In the middle of my nervous breakdown this summer, I was in the emergency room waiting area with a bloody nose and a bloody chin and a bloody arm. I was alone The triage lady had given me some very temporary bandages and they were coming off already. I must have looked pretty scary.
I’d been crying since before Dixon bit me, but up until then I had tried to keep it together. Now, I was outright sobbing and not caring who heard or what they thought. I was convinced at that point that I was going to die, so who cares about crying, right? I couldn’t even tell you what I was crying about. Everything, I guess.
One little old lady saw me and decided to try and help. I don’t know who she was, but I probably won’t ever forget her. In between sobs I told her what was going on. I don’t think I’d even finished the story when a nurse called me to go back. It was just enough to distract me while I was waiting.
I went back to sobbing uncontrollably after that as I told the story a few dozen more times to social workers and doctors and whoever else asked. You’d cry too if you were convinced you were going to die and/or you could see your arm muscles.
I guess I just really like that she was brave enough to talk to me even though I was bloody and crying like a crazy person. I hope one day I can be brave like that and pass on the favor.