If I survive 24..
Today is my last day as a 24 year old, and for a brief moment this morning, I thought it was going to be my last day alive. This morning I fainted on the train.
(ok ok that was a little melodramatic. But I did get sick, and it was really scary. And now I'm going to tell you the whole, long story)
I wake up at 5:45 having just had a nightmare about an angry Sudanese soldier wanting to be my new roommate. I have an awful migraine so I pop in a migraine pill, roll over, and go back to sleep for two more hours. I wake up involuntarily and eat "Gorilla Munch" (Whole Foods version of "Kix") while reading last weekends "Modern Love." I get dressed, throw on some mascara, and head out the door to the subway. I'm tired but not any more so than I usually am at the beginning of the week.
I see the A train arriving just as I get to the platform and hop on, even though it's crowded and I'll have to transfer at Columbus Circle. I'm jamming to the Jackson 5, and I don't mind standing. But then the train is continuously held up by other train traffic, and the longer I stand and longer I listen to little Michael throwing it down, the more I begin to realize that something is not right.
I feel sweaty but I'm not hot, I feel weak, nauseous, and soon I start seeing black spots. I ask a woman deep in her reading of some Tom Clancy book that I need to sit. She must realize my state before I have a chance to explain it because she hops up, and the two old British ladies sitting next to her immediately offer me some of their diet coke. With my head in my palms, I mumbled "no thank you" and as we approach the Columbus Circle stop, I weigh my options. I could stay on the train until I feel strong enough to transfer back uptown. I could take my regular route and hope to recover in the next 2 minutes. The train stops and I decide to get off. I walk on to the platform and realize the third option: lay down. I know I'm going to faint so I figure it's better to give my body permission to lay down before it does so on its own.
So I'm laying on the ground on the platform. This is one of the most disgusting situations I've ever been in, but I don't care. I don't have a choice. People come up to me and ask me if they should call an ambulance. I say NO, that I just need to rest for a minute. I think I'm over-heated. They all get on the trains and I realize that I am all alone. I am laying on a subway platform in New York City. I can't move. There isn't cell phone service so I can't call anyone. I know that work is out of the question; I need to go home. But the thought of walking to the stairs, climbing them, getting to the uptown train, and then eventually to my apartment seems impossible. It's like my very own NYC marathon, and I haven't trained.
A very attractive man (an angel?) walks over to me and gives me his water, which in turn gives me enough energy to stand up, walk to the stairs, and have to set down again. More nausea, more black spots. I prepare myself for the possibility of having to throw up in my book bag. It's a low point. Another man with sunglasses approaches me and asks about an ambulance. Again, I say I'll be fine, but he sends another man for a police officer and while we wait, he takes out two styrofoam plates and begins fanning me. I can see my reflection in his sunglasses, and this is when I realize how much I have sweat. I decide that I take back every bad thing I've ever said about styrofoam plates. I now love them.
A police officer (also attractive) comes to me and tells me that I can come sit in the air conditioned station at the top of the stairs. He promises that I don't have to go to the hospital if I don't want to. I agree, and with the strength that those styrofoam plates have give me, I climb up 12 steps and walk into the police station.
It is here that I start feeling better. I drink more water, cool down, and try to convince the female cop that she doesn't need to file a report. I feel better, I say, I just want to go home. She tells me that they have to file a report in case something would happen like if I faint again and fall into the tracks. I see that she has a point and agree to stay to finish my water. Eventually I leave, walk to the Uptown train, and go home.
In reflecting upon this traumatic experience, I have come to several conclusions:
1. Fainting is no fun. I do it every 6 months to a year, and it's no fun at all. I also don't think that it is normal.
2. New Yorkers are so kind! At least 10 people (that I can remember) offered to give me water, call someone, or help me in any way. I could have been a bum or a druggie but they all were willing to help me, a total stranger. I love New York.
3. God would place four extremely good looking men in my life only when I am pale, covered in sweat, unable to speak coherent sentences, and looking like I will ralph at any moment. Hot men are out there, you guys, but they only come around when you look like death.
4. At least now I have the afternoon to read my book about the Sudanese and look for a new roommate.
(ok ok that was a little melodramatic. But I did get sick, and it was really scary. And now I'm going to tell you the whole, long story)
I wake up at 5:45 having just had a nightmare about an angry Sudanese soldier wanting to be my new roommate. I have an awful migraine so I pop in a migraine pill, roll over, and go back to sleep for two more hours. I wake up involuntarily and eat "Gorilla Munch" (Whole Foods version of "Kix") while reading last weekends "Modern Love." I get dressed, throw on some mascara, and head out the door to the subway. I'm tired but not any more so than I usually am at the beginning of the week.
I see the A train arriving just as I get to the platform and hop on, even though it's crowded and I'll have to transfer at Columbus Circle. I'm jamming to the Jackson 5, and I don't mind standing. But then the train is continuously held up by other train traffic, and the longer I stand and longer I listen to little Michael throwing it down, the more I begin to realize that something is not right.
I feel sweaty but I'm not hot, I feel weak, nauseous, and soon I start seeing black spots. I ask a woman deep in her reading of some Tom Clancy book that I need to sit. She must realize my state before I have a chance to explain it because she hops up, and the two old British ladies sitting next to her immediately offer me some of their diet coke. With my head in my palms, I mumbled "no thank you" and as we approach the Columbus Circle stop, I weigh my options. I could stay on the train until I feel strong enough to transfer back uptown. I could take my regular route and hope to recover in the next 2 minutes. The train stops and I decide to get off. I walk on to the platform and realize the third option: lay down. I know I'm going to faint so I figure it's better to give my body permission to lay down before it does so on its own.
So I'm laying on the ground on the platform. This is one of the most disgusting situations I've ever been in, but I don't care. I don't have a choice. People come up to me and ask me if they should call an ambulance. I say NO, that I just need to rest for a minute. I think I'm over-heated. They all get on the trains and I realize that I am all alone. I am laying on a subway platform in New York City. I can't move. There isn't cell phone service so I can't call anyone. I know that work is out of the question; I need to go home. But the thought of walking to the stairs, climbing them, getting to the uptown train, and then eventually to my apartment seems impossible. It's like my very own NYC marathon, and I haven't trained.
A very attractive man (an angel?) walks over to me and gives me his water, which in turn gives me enough energy to stand up, walk to the stairs, and have to set down again. More nausea, more black spots. I prepare myself for the possibility of having to throw up in my book bag. It's a low point. Another man with sunglasses approaches me and asks about an ambulance. Again, I say I'll be fine, but he sends another man for a police officer and while we wait, he takes out two styrofoam plates and begins fanning me. I can see my reflection in his sunglasses, and this is when I realize how much I have sweat. I decide that I take back every bad thing I've ever said about styrofoam plates. I now love them.
A police officer (also attractive) comes to me and tells me that I can come sit in the air conditioned station at the top of the stairs. He promises that I don't have to go to the hospital if I don't want to. I agree, and with the strength that those styrofoam plates have give me, I climb up 12 steps and walk into the police station.
It is here that I start feeling better. I drink more water, cool down, and try to convince the female cop that she doesn't need to file a report. I feel better, I say, I just want to go home. She tells me that they have to file a report in case something would happen like if I faint again and fall into the tracks. I see that she has a point and agree to stay to finish my water. Eventually I leave, walk to the Uptown train, and go home.
In reflecting upon this traumatic experience, I have come to several conclusions:
1. Fainting is no fun. I do it every 6 months to a year, and it's no fun at all. I also don't think that it is normal.
2. New Yorkers are so kind! At least 10 people (that I can remember) offered to give me water, call someone, or help me in any way. I could have been a bum or a druggie but they all were willing to help me, a total stranger. I love New York.
3. God would place four extremely good looking men in my life only when I am pale, covered in sweat, unable to speak coherent sentences, and looking like I will ralph at any moment. Hot men are out there, you guys, but they only come around when you look like death.
4. At least now I have the afternoon to read my book about the Sudanese and look for a new roommate.
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