We Live Where We Are

Part One: Better Late Than Broken

First, by way of explanation, the circumstances leading up to the incident. It is a roughly forty minute walk from Shoei Haitsu, our modest apartment in the Aoba ward, to Sendai Station. Largely downhill, what should be a leisurely stroll is bogged to a slow crawl in the thick weight of summer humidity. It is absolutely necessary, then, to remain hydrated and avoid over-exertion. On Thursday, however, we neglected necessity and set out with no food and little water in our still-unadjusted systems. We had a Yamoto-bound train to catch, and we were late. Considering the outcome, I wish now that we had waited for the next train, sat down for a healthy meal, and drank a liter of water or two.

Instead, we made a mad rush to the station, sat down at MacDonald’s for quick double cheeseburgers, and sipped our syrupy Cokes. This oily cuisine precluded a dash through the ticket turnstile and down an escalator to our stop. When we finally boarded the train, it was crowded with home-bound salarymen and school kids. The seats were all taken by men lightly dozing in their “cool biz” summer attire and old women handling wooden canes between their knobby knees. We stood then near the entrance, across from a loud gaggle of highschoolers and beside a twenty-something silent hipster wearing Converse All-Stars and listening to his iPod shuffle. The train started with a jolt and Julianna grabbed my waist to keep from falling over. Seated near us was a middle-aged Japanese woman who pulled from a tattered canvas bag an equally tattered Japanese Bible. She opened the book to its black silk ribbon, nestled somewhere in the Old Testament. I pointed out this curious sight to Julianna, who smiled wearily between two average I'm-getting-kind-of-tired kind of yawns.

Two stops from Yamoto, Julianna mentioned she did, in fact, feel an acute exhaustion, coupled with a bout of dizziness from the ever-swaying rackety motion of the elevated train compartment. She looked stunned, flushed, as if consciousness itself, the influx of constant foreign and overwhelming information, was too much to bear. And it was. As the train sped through a back-to-back series of S-curves, Julianna collapsed into me, her eyes glazed and closing, the sudden dead weight of her body startling and unexpected. I tried my best to hold her up but her knees, like under-watered flower stalks, buckled limply beneath her. She crumpled to the thankfully clean floor and I cradled the back of her head. Some other passengers, including Tattered Bible Woman and Converse Boy, circled around us, anxious to help. Another woman quickly knelt, put her hands under Julianna's shoulders and began asking me questions in spitfire Japanese. After sucking air through my teeth and repeatedly muttering wakarimasen, I don't understand, I somehow managed to explain that we were English teachers in Sendai, going to Yamoto to visit a friend. Meanwhile, I brushed Julianna's hair from her face and pried her eyelid open with my thumb, revealing a dull orb that rolled lifelessly despite my persistent, pleading stare. I asked her in my most tender voice to please wake up, though this tenderness quickly succumbed to more urgent vocalizations. The train conductor then came out of his booth to assess the situation and asked, in hesitant English, “what stop?” Yamoto was, by this time, only five minutes away. Tattered Bible Woman tapped me on the shoulder and indicated that she had vacated several seats and that we should let Julianna rest.

After we arranged her somewhat awkwardly supine, Julianna's eyelids began a slow, promising flutter and her breath began to quicken. Like a rebooted computer, she flickered back into working order, albeit, to continue the simile, with the limited functions of“safe mode.” I touched her cheek; are you okay? How do you feel? Can you sit up? Tattered Bible Woman made the universal drinking symbol and fished around in her canvas tote. She produced a plastic bottle that contained no more than two or three gulps worth of water. Converse Boy also came forth with some Pocari Sweat, a Gatorade-type drink that boasts a bounty of refreshing electrolytes. As Julianna took a few cautious sips, the color returned to her face, though I can't say if it was due to the water or her emergent embarrassment at having fainted on a crowded train. “I'm okay, I think,” she said, wincing at some unseen pain, “but I think I did something to my ankle."

Part Two: Doctors (and Teachers) Know Best, is forthcoming.

Don't worry, she's doing okay, reclining in bed with an elevated leg, watching Oprah on DVD. But yes, if you haven't heard, her leg is broken near the ankle, the tibula, I think. I'll save the medical specifics for the next installment, but please pray for the best! Having a broken leg is no way to start a year teaching in Japan.