I tugged my hood lower, trying to conceal my thinning, patchy hair—bleached and brittle from the latest round of chemo. The subway car was packed, but I was lucky enough to snag a seat near the door. My body felt like it had been through a war. Every limb throbbed. Even breathing took effort.
Standing nearby was a woman, maybe in her sixties, with a young boy—around six or seven. He slid into the open seat beside me, and she turned to me with a weary sigh.
“Excuse me, dear, would you mind giving up your seat? It’s hard for me to stand,” she said.
I lifted my eyes, exhausted beyond explanation.
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” I replied gently. “Maybe your grandson can offer you his seat instead.”
Her expression darkened. Her tone turned sharp.
“What kind of manners is that? You’re clearly young and healthy enough. This is shameful! My grandson is a child—unbelievable!” she snapped, loud enough for other passengers to take notice.
A few people shifted uncomfortably. Someone murmured something under their breath. I could feel the weight of eyes on me.
That’s when I made a decision—one that shifted the entire energy in the car.
I slowly pushed my hood back, revealing my bald scalp. My voice shook, but I made sure it was clear.
“I’m undergoing chemotherapy,” I said. “I’m sorry if I don’t look sick enough for you, but I truly can’t stand. I’m just trying to make it home.”
The woman stared at me, her mouth slightly open. Then, without saying another word, she gently pulled the boy up and exited the train—one stop early.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I pulled the hood back over my head, shrinking into the seat as people looked at me not with judgment now, but with quiet understanding… maybe even a little respect.
That subway ride reminded me just how invisible illness can be. I still don’t know if I did the right thing—I value respecting elders. But I was hurting, deeply. And sometimes, strength is in speaking up, even when it breaks your heart.
