In The Arms Of A Stranger

The first time I needed a wheelchair to get around was last year, about this time.

I was making my way home from the office. The train station was nearly within sight when I started limping.

I stopped and tried to wiggle my right toes. No response. My entire foot felt like it was made of lead.

The more I struggled, the harder it was to move.

I tried to calm the rush of panic and shifted my focus to lifting my left foot up instead. But by then both legs were not responding.

I stood frozen in my tracks, like a statue. Beads of perspiration started to form on my forehead until my knees buckled. Then, I sank to the ground.

I could hear soft gasps reverberating behind me.

A young couple in their early 20s turned around because of the commotion, saw me and made a beeline towards me looking concerned. With big strides, the man in T-shirt and slacks reached first.

“Do you need help?“ He asked as he stretched out his arms.

This must have been a rhetorical question. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath and with all the composure I could muster for a person on all fours, said, “Yes, can you get me a wheelchair, please?”

My quivering arms, the only thing keeping my face and torso away from the ground, gave way after that and I literally fell into the arms of a stranger.