DIE ANOTHER DAY - Part I

On Friday June 1st, 2012, I went to see Whoopi Goldberg at Roy Thomson Hall.  With the miserable weather and the crazy situation with the Union Station flooding, I'd flirted for about a nanosecond with the idea of not going.  But I knew it would be a great time and a dear friend had offered me the ticket, so I went.  A few hours later, it would become evident to me that I was meant to be at that event.  The reason, though, had nothing at all to do with the actual show.  Less than 20 minutes after leaving RTH, I was trying to talk a woman out of killing herself.

Or maybe just out of killing herself that night.  I pray that it was the former.

I have blogged about difficult things in the past.  Painful and personal things.  But for some reason I've found this one very hard, despite my need to give it a voice.  It is not the first time I've been in a similar circumstance.  As a crisis line counsellor for the rape crisis centre many years ago, I found myself in the extremely difficult position of having to pry pill bottles and razor blades out of women's hands and talk them down from ledges, using only my words.  Those women were on the phone.  And as challenging and scary as it often made the work to not be able to see them or touch them, it also allowed for just enough distance from the situation to be able to keep a reasonably clear head even in the most unnerving moments.  This, however, was very different.

She is in front of me.  And then I am beside her.  Beside her crouched down at the edge of a subway platform.

But I should back up a bit.

My friend Stacie and I had agreed to go for tea afterward.  Stacie was the house manager for the event so we weren't going to be able to sit together during the show.  When it had ended, I went to Stacie's office to meet her.  Our plans had been thwarted; she had to stay to wait for a delayed WheelTrans pickup for a patron.  She told me to go ahead and leave and we'd catch up another time.  I did.  I am so, so thankful for that WheelTrans pickup.

As folks who live in Toronto know, there is indoor access to Roy Thomson Hall from St. Andrew Station.  On ANY other night, I'm heading to St. Andrew when the show is over.  But on this particular night, St. Andrew is closed due to flooding at Union Station.  I have to go to Osgoode.  On the way, I pass by a Rabba and buy a nice icy bottle of juice for the ride home.  I continue walking to the station.  As I enter and reach the middle of the platform, I see something that stops me cold.

A woman, crouched down, is at the very edge of the platform.  Her toes are over the edge and she has her head buried in her hands.  I'm afraid that calling out to her will startle her and she might fall, so I stand just beyond armslength away and desperately hope that she'll look up at some point before I hear the sound of a train.  She glances to the side just long enough that I'm able to make eye contact with her.  I ask if she's okay.  She doesn't respond, just shakes her head.  "If you're not feeling well, it's dangerous to be that close to the edge," I say.  She shakes her head again.  Her face is red - so red - like she's burning up.  I ask if she's sick; she says she has a fever.  When I offer her an Advil, she looks right at me and says "It's not that kind of fever."

I just know in my heart, immediately, that she has AIDS.  I glance up at the clock.  Due to the flood the trains are running less frequently and there isn't one due for 4 minutes.  I ask her "Is it okay if I touch you? Can I help you move back?"  "No," she says.  I crouch down beside her, although not as close to the edge and still just beyond armslength away as I can't gauge her mental state.  "Why are you here?" I ask.  She says it doesn't matter.  She has a fever all the time and it doesn't matter.  Over and over again, it doesn't matter it doesn't matter.  I tell her that's not true.  That's not true at all.  "It matters to me. You matter to me."  She looks a bit spaced out and I'm scared she's going to fall forward.  I want to take her hand but I know that if that spaced-out look is her experiencing psychosis, I could be putting myself in danger of being pulled onto the tracks if she jumps.   I look at the clock -- 3 minutes.

At that point, she suddenly starts rocking back and forth, a focused and determined rock, like she is building up both the courage and the momentum to throw herself over.  She tells me not to waste my time.  She starts muttering about water... it's hot... it's so hot... no water.  And then all of sudden, as the rocking gets more intense, I say three seemingly innocuous words that I never could've imagined would save a life.

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Go to DIE ANOTHER DAY - PART II