Before I get slammed by those who left their heart in San Francisco, let me add that SF does not have to be dangerous. It can be quite safe, most particularly on a cold winter’s night when most of the homeless people are bedded down in their shelters. And lest I get slammed by some organization paying attention to the rights of homeless people, let’s just say they are scary to me, even if their boozy, debilitated, can’t-go-another step act is just that. I mean, what kind of people pretend to be drunk and homeless in order to swindle a buck or two out of the pockets of unsuspecting theater goers? If that’s not scary, I don’t know what is. (clarification: not all homeless people are faking it—in fact, most aren’t. Even scarier.)

But that’s a story for another day. Today’s story is this: Back when The Big Guy was not yet diagnosed with all the troubles for which he (desperately) needs meds and The Spouse had only been on meds for a couple of months, things weren’t looking too hot. We were unemployed, we were depressed and worried and so was the Big Guy (though he didn’t know why). My then-youngest was just starting to get in on the family act (woe is me).

Since the Big Guy loved (read: was crazy-obsessed with) trains, we thought it would be fun to take BART, California’s public transit system, to San Francisco and see some sights. So, we did. The Big Guy was about nine or ten and sat next to his dad on the train. I was one row over with the Middle Child, aged about five. I was happily consumed with watching the old California neighborhoods thick with Victorians and other architectural gems whiz by. Presently, there came a stop up ahead and a number of people stood up and started to walk towards the doors to be let out.

One of these was a large fellow who looked very unhappy—the kind of unhappy where he would be happy to make you as unhappy as he should you do anything to put him in an even darker state than he currently enjoyed. On his way down the narrow aisle, he tripped very slightly over the large and ungainly feet of the Big Guy (who even at ten was a big guy). It was just a little trip, a little run-in between the feet. Nothing that couldn’t be easily ignored.

The Big Guy just didn’t understand.

So, the Big Guy kicked him back.

Someone was about to get creamed.

I was blissfully unaware of the proceedings but The Spouse who, after the first blood-curdling moments of being accused of having kicked said Big Angry Man, spent the rest of the ride thinking such things as: We can’t take him (the big guy) anywhere! When is he going to learn he can’t do things like that? Will he ever learn he can’t do things like that? And other such negative musings which often lead to further negative musings such as, I am a failure and the really important one, Is the big angry man going to get off at this stop or is he going to kill us?

I don’t remember too much about what we did that day except walking a very long way down the street to Pier 39 where the Big Guy was pretty much a human bowling ball, knocking down unsuspecting tourists left and right. That and the fact that we were too tired to walk all the way back to the BART station so hopped on a bus before stopping to think that we didn’t have enough cash to pay the fare. Oops!

I do know that by the time we got back to the BART station for our homeward journey, my husband had filled me in on enough of what happened for me to have an inkling of what he was going through. Depression and worry as a result of faulty brain chemistry is pretty darn tough. On top of that, add real reasons to be depressed and worried and that’s a recipe for disaster.

That’s what I was bracing myself for--disaster.

Standing at the platform, waiting for our train, I noticed that The Spouse was meandering along from platform to platform looking longingly down along the tracks as if this was his ticket to freedom, happiness and a life with no cares. Don’t be silly!, I told myself. He’s not going to do anything rash! And then I chuckled, that nervous kind of chuckle that doesn’t fool anyone, and forced myself to stop dogging his every move.

That was when I heard it, the whoosh of a train quickly running in and out of the station behind me. I tried to trust, to not worry, to ignore the impulse to whirl around and hunt down my husband who I strongly suspected had gotten on that train and sped down the tracks, out of our lives. Therefore, my search for him was quite casual, even surreptitious. But he was nowhere to be seen. The Spouse was gone.

Spinning this way and that, my hands securing a sure-to-end-up-under-a-train-kind-of-kid on each side, I frantically scanned the length of the tracks in every direction, all thoughts of casualness and normality forgotten as easily as how many calories are in a Jack in the Box chocolate shake with real ice cream and whipped cream topping (750—but I’m sure I’ll forget the next time I drive by).

Starting to panic, I attempted to take stock of my situation. There was no one around. I was alone with a five year old and a ten year old (who was less help and more trouble than his little sister). Worse yet, I had left my purse at home and had no keys, money, credit card, identification, or cell phone. And more to the point, based on the look in the Big Guy’s eyes, no food. How would he continue to get bigger and yet even bigger if I couldn’t feed him? We would become like those homeless people with cardboard signs asking for donations. Only, I didn’t even have any cardboard.

Just as I was considering running and screaming down the tracks, direction unclear, The Spouse stepped out from behind a pillar, totally oblivious to what I had been thinking and my utter state of panic. I smiled at him, he smiled at me, our train pulled in and we went home. I don’t know if I ever told him what I was thinking and I doubt he will ever learn of it because he doesn’t read my blog. Just like 50 million other internet users in the world. But, hey, it could be so much worse.