Looking Out The Window

I was at a table by the window in Panera one morning and I was looking out at the people going by, most of whom were going to work in various offices or Northwestern students running to class; the office workers with cups of coffee and briefcases or purses and the students with backpacks and ipods.

It was chilly outside but the sun was bright and the sky was blue and cloudless, providing the illusion of a warm summer day if you were near a window, as I was.  I was playing with cards as I people-watched and I glanced at the sidewalk and for some reason I got to thinking about what life was like before being diagnosed with Acromegaly.  The sidewalk was empty because there seemed to be a break in the people rushing from the nearby L train station and I remembered that I used to walk along that very same sidewalk when I first moved here in 1999, when I transferred from D.C with Borders.

In those days it would never occur to me that I would one day be told I had a tumor in my brain, or that I would take medications that I needed in order to stay alive. I could not fathom having a rare, chronic illness that would change me from who I was then to who I am now.

I sat in Panera  and thought about how I used to go to work every day and have fun there and then go out with co-workers and friends to bars or clubs or to someone’s home and do whatever we would do, and many of those places we still go to today. But back then I wasn’t sick. Or maybe I was but I didn’t know it.

A lot of memories came back to me. Like when Sal and I first started meeting up at the Metropolis each night before we even knew each others names. One evening we were seated at a table, she with some kind of tea and me with a cookie. She had been out with co-workers for a couple of drinks before she and I met up. She was really cute after a couple of those, and after I finished my cookie and wiped my mouth with a napkin she said, “I could have licked that off for you.”

That was the beginning of it all right there.

I also remembered how I used to attend a lot of concerts, and how I never do that anymore. I can’t handle bright lights, particularly those pulsating different colors to loud, harsh music. And, sick or not, I just don’t like being around large crowds of screaming drunk people. But it was fun to be with friends, many of whom have moved away and I never see anymore.

Looking out the window I felt like I was in another world. In fact, I almost forgot I was in Panera , but what brought me back to the current day was one of the nice employees tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “Mike, are you okay?”

I looked around and he appeared concerned. I was barely aware that I had tears streaming down my face, but I smiled and said I was fine, thanks. And he went back behind the counter. That’s why I like that place, because the people are so nice there.

The tears were a mixture of sadness and joy. I fondly thought over the old days but I must say I really don’t mind the way things are now. I’ve got an endocrine nurse who keeps me alive, and I’ve got lots of lovely friends in the Acromegaly Community who I would have never known had I not been diagnosed with this odd illness. A tumor in the brain? Well, that’s a small price to pay to have good friends around every day.