If your 1 train was delayed on Wednesday around 9 a.m., you can thank Cade.
Yeah, the guy I’m dating stops traffic.
I’d just stepped out of the shower Wednesday morning and continued doing some last-minute packing when I got a phone call. “Hey,” Cade said. “Did you get my message?”
I hadn’t.
“I’m in the hospital.”
WHAT? My immediate thought was that Cade had been hit by a car somewhere in midtown. My next thought was something like, “Oh God, this is one of those horrible moments we never anticipate that changes life as we know it.”
“I passed out on the subway.”
Relief. I’ve felt faint on the subway before. Who hasn’t? The downtown morning commute blows. It’s crowded and hot and smelly. Cade was not dying…I think.
I got dressed and cabbed it to the hospital, despite the fact that I was flying to Texas later that day and still wasn’t completely ready. Cade would do it for me; and life threatening-ness or lack thereof aside, fainting on public transportation is bad. Also, I wanted an autograph. The MTA - a system so powerful it can bring a city of commuters to its knees, err feet, during a transit strike - shut down when Cade blacked out. Okay, “delayed” might be a better word. And it only affected the 1 line, but nonetheless, this was Zeus-like power Cade wielded.
Cade lay in dress pants and a flowery blue hospital top. He was hooked to monitors and his socks, shoes, and drenched shirt were crumpled on a chair. “Cute top,” I remarked. Cade’s brow furrowed with great concern. “Are you going to-”
“Yes, I’m blogging about this.” No need for him to finish. No one within seven degrees of separation from me can do anything interesting without me considering contemplating putting it into the blog. No aMANda alone is an island. And by “island” I mean really interesting all the time with a blogworthy coconut flava.
But I’m trying to maintain a relationship with Cade, as to keep the material a’comin’. Time to clarify some things. 1) Cade does not regularly pass out on public transportation. 2) Cade does not regularly pass out in general. 3) Cade is a healthy, virile young man with enough energy to walk to Brooklyn just to get some fresh air. 4) Cade wanted me to spin this entry so no one would think I’m dating the Boy in the Bubble and make generous donations to the Ronald McDonald House on his behalf.
I left the hospital as Cade waited for an echocardiogram, one part of a battery of tests performed on him. Carmel Car Service (I’m not advertising for them - do not let them drive you to the airport) had already postponed my pick-up once, so I hurried to the train station to head home.
“Wow,” I though once I hopped onto the subway. “Mere hours ago, Cade delayed this train.” One of the paramedics told him, “If it were the ’80s, we’d have assumed you did coke, but you’re too well-dressed for that.” Cade grimaced, I’m sure. Late to work. Facing an ambulance ride, tests, and a lot of questions. Subject to my blogging and creative license.
Cade is okay. Dying minute by minute, of course, but so am I. Until he does something else more blogworthy, he’s my own D-list celebrity for bringing out the kindness in fellow strap hangers (a man actually gave up his seat for Cade pre-faint; a woman cleared seats so he could recline post-faint) and shutting down a tiny part of the city for a moment.
“Like getting your high heel stuck in a grate on the sidewalk, that says you’ve arrived,” I decided as I stood clear of the closing doors please. I hung onto a pole with the crook of my arm. The door closed on a running would-be passenger before the train whisked me back uptown.
Craziness. My boyfriend and I couldn’t stop laughing when we read this. The 1 train is our whole life. It’s sad; I know.