Another good, busy day.

Physical therapy at 8:00. Tanja was tired going in, lamenting the early morning appointments, but coming out she looked energized.

“My legs are rubber,” she said. “And I’m supposed to meet a friend for a walk.”

“Maybe skip it today. She’ll understand.”

“I’ll go,” Tanja said. “But maybe I’ll do a half mile.”

Needless to say, she came back from the walk having busted out 2.5 miles. I always end up feeling like Burgess Meredith. “Whaddaya doin’ Rock, ya’ gotta stick to the plan.”

“Jeez, I dunno, Mick. I get goin’ and I feel pretty good, ya’ know?”

She did put her feet up for a bit after that. Then she had what they call a “wound check” at 3:00, which is just a follow up from the ER visit with her primary care physician.

He looked at her foot and noticed that it changed color the moment it was elevated, going from a slightly disturbing red to a nice foot-colored shade.

“It’s definitely related to the central chord syndrome,” he said. “No infection and not related to dvt.”

“The ER doc said it might be my foot healing,” Tanja said.

He made a face that can only be described as politely noncommittal.

“I can’t really speak to that,” he said. “But, well.”

Tanja feels like every single one of her symptoms could be dealt with in isolation. The foot is no big deal. The shoulder pain is puzzling and constant but not severe. The eerie chill in her arms is disturbing but not painful per se. The collar is, how did she put it, constraining, strangulating, diminishing, humiliating but also totally temporary ( CC is at 37!). But all of them together form a powerful tag team that causes her focus to fly from crisis to crisis, never coming to grips with one before answering the call of the next. It is particularly dispiriting for her as she gets tired.

Then bedtime rolls around and she begins to kind of gather her forces for the morrow. She’s doing something she’s never had to do before, it isn’t easy, and no one can do it except her. One can tell her she’s doing great–and one really believes that–but what does one actually know about it?

This morning, when Tanja was at her PT, I went over to Speilman Bagels to pass the time and get a little work done. Speilman’s is the most bare bones shop imaginable: a concrete floor, a counter behind which two young women assemble the requested bagels, a radio playing the hits, coffee from a carafe that has a piece of masking tape on it that says “coffee,” and a half dozen tables with chairs pushed up into the windows in front.

I took my coffee and sat down at one of the tables with my laptop. Two tables down from me was the only other customer, a man of my age approximately, also on his laptop. He had the clip-on badge that marked him as a hospital visitor, taking refuge here for the coffee and wifi. He smiled at me and I nodded back at him.

Because the place was so empty, one of the women brought my bagel right to me rather than shouting at me to come get it, like they usually do. After that I was lost in a sensory bath of cream cheese and top-level marketing.

At some point, I became aware that the radio had been cranked up and they were now singing along, the two employees, with I-don’t-give-a-shit abandon. The song was big and dramatic, soaring up and down. It was kind of wonderful–moving, even– to hear them sing and I looked over at my counterpart to share this moment and, maybe, sort of say, “Ah, youth.”

He was looking out the window, tears streaming down his face. And as I watched him, a sob came up from inside him and he held his head in his hands for a second. Then he sat up and continued typing, making no attempt to wipe the tears from his face.

We look at people all day long, make assumptions based on what we see and form judgments from there. That’s normal. What else can you do? My dad was a veritable Sherlock Holmes at this.

“See that guy,” he’d say, thrusting his chin toward a table on the other side of the restaurant. “I think that’s a divorced dad, and he’s out with his daughter. Probably taking her up to school after spring break. Maybe Simmons. Or Emmerson. Probably Simmons. This restaurant is a stretch for him and she’s not loving it, but she’s going along.”

My sense is he was mostly right on.

But at the same time, you never really know someone else’s journey. Not that guy across from me at Spielman’s. Not even the person in bed next to you.

So cut ’em all the slack you have, I say:)

Anyway, yes, here’s the song–the lyrics version because the official video might distract from the visceral lift of the music. Enjoy: