Falling, Not Jumping

I don't remember falling. I remember the moment before, when my bicycle tire caught in the streetcar track on Portland, Oregon's Northrup Street. I was heading up to the hills north of the city along the Willamette River. A fine mist was falling and I was looking forward to the hazy views. When the front tire slid into the track I knew I was going to fall. When I woke up, there were four people hovering over me, one of them holding a cloth to my bleeding forehead. Another assured me I was ok. These were passersby who had removed me from the steetcar tracks and called the fire department, which soon arrived (Engine Company 9, I later learned) with an EMS truck and crew. I could not remember the name of my hotel, nor its address. I think I remembered my name. Fortunately, I had ID, my health insurance card, my wife's cell phone number. The rental bike was not damaged, and the firemen said they'd return it for me. Really? They could hear the New York skepticism in my voice. But I was in no position to argue, strapped tight to a gurney. They were concerned about my neck and a likely concussion.

I did have--do have--a concussion, also a broken bone in my wrist and over my eye. Seven stitches removed yesterday back here in NY. My left arm is in a cast, and my head still hurts. We loved Portland anyway.

Hard to type with a cast. I'll be brief.

This morning, Palm Sunday, I heard sirens, not unusual in NYC, but they were close. I looked out and saw a man standing on the New York Inn sign five floors above 8th Avenue. Two dozen police officers in the street, one on a fire escape trying to talk him down. The man had his hands in his pockets, leaning against the hotel's brick wall, too far from the officer to be touched, but he kept looking over at the policeman talking to him, trying to talk him down. He was listening. Other officers arrived on the roof. One on the next-door building straddled a ledge, held by a safety rope. The avenue full of flashing lights, everyone just watching. Tense. The man stepped out on the sign, balanced above the sidewalk. I thought, he's going and prayed he wouldn't. But he stepped and leaned back, slumped in his clothes as if defeated. Soon, he sat and the officer on the next-door building helped him down.

When the policeman who had been talking to him from the fire escape for an hour came out onto the avenue, the other officers cheered and congratulated him. One of those New York moments.

As I made coffee, I was thinking about how much energy we are willing to dedicate to rescuing, caring for, strangers, myself in Portland, this unknown man who wanted to end his life. What do we do, now that we have been rescued?