At Least You Know You're Alive

Last week I told you a bit about my family's recent road trip to Indiana. Now I'm going to tell you about the day that most of us will remember when we look back on this vacation.

Our last Tuesday was designated as Chicago Day. Rather than to brave the traffic and fight for parking spaces, we decided to take the South Shore commuter train that runs between South Bend, Indiana, and Downtown Chicago. I've actually ridden that route many times, and I usually enjoy the sense of adventure. This was my sister Amy's first time to ride the train since her stroke, but our sister Melody had done her research and assured us that the train was handicap accessible.

We decided to depart from Michigan City, an hour's drive away, because it had more return options than the closer South Bend station. On the trip out, we had the benefit of a one-hour time difference; we could leave at 7:00 and have plenty of time to catch the 9:00 train.

I got Amy and myself up that morning at 6:15, which seemed like plenty of time. But I had not factored in the shared bathroom, nor the multiple trips to the basement to holler at Allyson and her friend Kambry. Aunt Sue came to rescue by cooking our oatmeal and even washing Kambry's hair in the kitchen sink just moments before we left.

Following Melody and her husband Joe, we pulled out of the driveway around 7:20, not too bad in my book. While Kambry brushed her wet hair, Allyson routed us to the Carroll Avenue station. If all went according to plan, we would arrive with 40 minutes to spare.


When Joe deviated from our route about 50 minutes later, I nervously followed. We soon found ourselves waiting at an unguarded track, where a parked train with familiar orange markings blocked our path. Just across the track, I could make out "South Shore Freight" on the eave of a small building. I now felt more sure that we were going the wrong way. There must be another station for the passenger train. Otherwise, why would a freight train be blocking the entrance?

 After a couple of minutes at a dead standstill, I called Melody to inquire about their route. She assured me that the station was just over the tracks, and said the train should be moving any minute. Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I felt my blood pressure rising. We didn't have much time to play with, and if this was the wrong station, we'd miss our train. When I couldn't take the strain any longer, I whipped out of the line and onto a side street.

The girls reported that the train was now moving, but we were out of the line, so I decided to follow our original route. We were about four minutes down the road when Melody called to tell us that they were at the station, and we'd better get back there before all the handicapped spaces were gone. "You guys must have routed to the overflow lot," she explained.

Four more minutes passed before I found myself at the same crossing, blocked by the same freight train, which had inexplicably backed up over the track again. My palms started to sweat as precious minutes passed by. Once again, I could take it no longer. "There has to be another way into this station," I said. "We'll just go around the block."

Three minutes later, I found myself at a different crossing, which was now blocked by that same freight train. "Nooo!!" I wailed, pounding the steering wheel. In some fit of irrationality, I decided to go back to the entrance we'd just left; despite the directions of a kind, elderly gentleman whom I'd flagged down on a residential street, I still wasn't entirely positive that you could even get to the station from this side of the track.

While Allyson fielded another call from Melody, I whipped back around the block, praying aloud, "Please, God. Please. We have to get across that track."

You can guess what happened next. As I turned onto the now familiar road that flanked the track, I spotted the freight train backing up to block the station entrance. "Oh, Godddd!!" I hissed through clenched teeth. "Why do they keep doing that?" I'm sorry, I added mentally. I know it's not your fault. But please help us catch that train.

I guess He was listening, because about two minutes later, the freight train slowly rolled clear of the crossing. I gunned across the track and into an open handicapped space. My brother-in-law Paul, who'd driven separately, rushed over to help get Amy's wheelchair out of the trunk while I ran to the ticket machine. We had just enough time to buy our tickets and visit the restroom before it was time mount the platform. Whew! And thank you, Jesus!

Amy, Paul, and I got to ride a tiny freestanding lift which a conductor raised by cranking a handle. I apologized for giving him such a heavy load; it really hadn't been necessary for all three of us to ride on the metal platform.

He grinned good-naturedly and apologized for getting up close and personal with me. That's when I realized that my butt was riding just past his face. Good grief!

Once Amy and I had settled into the priority access seating, I let myself breathe. It had been an exasperating ordeal, but at least we'd gotten the worst of our misadventures out of the way first thing.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

A few stops later, I walked down to the row where Allyson and Kambry sat facing my great nephew Austen and one of our Indiana cousins. "Don't you want to face forward?" I asked Allyson, who tends to get motion sickness.

"No, I'm fine."

"Well at least move to a seat with a window," I urged. "The view gets really interesting when you get close to Chicago. The row houses look really different than what we're used to."

"This seat has plugs so we can charge our phones," Kambry explained.

I drew in a deep breath and decided to let this irritation go. "Just be sure to pay attention and listen for the Museum District," I said. "You don't have long to get off."

They promised to be vigilant.

Back at my seat, I started to worry about that short exit interval. How would we get Amy into her wheelchair and get across to the door before the train took off again? "Let's go ahead and get you into the chair at the next stop," I suggested. "That way it won't be so stressful when we get to our stop."

As the train decelerated, Amy rose from her seat, right shoulder shaking. She sank back down and then tried again. Grasping her cane, she took two shuffling steps toward the the wheelchair, which sat catty-corner from her seat.

"Ding-ding-ding!" sang the doors.

"Amy!" I gasped. "Get back in your chair! The train's about to move."

She shuffled gingerly back and fell into her chair, aided by the train's forward motion.

Hoo boy!

I waved the conductor over on his next pass through our car and explained our predicament. "Could you help us, or hold the train when we get to our exit?" I asked.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"The Museum of Science and Industry. So we're getting off at the Museum District."

"No, you want the 57th Street exit," he explained. "It's only a couple of blocks from the museum, and it has handicap access. Otherwise, you'd have to walk about ten blocks."

"Oh!"

He told us that he'd be back to help us "post up" at our stop, in about ten minutes. "It's the stop after next," he said.

I thanked him profusely and rushed to tell the kids, Melody, and my niece Erin about our new stop.

At the next stop, Amy said she would try one more time to get in her chair. She got up quickly, took two agonizingly slow steps with her cane and then started to pivot in front of her wheelchair; now she was committed. She'd just completed her turn when the doors dinged.

"You're there! Sit down!" I shrieked. She plopped into her chair about one second before the train jerked forward. I trembled with relief. Had she still been standing, this time the forward motion would have thrown her onto the opposite row.

I let out my breath. "You did it!" I said, patting her on the shoulder.

"Yes, I did!" she agreed.

I saw no sign of the helpful conductor, but I decided we'd go ahead and post up with all of the other exiting passengers. I gestured to the kids and wheeled the chair to the door. A minute or two later, the crackly intercom came to life, but as usual, you could barely hear it over the hum of constant chatter. "Crrk-krr-rrr... 57th," said the echoing, disembodied voice. "Yep, this is our stop," I said to Melody, who was already standing in front of the doors.

As soon as the train lurched to a stop, Melody pushed the wheelchair forward but then almost pitched Amy onto the platform when the small front wheels lodged in the crack between the train and the pavement. Handicap-accessible my butt! I thought in that one moment before panic set in. I had no idea whether anyone was watching the doors. What would happen if the train started moving with Amy's wheels stuck in the crack?

Melody stepped around Amy and pulled the front of the chair while I shoved from the back. With a big bump, she was free of the train, and then the rest of our party tumbled out the doors. Elation and relief coursed through me. The worst was behind us!

Unfortunately, my relief was very short-lived.

Scanning the platform for the exit, I took in a horrifying sight. Above a bus-stop looking structure, a sign read, "55th Street. Handicap access at next exit - 57th Street."

"Oh nooo!!" I wailed.

"What?" several of my fellow passengers asked.

"This isn't 57th Street. We've got to get back on the train," I said, already running with Amy toward the door on the next car.

"I'm not getting back on that train," Amy said firmly.

"But we-"

"Ding! Ding! Ding!" sang the doors.

A chill passed over me as the full realization of our predicament sank in. We were on an elevated platform with a wheelchair. Another train would be coming by in an hour or two, but this was not a handicap stop, and nobody would know to look out for Amy. How could we get her through the doors in time?

Melody squared her shoulders. "Well, we'll just have to pull her down the stairs in her wheelchair," she said.

Erin, who had already opened the door to the covered exit, called over her shoulder, "No, we can't do that. It's not safe. She'll have to walk down. It's not that many steps."

To her point, it was a relatively short flight of perhaps ten steps. But Amy's previous record of steps descended was three. And only a few days before, she'd had a terrifying episode coming down a steep step at our Aunt Sue's house. Her fear had caused her left leg to freeze in an awkward position, and it had taken the combined efforts of Erin and our cousin Bobbi on either side to talk her down that step and across the sidewalk.

"I don't know," Amy said.

"You can do it," Erin said confidently. "I'll go in front of you. I won't let you fall."

"Yes," I agreed. "Remember how Erin helped you at Aunt Sue's."

About four steps in, Amy's leg twisted and froze. "I can't do it," she said.

"Yes you can. I've got you," Erin soothed, holding both of Amy's shoulders.

Amy took a few deep breaths and slowly descended the rest of those steps. "You did it!" we all chorused. I'd never been so proud of my big sister.

"See, that wasn't so bad," Melody said as we exited the enclosure.

I looked around in confusion. We were still on an elevated platform. Ahead loomed another covered exit. A look inside revealed two long flights leading down to the street, perhaps four times as many steps as Amy had just navigated. I literally wrung my hands in dismay.

We all stared at those stairs, momentarily struck dumb.

"Well, I guess we'll have to pull her down in the wheelchair," Melody repeated. This time no one argued with the suggestion.

With only a moment's hesitation, Erin's partner Chad turned Amy's chair backward and stepped behind it onto the first flight. Joe followed behind the chair, lightening the load from the front as best he could. The two of them huffed from one step to the next, with the somewhat rickety wheelchair bumping dangerously on its uncushioned, narrow wheels.

Clasping my hands like a child saying a bedtime prayer, I silently chattered to God. "Please please don't let the wheelchair break don't let Chad trip don't let them drop the chair don't let Amy fall please please God!"

Both Amy and her wheelchair were still in one piece when they stopped to catch their breath on the narrow semblance of a landing between the flights. "We're not doing that again," Chad huffed. "I'm just going to carry her the rest of the way."

"Are you sure?" a couple of us asked.

"Amy can't hold on tightly," I said.

"I can carry her," Chad said. "Let's do this."

Someone handed Amy her cane, and she rose on shaky legs. Chad slid one arm under her knees and the other under her armpits. Cradled like a baby, Amy held on with one arm while her other arm dangled.

"Quick, get the wheelchair out of the way," Joe said.

I scrambled to comply and quickly bumped it down the flight while Chad started his descent, with Joe following close behind. At the bottom, I resumed my frantic effort at silent prayer as I watched their progress. "Please please give Chad strength don't let him fall don't let him drop her please please God."

We all cheered when they made it to the bottom.

"Were you scared, Amy?"

"No, I was just afraid that it would be too hard for Chad. I was more afraid when I was climbing down the stairs."

I smiled ruefully. "I bet you want to slap me right now. And Chad, you can wait in line behind her. I'm so sorry!"

"No," Amy said. "I heard what the conductor said. He said that was our stop."

"Yes, and you couldn't understand the announcement," I said. "I guess they were saying that 57th was the next stop."

I put a hand on her shoulder. "Amy, I guess you've really been stretched beyond your limits today."

She grinned. "Yeah, what am I? Elastigirl?" (We had just watched Incredibles 2.)

Elastigirl

"Well, we made it," Melody said. "It all worked out."

"Let's get out of here," Chad said.

It took almost the full two blocks to the museum before my heart resumed its normal pace. I was thankful that we wouldn't need to think about trains for a few hours.

The museum was amazing, as always. I split off with Kambry and Allyson, and we divided our time between learning about storms and electricity and about the human body. My favorite exhibit was still the collection of fetuses from every stage of gestation, preserved since 1939.

Allyson's favorite part was either drinking an old-fashioned ice cream soda or dissecting a cow eyeball. She and Kambry did great with both tasks.

She was actually sneezing, but Allyson's expression embodies my own feelings about the experience.

The young man who instructed the would-be surgeons was a most entertaining teacher. He said things like, "Make sure you squish all the eyeball juice out before you continue" and "Look for the boogery thing at the back of the eyeball--that's the retina."

I could have dissected an eye myself, but I was happy to look on and cringe, just as I'd done decades before with all of my lab partners when I was in junior high and high school.

Allyson, who has always been deathly afraid of storms, shocked me by volunteering to stand under the Tesla coils before they discharged some very noisy lightning. That's her, holding a bulb that lit up during the demonstration.

After about six hours exploring all three floors, I was ready to face the train again. I'd done some calculations, and I figured we might be back in Aunt Sue and Uncle Jeff's cozy living room by ten if we caught the 5:59 train at the actual 57th Street station. The rest of the family planned to take a taxi to Millenneum Park and have some Chicago pizza before catching a later train, but I'd had quite enough of Chicago by then. Amy was game for anything, but she was pretty worn out as well, so we agreed to go our own way.

Allyson turned on walking navigation and routed us to South Shore/57th Street, and we set off in the gentle afternoon heat. We had about 45 minutes, and it was only two blocks, but I still felt anxious. I felt immediately that we were going the wrong way, but Allyson was sure of the directions. After about half a block, I examined my phone and found that we were heading to South Shore Beach!

"Hurry, girls," I urged as we made a course correction and resumed our walk.

"We're tired," Allyson whined as they lagged farther and farther behind. "It's not that far. We don't have to run."

"Yes, we do!" I argued, breaking into a jog. "I've missed trains before. You can't be late. We are not missing that train."

When my phone announced that we'd arrived, all I saw was a Metra sign--nothing about the South Shore train. A passing stranger assured us that we'd found the right stop. "Just be sure that you go to the 'From Chicago' side," he warned.

Inside the tiny station, I frantically punched buttons on the ticket machine while Allyson and Kambry looked for an elevator. We were down to about 12 minutes, and I was a nervous wreck.

We rode up in a maddeningly slow elevator that smelled faintly of urine and then hurried toward a bench where a few passengers were waiting. "Don't get too close to the edge," I warned.

For the second time that day, I saw an alarming sign on top of a covered enclosure: "To Chicago."

"Oh no!" I wailed. "We're on the wrong side. Hurry! Back to the elevator."

Before we could even get Amy turned around, I spotted a train with familiar orange markings pulling up on the opposite platform. "Oh no!!! It's the South Shore train," I said. "But it's early!"

"Maybe it'll wait for a minute," Allyson said as I jammed my finger on the Down button.

"They don't usually wait," I said. "But I don't know if they're allowed to leave early. Maybe we can still make it."

As we waited to get onto the other elevator, I berated myself. Of course there would be two elevators! How could there not be? And that kind man had specifically warned us to look for the "From Chicago" side.

We took another maddeningly slow and smelly ride, only to emerge onto the correct platform just in time to watch our train pull away... at 5:52.

Tears filled my eyes as I gave voice to my righteous indignation. "How can they do that? They left seven minutes early!!"

Yet another kind stranger told me that he'd asked the conductor to wait for us; I guess he'd watched the whole scene unfold. "He did wait for a couple of minutes, but then they had to go," he said apologetically.

"I just want to go home!" I whined, angrily dashing away tears.

"What are we going to do?" Allyson asked.

"Let me think," I said, holding my head with both hands. "I think... the next train comes at 8:12."

"We're not sitting here for two hours," Allyson said. "Mama, just call Aunt Melody."

Truth be told, I didn't want to call Aunt Melody because I knew exactly what she'd say.

"Maybe we can catch a Metra train to Millennium Station," I suggested. "There may be more options from there."

"Just call Aunt Melody," Allyson pleaded.

"Okay, okay," I relented.

Melody said just what I knew she would. "Come meet us and have dinner. You shouldn't be riding the train by yourselves anyway."

I sighed heavily. "We'll call an Uber."

Less than ten minutes later, we were waiting on the curb when the white Prius pulled up. It took some maneuvering, but our driver managed to wrestle the wheelchair into her tiny trunk. I promised her that the girls really didn't mind holding her car seat, which she had forgotten to remove from the trunk that morning.

For ten peaceful minutes, I enjoyed a light breeze through the open windows while I swapped Uber stories with this vivacious young woman. (You may recall that I drove for Uber and Lyft while I was looking for a teaching job last summer.)

After we'd wandered about five minutes, the rest of our party found us at Millennium Park. I feebly tried to convince everyone to walk straight across the street to the train station, where we could buy something to eat and wait for the 7:30 train. "It's starting to rain," I said. "And our Uber driver told us a storm was coming."

I was firmly overruled.

"Just relax," Melody said. "This is our Chicago day. It's okay if we get home late. We don't have to go anywhere in the morning. Obviously, God must have meant for you to spend more time with your family tonight."

A fat raindrop splatted my face. Obviously God must want me to get soaked while we wander around Chicago, I thought with a scowl.

"Besides," she went on. "None of us will ever forget this day. We're going to laugh about it for years."

The restaurant that my sister Emily had chosen had a one hour and 40 minute wait, so that was out. By now it was raining steadily, but we plowed on to a taco place on the next block.

After a few minutes waiting under the restaurant's crowded awnings, only to learn that they too were packed on a Tuesday night, somebody suggested going to the train station and eating there. I bit back my snide remarks and just focused on the prospect of getting out of the rain.

It turned out that I'd have to wait a good deal longer because we got turned around while trying to follow walking navigation on our soggy phones. We were literally walking in circles, with Paul pushing Amy's wheelchair through the pouring rain.

While sheltering under another awning, we realized that we were at a Panda Express. "Let's go in and get something to eat," Melody said.

"Can't we just go to the station?" I begged. "There's food there, too."

"No, we all need to get out of the rain and off our feet," she said. "We'll all be in a better mood after we get something to eat."

I could have argued that we were still plenty full from our ice cream sodas, but I bit my tongue.

And that's how we ended up eating Panda Express [fast food Chinese] in Downtown Chicago. But I have to admit that it tasted pretty darn good.

I tried very hard to hold onto my frown.

The rain, which had let up while we were eating, resumed just in time for the last two blocks' walk. Kambry, Allyson, and her cousins scampered laughingly through the rain, but my mood was darker than ever. I should have been in my car in Michigan City by now, on the way to a warm shower and perhaps a movie at my Aunt Sue's house.

I interrupted my own pity party to excitedly point out the train station's free-standing elevator on the street corner. "That's it!" I said. "I remember it from the time we were dragging our suitcases through the snow with Mom and Dad." [There had been a line to slap me silly on that trip, too. But that's another story.]

In my haste to get on the elevator before anything else could go wrong, I splashed right into a big puddle. Now I could add soaked feet to the rest of my woes.

We made it to the 9:00 train with plenty of time to spare, so we got to enjoy some very colorful Chicago nightlife. There were so many apparently drunk or high passengers that Paul and Emily laughed themselves silly over the idea that we were on the Detox Train.

Emily laughed out loud when she snapped this pathetic picture
Front: Charlie, Amy, Melody, Joe
Back: Erin, Me, Paul

I allowed myself a brief chuckle over that quip before lapsing into some serious pouting once I realized that the timetable had been all in Central time, and we'd be arriving in Michigan City at midnight Eastern time, not 11 p.m. [Speaking of timetables, I had apparently either been looking at an outdated schedule or just didn't understand how to read it. The train had been scheduled to depart at 5:49, not 5:59. And that was actually the last train of the day.]

This day really could not get any worse, I thought.

But of course I was wrong. When we got to Michigan City, the rain was coming down in buckets. That mobile wheelchair lift wasn't nearly so charming in the rain. This time I left the ride to Paul and Amy while I raced to pull the car around.

Poor Amy looked like a drowned rat when she finally got into my car. As we started the hour-long drive back to Goshen, I apologized to her again. "This must have been the worst day for you," I concluded.

I could not have been more shocked by her reply. "No, this was a good day. All of that..." She searched for words. "It just makes me know I'm alive. I was lucky to be here with all of you."

My eyes blurred with tears, the first that day that didn't stem from self pity.

"You're right," I said.

You know how so many of my blog stories end with some life lesson for me? If I was being tested on this interminable day, I surely failed miserably. But I love it that my big sister learned her own life lesson. I still have a thing or two to learn from her.

P.S. I woke up after a delightful sleep to find Melody telling the whole sad tale to Aunt Sue. Both of them had tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks. I couldn't resist jumping in to share my version of the story. Indeed, I suspect we will laugh about this for years.