Story 25: Bone Marrow

I stayed on Fire Island for the long holiday weekend, celebrating America's independence and watching Egypt shape its future independence. We beached, bantered, biked, and bone-broke. Well, I bone-broke—my wrist. There is no where to get an X-ray on Fire Island, so I waited till I got back to a different island to see a doctor. 

As we left the beach house, I could literally hear all our bodies crashing, as if Grandma's China was smashing against the wall. I didn't expect anyone to go to the hospital with me, so I took my book as company and bantered with the resident who mummified my arm into a hard splint. I could tell he was my age: we had similar snark, the same cloud of invincible arrogance floating about. But, I was a little jealous of him. Both of us were in our late 20s, yet it seemed like he didn't have to make all the choices I need to make in the next five years: when will I get married? Should I have kids? Is living in New York sustainable? I make enough decisions throughout the day (whole wheat or sesame bagel; subway or cab; work an extra hour or meet for happy hour) that when it comes to the big decisions, I delay them. Sometimes, I just ignore them. I embrace the uncertainty as if I'm redecorating. You know when you move into a new apartment and you're consumed with what will go where, which vintage reproduction of industrial furniture defines you as a person? But in the end it all falls together anyways, just like the time I bought a curtain for my skylight but ended up using it for my window and found the matching one a year later. Or when my friend Taryn gave me that ottoman that randomly matched the dresser I custom ordered on Etsy. I don't want to pick a furniture scheme, so I won't and it will all make sense. I don't want a perfectly mapped life in the suburbs as a housewife, so I won't and, at least not yet. It always sounded like cancer and I'm far too young for terminal illness. 

The last two days stained all of this—the schemed and mismatched furniture, the planning and disorganization, the way New York City appeals to me. If and when I leave this City, I will look back on July 8 and 9 as the catalysts, the tipping points for my departure. I left the emergency room in a splint from my hand to my armpit, restraining the way I moved, but I'm vigilant and stubborn and reckless so I filled four bags of groceries and carried them for my 10-minute walk home. As I wobbled and stopped for breaks, not a single Brooklynite offered me help. A man passed around me to get to his apartment quicker, and not even my neighbor said hello. Today, three different doctors said I needed surgery, and I immediately pulled my iPhone to alert Google and WebMD.

The uncertainty might be glamorous, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad to come home to a husband who  will definitely help me carry my groceries and hold my hand as I count backwards to ten right before surgery.