Metro

It’s the kind of end-of-summer day that makes me hurt inside my heart and my head. Bright blue sky, shot through with the thin trail of a plane’s vapour. I can almost taste autumn’s chill tang and the threat of the winter to come. The days are shortening and my sadness has come back. It’s brought me back here. I’m a ‘readmission’.

I sit in the bland lounge area with Jim. I met him last time I was here. I’ve been home and come back while Jim has stayed. It feels like we’ve picked up our acquaintance where we left off. I’m watching a young man with long, curly hair and a beatific smile. He nods his head in a constant, perfect rhythm as though he’s listening to a dance track only he can hear.

“Who’s that?” I ask Jim.

“That’s Metro.” He says.

“What sort of a name is Metro?”

“He told me it’s a nickname – short for metronome. You know, because of the way he nods his head all the time.”

I know this is funny but I’m also conscious of its cruel undertone.

As much as I feel a failure for not making a go of things away from here, I also feel comfort and relief to be back. People understand me here. I don’t have to worry about acting normal and fitting in. This time, it was a train journey that was my undoing. The fear and sadness had been seeping into me. I was poring over death notices in the paper, something I had agreed to stop doing. But I started again. Sometimes it’s the only section of the paper I can bring myself to read. And the last few lines of a Raymond Carver poem kept going through my head: “Fear of death. Fear of living too long. Fear of death.”

So, that day, at the station, I saw an elderly couple, both with walking sticks, being met by a woman of a similar age. She wore a pale blue headscarf and had no eyebrows – the chemotherapy tell-tales. They all three held each other close as if to stay afloat, recognising that this may be the last time for any one of them. The hot, salty tears started as I stepped on the escalator. They continued for the rest of the day – on the way to the meeting, during the meeting and through the journey home too. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, but there was nothing I could do.

The next day I came back here. I’m still sad. But they’ve managed to stop me crying, for now anyway.