as I gestured toward my cell and shook my head. The stranger furrowed her brow when my phone screen went black and the battery died. She pressed further, “You can use mine.”
Without my phone, I could only remember the numbers for my mom and step-dad. However, the moment I thought of them, a wave of nausea hit me.
Since I began grad school, I had avoided thinking about my parents. This was mainly because I had stopped speaking with them in our most recent “family breakup.” I had hoped it would be our final one after countless failed attempts that spanned over a decade.
I leaned onto my bike as the nausea intensified. Then, my mind drifted to a memory of one of those break ups in my early twenties.
In the arrivals terminal, I perched on my wheeled maroon travel bag and looked through the glass doors toward the passenger pickup zone. I was there to visit my family and, after moving across the country to pursue a new job, I longed to hug them and show them pictures of my unfurnished apartment. I even missed hearing them complain of overbearing bosses and their ever-creaking bones. Eager to reunite, I phoned my mom. “I’ve arrived! Are you on your way?”
“I’m staying home. You told me it was later,” she said with a biting edge in her voice. I placed my hand on my cheek and took a deep breath. My mother then said, “I want to remind you that my house is not your home.” After traveling thousands of miles, her words showed me that flights could never remedy our distance.
Later, I called my step-dad. He said, “Sorry, I can’t.” I slept on an airport bench that night.
Following this incident, I attempted to go no contact.
To cope with the sadness of losing my family, I hiked at a local nature preserve for distraction. But seeing a father identify a quail to his daughters (who rolled their eyes) reminded me of my bird-watching step-dad. Another time, I distracted myself by going to brunch with friends, but the blueberry pancakes just weren’t as good as my mom’s summer-berry flapjacks. Each day brought memories like this and eventually, I thought to myself, Just one more chance. Then, I sent them a text wishing them a Happy Father’s Day and the cycle repeated itself.
As these memories of estrangement swirled through my mind, honking horns and vehicle exhaust from rush-hour traffic brought me back to the reality of my accident. I clutched my bike. The rush of adrenaline had faded. My teeth chattered from shock. Nausea hit me in crashing waves. The sinking realization was setting in that I would miss the 7 p.m. train.
I focused on the sidewalk to manage my nausea. The woman then asked, “Can we call your family?”
It wouldn’t be unusual for me to reconnect with my parents after a family breakup, especially after so many failed attempts. The memory at the airport, however, reminded me how much it hurt to love them. It reminded me how much sadness I felt during other attempted break ups. Like when my mother urged me to walk at my graduation, only to leave her seat empty. Or the time I lost cell coverage because they kicked me off the family phone plan without warning. These memories reminded me I felt more alone with them than without. It reminded me I needed this break up to stick. Shivering and disoriented, I couldn’t help but wish it hadn’t.
My gaze focused on the woman on the sidewalk. Her crisp suit was in sharp contrast to the surrounding chaos. Her posture, straight and unwavering, exuded authority and control. I imagined she had somewhere else to be. Yet, her eyes, filled with concern, never left me.
She offered a smile as she handed me her phone and said, “Someone will want to know.”
I longed to evaporate into San Francisco fog as I looked up toward the hazy sky and admitted to her, “I have no one. I’m alone.” Her smile dimmed while traffic crawled by and indifferent faces passed us in a blur. I wanted to say, “I’ll be fine, I always am.” But I would cry if I spoke. I looked at the concrete instead.
Then, she said, “I’ll stay with you.” I cried anyway.
After several moments had passed, she asked, “Where are you headed?”
“I’m headed home to Stanford. I’m a grad student there and intern at a cleantech startup nearby,” I said. A tuft of down from my jacket fell onto the sidewalk as I wiped my nose with my sleeve.
“School’s demanding, isn’t it?” Thinking of the countless hours I had spent in the library, I smiled in agreement. Upon seeing my reaction, she said, “You look like you’re feeling better.”
Beyond this, the specifics of our conversation are fuzzy. However, the details don’t matter. After a lifetime of airport benches and disconnected phones, her presence showed me I wasn’t alone.
When an ambulance arrived, she reassured me I could trust the paramedics, so I crawled onto the stretcher. I waved goodbye as they closed the doors. That was the last time I saw her.
Later, hospital staff swarmed around me, attaching tubes, needles, and wires. A nurse handed me my phone that they had charged when they stripped me of my clothes. She asked “Is there anyone you’d like to call?” I winced at the reminder of my isolation. But amongst the unfamiliar faces and chirping hospital room alarms, I also yearned for a familiar voice. I held my phone and thought to myself, A stranger helped me today. Someone will want to know. Then I dialed. Anticipating a letdown, I repeated to myself between each ring, He won’t pick up. He won’t pick up.
Then he picked up.
“Hey Matt, I don’t want you to worry about me, but the doctors say I should tell somebody.” Each syllable was a fight against the lump forming in my throat. “I’m at the hospital. I was hit by a car. I’ll be okay.” Then I drew in a deep breath, offsetting the shallow ones I had been taking.
“Oh man, that’s rough,” Matt said, “Glad you’re okay. I’m sorry this happened to you.”
I heard background noise over the line and asked if I should call him later. “No, let’s chat,” he said. “I’m just headed out for my daily walk. A car might’ve hit you, but our Fitbit challenge waits for no one.” My eyes watered as laughter bubbled out of me. Matt’s jokes had a way of cutting through gloom. I had noticed this when I would despair about tough assignments during our study group sessions. After we hung up, the hospital staff, confident in my stability, left to attend to other emergencies.
As I lay there, our conversation lingered in the room. I wondered, Why does he care for me? He doesn’t know me that well. Or maybe that’s why he cares – he doesn’t know me. It wasn’t just about Matt, though. Doubts of my worthiness and the wounds from my family had entrenched themselves within me like the gnarled roots of an old tree, distorting my sense of self-worth. Despite my insecurities, I had begun to challenge those beliefs that day. First, when the woman stayed with me, she proved I deserved protection. Her actions helped me believe it might be okay to call Matt. Matt was also there for me by just picking up the phone. While these moments weren't a cure, they marked the beginning of a path toward healing. Like a sapling extending its roots into the earth for water, its leafy branches reaching toward the sky for sunlight, I realized I could strive for something more.
While I was lying there on the hospital bed, watching the steady beeps of my heart on the monitor, my phone vibrated with Matt’s incoming call. “Hey, do you need a ride?”
Perhaps a ride is what I needed. I had missed the 7 p.m. train after all.