reflecting on the bus

We’re on the Limoliner Bus on our way home from Boston, which has proven to be a waste of money (it’s would have been worth the extra $75 to ride Amtrak). Despite the ample legroom, free food and Internet access, a bus is still a bumpy, jerky bus. More importantly, it is a vehicle affected by traffic, which we have caught plenty of in both directions. The Limoliner is Greyhound after a shower in its Sunday best, but I for one ain’t fooled.

We came to Boston to meet our nephew, who is as fascinating and wonderful as a one-week old can be. He sleeps for 20 – 22 hours a day, and so far, is a pretty mellow, very cute baby. It’s pretty fascinating, the whole creating another human being thing.

I also got to see my friend Fez and his girlfriend, Maggie. We used to play in a band together many moons ago, and are now going to start working as a production team. Over dinner and drinks we laid out the plan for a couple of projects.

The last time I was in Boston (almost exactly a year ago), I had taken the bus up to see Fez for the first time in years. We had recently got back in touch and I was looking forward to us catching up. About a month before I came to visit he had started chemo treatments for lymphoma. Fez, a perfectly healthy, yoga-teaching 29-year old had a tumor in his collarbone. I was nervous about what kind of condition he’d be in physically, but other than having lost most of his hair, he looked the same.

What he really wanted was just to laugh and have a good time to take his mind off his upcoming chemo treatment, and I was glad to oblige him. We had a great weekend together and I left happy to have re-established a good friendship and feeling like he’d be O.K.

When I got on the (Chinatown) bus to go home, there was an empty seat next to me. Right before the bus left, a harried woman a few years younger than me fell into the empty seat. As the bus took off, she began to cry quietly, and did so for the next ten or fifteen minutes. I wasn’t sure what to do. I tried to think of what I would want from a stranger sitting next to me if I were in a similar state, and opted not to say anything. Once she collected herself she fell asleep for a little while and we traveled the whole time in silence.

As the bus neared its Chinatown stop, she asked me a subway question, and I gave her the best directions I could. She had just moved to New York, she said, and was completely overwhelmed by trying to navigate the city. She went on to explain that the reason she was crying was that she had been visiting her boyfriend who had cancer and that he wasn’t doing very well. I said that I was sorry to hear that, and told her about visiting Fez. She asked a few questions about his condition (she used to work in a cancer ward) and said it sounded like he’d be all right. Then she looked away, probably thinking about her boyfriend.

Soon after, the bus came to a stop and we got off. As she walked away, I realized how horrible it was, not asking her what was wrong earlier in the trip. She was lonely, going through a devastating experience and would surely have appreciated some conversation. Over the next few days I kept playing the experience over in my head and feeling worse and worse every time.

I’ve made strides in my emotional development since then – at the time I was much more closed off (so much so that I actually thought it was O.K. to just let someone cry). But still, I’ll never have the opportunity to fix those four hours of silence. I am reminded that inaction, despite often feeling like the safer choice, is an action unto itself – and often a severe one at that.

Riding the bus home this time, I am thankful to have a beautiful, healthy nephew and that my friend beat cancer, but I am also reminded of that poor woman and that I’ll never get to tell her how sorry I am.