In an attempt to conceal my hair, which was bleached and thin following another round of chemotherapy, I adjusted my hood. Despite the busy metro, I was able to find a seat near the door. Every breath was hard, my body hurt, and I felt exhausted.
A woman in her sixties and a young boy, perhaps six years old, were standing next to me. He took the vacant seat right away, and the woman turned to face me with a heavy sigh:
— Would you mind leaving your seat, young lady? I have trouble standing.
I looked up a little because I was exhausted.
I lowered my eyes and whispered softly, “I’m sorry, I can’t. Perhaps your grandson could give you his seat.”
She scowled and spoke louder:
You can’t? What do you mean? You’re still young! Where is your respect? This is ridiculous! My boy is a child, and you! Take a look at her behavior!
Those in our immediate vicinity began to listen, and some even started complaining.
With a bitter tone, I said as I gently drew down my cowl to display my bald head:
— I’m suffering from cancer. I recently completed chemotherapy. I can’t stand it for that reason. Don’t holler at me; I’m not requesting your understanding.
The woman stopped. For a minute there was silence.
Some individuals now viewed me differently, perhaps with respect and sympathy rather than condemnation.
In an effort to avoid the looks, I put my hood back on.
I felt extremely strong and quite alone on the tube, surrounded by normal, uninterested faces.
Did I make the correct decision? I respect my elders, but I was in real suffering.
