Over My Head Claudia Osborn, Andrews McMeel Publishing; Peripatetic Publishing (page 2 of 2) Page 2 of 2

I promptly put my quarter into his outstretched hand.

He turned away in disgust. "You need it more than me," he said, but didn't give it back.

What did I do now about change for the bus? I was numb with cold and bewilderment, There had to be an easier way to fix my trivial thinking problems than subjecting myself to living for months in New York City.

I comforted myself that many of my friends back in Detroit wouldn't have a clue about how to maneuver their way around Manhattan either. It was a condition I now shared with them. Temporary, that is.

In the old days, I would have hopped into a cab, or done into a store and gotten change, or even walked to 24th Street. None of these answers occurred to me.

When I calmed down, my thinking cleared and one idea emerged - return to the apartment and get change. It seemed a reasonable choice. More to the point, it seemed to be my only choice.

I walked back into the warm apartment building. Which was good. Now I could dry my hair and put myself together to look professional.

When I used the mirror to style my hair, I realized I'd never combed it that morning. A tangled mass of brown curls stuck out in every direction - as though I'd stuck my wet finger in a live socket, my grandmother would have said. The mirror also revealed the fact that I wore just one earring and I had forgotten a belt.

I searched my luggage for ten minutes for a belt and discovered he mate to my sapphire earring, all by itself in the middle of the bathroom counter. I was definitely going to have to remember to look carefully in the a mirror. Still, I left the apartment feeling much more in charge.

The bus change still sat on the dresser.

Fifteen minutes later, after a third trip to the apartment, I deposited my change in a crosstown bus farebox and clung to the pole, swaying with the motion of the bus, rigidly attentive to street signs. It was only a mile to Second Avenue, where I would transfer to a downtown bus. I was not going to miss that stop. "Second Avenue," I whispered fiercely to myself. "You want Second Avenue."

I made the transfer seamlessly and settled into my new bus seat, now relaxed. I watched the teenager across the aisle apply another coat of mascara. Her face as a kaleidoscope of color, buried under layers of beige pancake; cheeks of an improbably pink and eyes ringed with a violet that matched her jacket. The lipstick was a harmonizing fuchsia.

I licked my own lips, which were chapped. I wasn't much on makeup, but surely I must be wearing some. I wanted to look attractive. My fingers assessed the dryness of my face. No moisturizer. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down my side. Could I have actually forgotten deodorant? No makeup, maybe, but deodorant? It was part of showering. Still, this situation was vaguely familiar.

I ran over my notes again. After shower and dress came bagel and juice. My stomach growled. I was starving., so I must not have eaten the bagel. What if it was still in the kitchen, attracting roaches? Lori would kill me. I pushed my way toward the door and jumped off at the next stop.

The street signs read 14th Street and Second Avenue. Whoa, I was no where near that bagel. I sat down against a store wall and tried to collect myself. When my thoughts began to clear, I read my notes again. I was supposed to have gotten off the bus back at 24th Street and then walk a block east to First Avenue.

I still had enough time if I forgot about the bagel. Maybe it was still in the refrigerator. Maybe it never existed despite what the note said. Notes in my experience were often wrong. I didn't know why, but nothing in my life could be taken for granted anymore. I knew I was doing everything as usual, but here I was hungry and probably stinking as much as the old many dozing next to me. Go figure.

I rose and headed back up Second Avenue at a brisk pace. I should have skipped the buses and walked the whole route that morning. Exercise always made me feel better.

The traffic lights that decorated each Manhattan intersection frustrated me at every block. I would barely reach my stride before I had to stop at a crossing. As I reached 20th Street the light turned read against me. Again!

Ah, but the WALK signal lit up across Second Avenue and the person next to me quickly turned and headed toward Third. I followed, obeying the command - WALK. I swiftly overtook fellow pedestrians and made good progress till I caught a read light a Park Avenue.

Wait, what was I doing? I had faithfully read all the street signs, but their clear message that I was heading in the wrong direction hadn't registered. Somewhere I had forgotten that the point of this trip was no continuous motion, but reaching a destination. I was no longer early. I would have to hurry while maintaining course. That should be easy.

But would it? Success had such a random quality.

I was flushed, sweaty, and ragged when I arrived at the beige brick dental school on 24th Street, one of many undistinguished-looking buildings accommodating a sprawling New York University. I threaded my way through the crowded lobby to the elevator bank. When I stepped off at the eighth floor, I was a tad disheveled to be sure and, at a mile-per-hour speed, not your average marathon walker, but as I pushed open the door labeled HEAD TRAUMA PROGRAM, NEW YORK UNIVERSITY, I glanced at my watch with grim satisfaction.

I was right on time.

Excerpted from Over My Head: A Doctor's Own Story of Head Injury from the Inside Looking Out by Claudia Osborn, DO. Reprinted with permission. Third-party reprinting restricted. Andrews McMeel Publishing, Kansas City, 1988; Peripatetic Publishing, 1998. www.claudiaosborn.com.

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