I arrived early at the Bourgeoise Pig Cafe, a small tea house in Chicago’s Lincoln Park. I was anxious, more so than usual. After the calm of coastal Maine, Chicago’s busyness was unnerving, and the news of my recurrence made every part of me tense. 

I had to return! I postponed the treatment by a week so that I might see my then-girlfriend. My illness arrived when our relationship was in its infancy. As such, we clung to one another, even from afar, trying to come to terms with the storm that had just hit. But that’s a story for another time, perhaps only between her and me. 

I ordered a panini and tea and then slipped off to the bathroom to gain my composure before Jose arrived. I always felt this deep connection to Jose. He was a mentor, an older brother, and a performance art partner. More than all that, he was just a dear friend whose very nature was comforting and gentle.

We met at the Bourgeoise Pig Cafe because I wasn’t ready to travel north to Edgewater. It was only a matter of several stops on the red line, but I couldn’t do it. It would mean passing by the L station where I had my initial seizure, where everything began, and my life changed. I hadn’t been there since the incident; I hadn’t even returned to Chicago.

That particular L stop has returned to me in different forms of daydreams or mental images. It came to me today, which is why I wrote this post. 

I am not sure how it appeared or what stirred the memory. I suddenly found myself between my apartment and Thorndale, the station just a few stops from the redline’s northern terminus. I stop and take it all in when I find myself in these places of reflection. In my opinion, letting the mind drift away in these moments of reverie is healthy and natural. I think we have misunderstood this notion of mindfulness. With all our apps and smartphone reminders telling us to “be here now!” we are struggling and even feel guilty for letting ourselves drift and be open to allowing our minds to enjoy their natural ability. Being fully conscious of where one’s thoughts are and where they are going is very powerful. I became very aware of this while inpatient during my back-to-back stem cell transplants. My confinement within a sterile room for weeks and being all but bedridden would have proven far too significant an obstacle. Consequently, I allowed my mind to go — consciously permitting it to be like a balloon, one tethered to my hand but floating above, being pushed about by air currents, etc. 

Today, those currents took me back to Chicago, and I found myself between my apartment and the Thorndale L stop.

I admit I feel lucky When I look back at one particular event from that day. I know how strange it is to say such a thing, and perhaps it isn’t even the right word in this context. Though, to say I feel blessed conjures up far too much. I am thankful for my childhood and having been raised catholic. Having a spiritual-based upbringing allowed me to explore religions as a whole – global religions, all of humankind’s beliefs. However, blessed, even with etymological roots that far transcend those I associate it with, still conjures up notions that are so intrinsically linked to my upbringing that I can’t put them aside.  

My mind brings me back, and I return to that day. I watch myself. I see myself on the street full of children on their way to school and commuters heading to the L stop. I feel the late March sun on my face. I hear the traffic that stops and proceeds and stops and starts again as the lights rhythmically change. Where am I? I am across the street, waiting for the light to change so I can cross the road, but in no real rush as the sun is far too gorgeous to be concerned about much of anything. No, I am watching myself inside the cafe on the corner of Thorndale and Broadway. I enjoy mug after mug of comforting dinner coffee served in thick-walled cups. Wait, I am a boy passing by, laughing with his friends as they rush off to school. We have postponed going, bewitched by the March sun; we have lost all fear of the repercussions we might pay for being late. I am in the car, stopped at the red light. I’m sitting, engine idling, whistling slightly off-pitch to a pop song on the radio I’ve never heard before. No, I am the businessman, elegantly dressed, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other, ready for the day. 

I am watching myself. I have returned here a dozen times and taken on numerous roles. Each one is fully aware of what is happening or, instead, what will happen. Standing across the street, preparing to cross, the man has forsaken the glorious sun to watch me instead. The man in the cafe stands up to observe. Usually, he stops for nothing, especially on his morning commute; the businessman halts midstride. The boy, who has forsaken the bell and the consequences of his tardiness, stands still. The man in the car doesn’t care about the line of cars behind him; he follows my every step.

It’s horrible to watch; it sickens us and turns our stomachs. It never gets easier. We are witnessing ourselves in a place of such fear. We know now what is happening. It has happened so many times since. Then, however, it is the first time, and each embodiment feels it. We cringe as our body stiffens into such an unnatural and horrific form. As our physical self contorts and breaks and releases some ungodly howl. And when we fall, when our body cannot hold itself, we recoil at the sight as our beings’ weight hits the ground so hard we bruise our very bones. But even as each one of us wants to look away or even wretch at the site, we say, “Thank you.” It isn’t for the years of pain that will follow, of absolutely not! We now understand what could have been – what very well could have been – if we made it to the station, up the stairs, and to the platform. 

The Thorndale red line stop is narrow; a few adults could link arms and span its width. 

On that horrific day, I was roughly a hundred steps from this station: a hundred paces and a short flight of stairs stood between me and the platform. I can’t help but wonder. I cannot help it! Perhaps it was the crosswalk that impeded my journey? Did I have to wait that long for it? Maybe a rambunctious school child, delirious from the fresh air, bumped into me and slowed me down? Or that businessman, walking with beeline precision, forced me to sidestep. Or… or what? 

But I didn’t make it to the station; I didn’t make it up the stairs or the platform. Had I, what then? Had I had a seizure on the platform, would the tracks have swallowed me up? Would I have fallen inwards towards the center of the narrow platform, towards safety? Or outward… outward and downwards; downwards into the train’s path or onto the tracks housing 600v of electricity? 

But I didn’t; I didn’t make it to the station, up the stairs, or to the platform.

During the same trip, I did manage to go up to Edgewater. I prepared myself for the stop at Thorndale. I was white-knuckling the seat, only realizing how intense I must have looked when I met another passenger’s gaze. However, the L will often run trains express, bypassing several stations. The train I was riding ran express from Berwyn to Granville, one stop farther north than Thorndale, thus avoiding it altogether.

I took a Lyft back to Lincoln Park. I wasn’t ready. I intended to take the red line south but exited the Granville station.  

Maybe I’ll never be prepared to return to this particular stop. Or, if I do, Jose and I will grab paninis and tea at the cafe and enjoy them on the platform. Maybe we’ll sit in silence. Or perhaps we’ll talk about the things we each feel blessed for.