To the Woman on the 1 Line

Impact knows no bounds. Whether it’s a moment or a lifetime, even the seemingly smallest gestures can render a residual kindness remembered and carried forward. 

One such incident for me occurred almost a decade ago. A dear friend of mine, Lauren, passed entirely too early; stage 4 colon cancer took her life at 34 years old.

It was fall. I returned to be with my New York City family after moving across the country. It had been a strange, formative year for all of us in one way or another. Career change, life circumstance change, sorrow, and joy…arcs of life bookended by our common threads—swimming, assorted pranks, deep connection, and the death of a beloved friend. Despite my few short years in that big city, I was part of a family that made it feel like home. 

Lauren was one my first friends in NYC. As the head coach of the women’s swim team at NYU, she also coached at a local gym that I both swam and coached at—not because she needed additional work, but because she loved the swimmers so much. I was particularly struck by the fact that despite living in the city for a decade, New York hadn’t made her HARD. She was sure of herself, and despite her diminutive stature, emanated a unique combination of strength, love, and approachability. She expected a great deal from her athletes while still managing to be kind and good-humored. When we swam together one day, she told me I looked like I was stuck to the wall with Velcro when I pushed off the wall…which made me laugh (and swallow a lot of water). She always yelled a greeting if she saw someone she knew, occasionally running after them if they didn’t hear her (and, incidentally, even if they were the wrong person). 

We gathered for a celebration of life after her memorial service, and amidst the cacophony of her favorite music, laughter at memories, and pacts for future adventures in her honor, Lauren’s absence was almost bearable. As the last of us embraced our goodbyes and poured out onto the muddy pavement, I felt like a reveler at closing time, reluctant to leave. 

I descended the subway stairwell to the red uptown line, the dimly lit entrance a welcome transition into anonymity. A familiar mixture of decayed leaves, accumulated grime, and urine infiltrated my nostrils as I swiped my metro card and passed through the turnstile. 

I boarded the 1 train, and as I entered the sterile, fluorescent-lit metal tube, I felt the heaviness of grief overcome me.  I sat down, alone, my hands curling around the edge of the hard, blue-gray seat as I tried to steady myself. Emotion caught me completely off guard.  I started to sob silently but inconsolably—those deep, strong thrusts of grief that you stomp down in your throat so they don’t make a sound but can’t be prevented from shaking your body. So there I was, like a television screen on mute, helplessly unable to control my body’s insistence on catharsis. A small group boarded the train at Times Square, and though I didn’t look up, I felt their awkward glances as they shifted  to the front of the car. My shoulders still heaved and my face moistened with a salty stream of tears. Despite my best efforts to stifle them, they still came amongst a train full of strangers. 

As we screeched into the 50^th street stop, a woman approached me with ease and without caution. She wore a loosely-knit cream sweater, and her soft, brown curls were tucked behind her ears. Even today, I recall her calm, steadfast voice as clearly as my own. She took my hand, looked into my eyes, and simply said, “I don’t know why you are in so much pain, but I am truly sorry.” As quickly as she arrived, she softly removed her delicate hands and was gone. And in that big city, as I departed the train and returned into the darkness, I no longer felt alone. 

In those selfsame moments of humanity—grief, joy, love, loss, solitude, and community—we are connected. We identify. And in her brief contact, the woman on the 1 line gave my heart a momentary rest from the whitecaps that engulfed me, simply by seeing me, exactly as I was.