Traveling Through

It’s another Monday in February. For me, that means collecting my pink glasses, unchecked to-do lists, and five required readings, before I load myself onto the MBTA. With the help of the train, I swiftly travel from one side of the Charles River to the other.

The train moves away from the dark underground track and into view of the outside world.

Three stops inbound on the T, three times per week, at 3:00 p.m. sharp, I venture into Boston — but I’m not here to visit Newbury Street or attend a hockey game at TD Garden. Rather, I descend two flights of stairs, make a sharp left turn out the T-station doors, and take the brief but chaotic walk across the street to Massachusetts General Hospital.

Through the hospital’s record-slow revolving door and up the elevators to the 8th floor, I find myself in the outpatient infusion clinic. There, a smiling but tired man languidly fastens a plastic band tightly on my wrist — a marker for my identity.

I lounge for a few minutes in the waiting area, tapping my foot and doing mental laps of the unchecked boxes on my to-do list, tasks still waiting to be completed for the day. The inconvenience of being on this side of the river starts to make my head spin.

As I attempt to read the current book on my class syllabus, a nurse finally calls my name, guiding me to a makeshift room enclosed by curtains, a single chair waiting inside. I sit answering routine health questions and confirm my identity with a quick flash of my wristband. Smiling sympathetically, the nurse knows the pain she will soon cause me by no choice of her own.

Snapping latex gloves onto her hands, the nurse rolls up my sleeves and intently inspects the veins that flow beneath my skin. I’m the specimen, she’s the microscope.

A poke and a pinch later, I now have a protrusion secured with binding tape on the front side of my hand. A pulsing pain emanates from the place the needle penetrated. With no time to let the sting dissipate, the nurse takes a large, full syringe. Through the IV attached to my skin, she slowly administers the medication necessary for my survival.

I sit for an hour and a half making small talk with the nurse as she performs her task. She asks me about attending Harvard; I ask her how long she’s worked at the hospital. We form a surface-level bond, going only as deep as the needle in my arm.

I watch the last of the molasses-like medication seep through the line in my arm. Time never ceases moving and obligations seem to rise in number as I sit in the lone chair. The city below me bustles and bursts with constant activity. Unmoving, I wait for my life to regain its speed.

My eyes follow the nurse as she leisurely collects gauze and medical tape, ready to remove the inserted device. She and I continue to converse about the mundane — from today’s bleak weather to what it’s like to move away from home.

Now that I’m free of the binding tape, the woman wishes me well. “I hope you feel better,” she says, and I smile. In my head, I think, “It’s not about hope, it’s about needing to be well in order to fulfill my responsibilities.”

Nearly breaking into a sprint, I travel the backwards path to the T-station — across the street, a sharp left through the doors, and up two flights of stairs.

It’s 5:30 p.m. now. I jump on the train that’s just arrived at the station and sit unloading my backpack onto the seat next to me. A jolt sets the train into motion.

For two minutes I have a view of the sun setting over the Charles River. For two minutes, I see light and glistening water. For two minutes, the speed of the train and the motion in my head disconnect.

In these two minutes, I slow down. I breathe. I choose to take in every second of light before zooming into the dark station tunnel.

The rest of the ride back to Cambridge is lit only by the fluorescence of each train car. Finally off the train, I walk up the T-station steps and into Harvard Yard, the place I wished to be for the past few hours. Again, I am surrounded by classmates announcing summer internships, board position applications, and how much sleep they’re not getting.

But a small part of my mind traces back to the moments I spent sitting in the big hospital chair, able to reflect without worrying about the speed of life around me. Time I thought I had lost.

My treatments at Massachusetts General Hospital are now complete, meaning I no longer have to make the trip across the river three times a week. But that also means I no longer get to appreciate the two minutes of ascension from the darkened train tunnel into the light and glimmer of sunshine projected onto the water.

The past month has been no easy feat, mentally or physically. The effects of the rigorous treatments have taken a toll on my energy levels and productivity as a student. I’ve struggled to slow down, accept help, and rest.

I realize now that time may never stop its motion, but if I don’t appreciate each moment, each fleck of light, life moves at the speed of a train. At times, it feels like I will never reach my destination. However, I can get off at any stop and find value in the places I’ve reached so far.

From the darkness of the underground tunnel, I’ve realized the only way to get to the light — to really see it and feel its warmth on my skin — is by traveling through.

—Magazine writer McKenzie E. Lemmo can be reached at mckenzie.lemmo@thecrimson.com.