Intertwined

I wanted to hug the man on the train and tell him everything was going to be okay, but I also realized how invasive that sort of support could be to a complete stranger.

I noticed his bald head right away. A head that is hairless as a result of chemotherapy differs from a shaved head. A shaved head shows signs of re-growth. A chemo-head is smoother than a newborn baby’s head without a trace of fuzz. Thankfully, I was sitting right next to the man, so I wasn’t able to rudely stare. I did, however, steal glimpses of him when I could, under the pretense of looking around at the general surroundings, and noticed that his eyebrows had long disappeared. There wasn’t a trace of facial hair. Not a trace. I know the look, well.

I remembered how horrible Chris felt when his sickness became visible and apparent. There were things I wanted to say to this man. I wanted to tell him that I know what he’s going through. I wanted to slip him a business card and tell him that if he needed to talk with somebody or just if he wanted company, he could call me. I felt a high level of energy passing from my soul into his and wondered if he could feel what I was sending his way. I closed my eyes and said a prayer for him.

Ultimately, I said nothing. I didn’t want to impose upon his life. I don’t know what type of cancer he has. Maybe he’s got the disease under control. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about the horrors of his condition to anybody, much less a stranger on a train.

I projected Chris onto him and experienced a tremendous amount of transference. I truly felt I was within seconds of slipping my arms around him, hugging him and kissing the back of his neck. I wanted to comfort and reassure him. I wanted to let him know that I love him. Most of all, I wanted him to live.

And I wished he could have.