I repositioned my hood to try to hide my bleached and sparse hair from another round of chemotherapy. I managed to locate a seat close to the door despite the crowded subway. My body ached, every breath was difficult, and I was worn out.
Beside me was a woman in her fifties and a small son, maybe six years old. He immediately took the empty seat, and the woman sighed deeply as she turned to face me:
— Young woman, would you mind getting up from your seat? Standing is difficult for me.
I was so tired that I glanced up a bit.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said softly, lowering my eyes. Your grandchild might be willing to give you his seat.
She frowned and raised her voice:
Can’t you? What are you saying? You’re still quite young! Where’s your respect? This is absurd! You and my boy are both children! Look at the way she acts!
People around us started to pay attention, and some of them even started to grumble.
I drew my cowl down softly to reveal my bald head and murmured, bitterly:
I have been diagnosed with cancer. I just finished chemotherapy. That’s why I can’t tolerate it. I’m not asking for your understanding, so don’t yell at me.
She came to a halt. There was silence for a minute.
Now, some people had a different opinion of me, maybe one that was more sympathetic and respectful than condemning.
I put my hood back on to try to avoid the stares.
On the tube, surrounded by ordinary, uninterested faces, I felt very strong and alone.
Was it the right choice for me? Although I honor my elders, I was truly in pain.
