I'm back!!!

After a brief hiatus, I realize my mind races if I don't write my thoughts down. Its called my "Mind Dump". And you all know that if you don't empty out time to time, things can get really backed up. So I promise a weekly excerpt, even if it doesn't make sense. But does anything in life make sense when push comes to shove?



Thursday, May 26, 2011

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 55: The Juxtaposition of Brides

Aunty's son was marrying a Canadian girl. They weren't too happy about this turn of events. The thing was she was not Pakistani. But he had fallen in love and asked her to marry him. The old fashion way, by Canadian standards. They dated, had courtship, romance and he asked her father for her hand in marriage. When he told his parents, they threw a fit. But he was adamant about marrying her, and I was jealous.

Squeeze me?

Not of her. Not of him. Of the way it happened. Even though they were not Muslim, his elder brother got married the old fashion way, by Pakistani standards--like me. His marriage was arranged and he met his wife briefly in Pakistan before she was sponsored and brought to Canada. And he was happy. They are the couple whose son passed away a few months after my mother did. They now have three grown up children and their story is complete. But during this time, I was still pondering my own fate.

After the ceremony in their basement, the women got up to dance. There were about 30 of us, lined around all four walls, as she sat in the middle on a beautifully decorated chair next to her fiancee. She was stunning--light blond hair, alabaster skin and a small sculptured nose--the exact antithesis of the token Pakistani girl. That is why she garnered so much attention. She wore a dark red lehnga (long dress) and bright red lipstick. We could all see why he was so enthralled in her. She loved the clothes, the food and our culture. She wore the clothes proudly and had no qualms carrying out the traditions required in the ceremony.

One part entailed eating many Pakistani sweets (that were shoved into her mouth by a gazillion people) and the rubbing of oil into her scalp with the same hands that fed her the sweets. Yes, she was a trouper. And as I watched from the corner of the room--how he held her hand and leaned against her side, I sighed deeply, wishing this was the case with me and my fiancee. We had bumped knees briefly during our own engagement party and this was enough foreplay for one night.

Aunty came around to all the girls and pulled them up to dance when they started the music. When she approached me, I smiled but shook my head. She did not relent.

"No my darling, you must get up! This is a time to celebrate!" she said, tugging at my arm. I looked over at my father and saw he was not looking. As I got up and started to dance, Aunty's future daughter-in-law squealed in delight. Aunty had announced that I too was about to get married. However, when these words reached my father's ears, he called out my name. I stopped abruptly when I saw his stern look and when he jumped from his seat and made his way over.

He was smiling but I knew it was coming.

He whispered in my ear, "Sit down right this instance. You are about to be married and you are shaking your hips in front of all these men??!"

Aunty shot over to us like a torpedo.

"Oh bhai Sahib! Let her dance! She is so good at it...the kids are here to have a good time. Soon she will be married too!" she laughed as she grabbed both my father's arm and mine and pushed them up into the air.

Needless to say, my father was not impressed. He excused himself from the melee and shot me another dirty look. I quickly obeyed and feigned a cramp in my side. The lady doctor I had spoken to earlier rushed to my side.

"Bhatee,(my daughter) are you ok? Stitches still bothering you?" she asked. I had forgotten that I was on surgerical table only two weeks prior.

"No, no. I am fine. Daddy is a little protective you know," I smiled back.

She put her hand on my chin. "Come and book an appointment with me. I want to evaluate you in a post-surgical appointment. Forget the other doctor."

I nodded obediently and returned to my seat. My father relaxed and nodded in approval. He then pointed to the other side of the room. One of their cousins was videotaping. I got the hint.

Aunty's son and his fiancee posed for pictures. After we had tea and dessert, she approached me.

"Hi, my name is Sophia." She extended her hand. I smiled and hugged her instead.

"Congratulations. You will make a beautiful bride," I told her.

"You are a great dancer. You will have to teach me your moves," she smiled kindly as she held my arm. "Are you nervous about your wedding? I am getting married before you are and I am pretty nervous!"

"Naw, piece of cake," I lied. "You will do great! You already look like a pro."

"Really?" she gushed. "You look so calm. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I am really nervous! No clue about your traditions. Every corner I take, its something new," she confessed.

I looked her square in the eye. "If you love him, there is no reason to be nervous. You are doing the right thing."

She pondered for a moment and then hugged me tightly. I was surprised by her reaction. "Thank you! I knew the moment I saw you, that you would be a friend!" Someone grabbed her hand and off she went dancing in the middle of the basement, poorly emulating the dance moves Aunty was teaching her.

Go figure. Here I was giving her marital advice.

Now, could I take my own advice?

Sunday, May 22, 2011

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 54: Muslims can high five too

Family friends of ours were holding an engagement party for their son. They were from Pakistan but the thing that differentiated them from the rest of the community was that they were Christian.

This difference was what made them special. They were the only ones to call every Muslim in the community on Eid day to wish them a Happy Eid. No other family was known to do this. They were also one of the first couples my parents met when they immigrated from Pakistan back in 1969. They always met us with hugs and Salaams--no different from our other Muslim families. The only thing I noticed that made me think they were different was the picture of Jesus Christ that hung in their living room. Otherwise, they spoke the same language, ate the same food and wore the same festive clothing.

That afternoon, as women hurried around me while I sat in their living room, I looked at the picture of Jesus on their wall. The engagement was being held in their basement and the women in the community were helping Aunty prepare the food for her son's celebration. No one asked for my help even though I offered many times. I had two suspicions: one was that I was a bride-to-be myself and secondly, shortly after my mother died, their first grandchild from their eldest son had died as well. It was an extremely sad time for both of our families and we lost ourselves in each other's grief the last time we met. Aunty became a mother figure to our family, understanding the essence of being motherless.

I sat alone on the sofa watching as the women hurriedly prepared the numerous dishes on the dining room table. Alone I thought I was, but not really. Jesus was before me, looking down kindly while I folded my hands on my lap. Jesus and someone else. I only took notice of him in the picture because he was smack-dab in front of me. He had sad eyes and he was raising his right hand. Like he wanted me to high five him. I quickly erased the thought, admonishing myself for thinking about such a thing. It would be blasphemy to even mention doing it. After all, even though I didn't believe that he was the son of God, I knew he was a great Prophet with healing abilities.

And at that very moment, I wanted to be healed. Inside and out. Mind and body. Appendix and ovaries. I looked at him and started to speak telepathically.

Jesus, if you can hear me, please help me. Help me get through the next couple of weeks. Help me be honest with myself and everyone around me. I wish I was like you --release me of my anger, bitterness and contempt. I just want to get through life without all this strife. With pleading eyes I looked carefully into his.

What I neglected to notice was a woman sitting in a chair, almost directly opposite to me, in the corner of their dining room. She was watching me intensely with a small smile on her face. An older woman, with dark very hair that was evidently dyed black and thick kohl eyeliner. I turned my attention from Jesus to her. Despite the drastic contrast of colours from her hair to her makeup to her clothes, she had the same kind face as in the picture before me. I jumped when she called out my name.

"Come sit with me," she motioned to the chair next to her. I froze momentarily, trying to assess if I knew her from somewhere. I was drawing a blank.

"Don't be shy. I don't bite," she continued with a slight Urdu and British accent. I slowly rose and walked over to her. She was looking at me from head to toe and her smile indicated approval.

"So you are his daughter! Do you know that my daughter works with your father at the Aid Society? That is how we know each other. I am invited to your wedding. It will be a splendid event, no?" She now had her hand clasped over mine. I looked at her more closely. Still, no recognition.

She was eyeing my pakistani suit and jewellery. I crossed my arms in a self-conscious moment. I had lost another five pounds from the surgery and my clothes now hung loosely on me.

"You are a very beautiful girl, just like your mother. I met her a few times. She was a quiet one. But like her, the fair skin, dark hair and long fingers...." her voice trailed off and she continued to size me up. Before my fiancee's family met me, I was used to this banter. It signified the inquisition that every young pakistani girl endured before marriage--a ritual whereby a prospective mother-in-law dug deeper to know if you were 'on the market' or not. However, she already knew I was spoken for and was even invited to the wedding!

I looked around the room to see if anyone was listening. The room was crowded but no one paid attention to our conversation.

"You had surgery last week, right?" she asked. Bells were ringing and suddenly I was on high alert. How did she know? I nodded slowly, unable to speak. She leaned in closer to me.

"Do not fret my dear. Your doctor is a quack. Don't believe everything they tell you." She crossed her legs and tugged at her ear to prevent her clip-on earring from slipping. I did not know how to respond. What did she know? Who told her? Why was she telling me this.

We were interrupted by Aunty who announced it was time to eat dinner before the actual ceremony. I rose slowly only to be pulled down again beside her.

"Are you scared?" she asked.

I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead, large tears welled up in my eyes. She nodded and patted my hand. People were coming by, asking us to get dinner. But she refused and insisted that we would wait until after the rush.

"Who are you?" I finally asked in a weak voice.

"Your father's friend. You see, he came to me and told me about your surgery. Don't worry, I know this is a very private matter. But you see, I am the best person to talk to for a second opinion. I am a gynecologist and I can assure you, that you will have many, many children for years to come," she smiled as she slipped her arm through mine. "Now, let's go and put some meat on these bones so you can fill out your wedding dress!"

Stunned, I stood up with her and walked over to the dining table. Many people were talking, laughing and acknowledging her. It seemed that after our conversation, everyone wanted a piece of her. She was the center of attention. I turned to my right to find another family friend piling food on her plate.

"Do you know who that lady is?" I asked.

"Oh yes! She is very well known in the community. But moreso, she is a leading physician and lecturer at the University. She is one the top doctors in the province!" she cried while biting into tandoori chicken.

I watched her from afar as I sat by myself to eat dinner. There were a crowd of women surronding her, all of whom were leaning in to listen to her wise words.

I looked up and realized I was sitting in front of Jesus again. He looked down at me with the same sad, kind eyes. This time, I smiled back and gave him an imaginary high five...let my healing begin.

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 53: Winging it

"Did you put Mom's picture in my bag?"

My father stared at the road before him as we drove home from the hospital.

"Yes," he replied. "I thought it would cheer you up."

My father had a knack of doing things that could be interpreted either way. Since the discovery of the picture coincided with my dream of her, I interpreted it as a postive sign. But had I not seen and heard her message that scary night in the hospital, I would have felt worse looking at a picture of my mother with a child in her arms, who happened to be me, staring back into the camera lens, adoringly.

I had hugged the nurses goodbye and opened the drawer to look at The Bible one last time. Strange that this one book gave me solace during my ordeal at the hospital but when I flipped through the pages and read many passages, there were many similarities to the Koran. These passages calmed me down and made me ponder about my situation.

Three weeks and my wedding day would be here. My fiancee had booked our flight to Spain. We did not book with a tour or an all inclusive package. Ironically, we decided to only book three hotels in the first three cities we would be staying in and then travel south by train for the rest of the trip. The honeymoon journey mimicked reality: we were about to embark on a route less travelled--winging it all the way.

Our voicemail machine was flooded with calls. I had a dozen messages strictly from Yvonne inquiring about my health. She told me that the final exam was brutal and that she had problems concentrating while worrying about me. My exam was deferred until early October--they would not let me write it now while the material was still fresh in my mind. Instead, I would have to return after marriage to get my credit.

She began asking a million questions about the wedding--what to expect, what to wear and wedding gift ideas. She was over-the-moon excited to be invited. In total, I had 15 work colleagues and schoolmates attending the wedding and they were all anticipating an exotic event. All I cared about was being so nervous as to hurl at the head table in front of 450 guests. Yes, 450 people.

Did I know all of them? No? Did I want to know who was invited? No. All I cared about was getting through the ceremony and the reception afterwards. Without interruption, without being physically sick, without wedding crashers, and without anyone finding out about my secret. Sad but true.

Every call, every conversation with him ended up with me revealing nothing. Don't get me wrong. I certainly tried. But without us knowing much about each other to begin with, broaching the subject of my ovaries was not going to be easy.

August 1991 was particularily a hard month. No job or school to keep me busy. Most of my friends were vacationing or working. Everyone was busy.

And I had no one to confide in...until one interesting day.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 52: The Dark Hall of Regret

As they filed in, I shrunk under the covers. My fiancee, his brother and both parents came shyly into the room and met with my sister, brother and father. My brother ducktailed out with his brother as per my instructions. My father walked out with my fatherinlaw into the hall near the nurse's station. Only my fiancee and his motherinlaw were left. She came over and picked up my hand.

"You poor thing. What timing. I hope you will be ok in time for the wedding?" she asked.

I nodded meekly, not returning her gaze. My fiancee pulled up a chair next to my bed and shooed his mother away with his eyes. She looked dismayed but left obediently.

"Wow, if you wanted some attention, you sure got it," he joked.

I gave him a half-smile and looked back at the television. He clearly looked uncomfortable and I could see he was forming his words carefully.

"So you should be ready to go by end of August right?" he asked.

"Go where?" Where did he want me to go?

"On our honeymoon. Remember? We decided Europe and I was thinking of Spain but I need to book the trip now."

He was thinking more about the honeymoon than the wedding, I thought. Of course, he wanted to know if I could travel.

"I have to check with my doctor but I think I should be ok," I reassured him. "Go ahead and book the trip."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You will be ok to travel and do other things, right?"

My God. Now I understood what he meant. I grabbed the railing of my bed and accidently pushed the button for the bed to elevate my legs. My timing could not be any better. His impatient mother heard the noise and came back in, wanting to be a part of our conversation. My fiancee sat upright and looked embarressed. I wanted to hug her right there and then.

"Ok, we should leave. You need your rest, " she smiled and put her hand on my head.

I tried to speak but I did not know where to begin. I felt depressed with regret.
Everyone came back in the room to bid me farewell. My tongue followed my brain. Dead and exhausted from the last few weeks. I wanted to tell him but not in front of everyone. It was too late. I should have told him when we were alone but something held me back.

They left that night and my father looked in on me before departing. He stood by the doorway as the nurse turned off the lights and asked all visitors to leave. I pretended to be asleep but with one eye slightly open, I watched him from afar.

He lifted one hand to his face and wiped away what seemed to be a tear... and then he turned away into the darkness.

Monday, May 16, 2011

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 51: Lying in Silence

Going in and out of surgery did not bother me as much as it does today. As you get older, the fear of death is more imminent. At age 20 and four weeks before I was to be married, I was not scared of dying. Instead, my fears were founded in the unknown. Would I be able to conceive? Would I ever have children? Would I be one of those women on TV, crying about infertility? And the most fearful thought of all....would he still marry me after knowing my secret? My diagnosis had left me reeling and begging for answers. And it had left me trying to figure out what to tell my future husband.

After showering, I phoned my father at work, wanting to know when my sister was to be dropped off at the hospital to bring me more of my things. My father had no idea what to pack for me. Clearly, things were missing: my hairbrush, deodorant, toothpaste (although he had packed my toothbrush), extra undergarments, etc. I did not blame him--after all, being a father, how the heck would he know what a girl needed? It was hard enough maintaining eye contact after my surgery.

The dream about my mother the previous night left a dark cloud that interrupted my thoughts. She wanted me to be strong yet she offered no guidance on how.

My sister came with my father late afternoon. She had collected my belongings after hearing that I would be in the hospital another two days. My father announced that my inlaws were coming later that evening to visit me. I asked him what transpired when he told them about my surgery.

"Well of course, your motherinlaw asked why you had surgery," he said as a matter-of-factly.

I waited for him to respond. I always thought my girlfirends were the drama queens and masters of story-telling. Long pauses, slow starts, and forever getting to the point. I realized long ago, my father had won that contest. After 10 minutes of his rambling, I was about to lose it.

"To make the long story short, I told her it was your appendix. I did not go into detail and neither should you," he warned, giving me a sidelong glance. I knew what that look meant. My father never endorsed lying but I was well aware of his ability to withold the truth.

"Its not lying. You are just not revealing the whole truth. If no one asks then why volunteer everything?"

For me, a half truth was as monumental as a fullblown lie. Unintentionally, my father had taught me the art of circling around a lie... and I practised these tactics on him many times. But the 'truth' was, I could never lie to my mother.

When I was in Grade three, I used to go to my friend's house for lunch. Each time, her mother would serve hotdogs. However, for me, she was instructed to make a peanut butter sandwich--by my mother. The hotdogs were made from pork and I grew up knowing that I was not allowed to eat it. I watched as the other kids would slather ketchup and mustard on their dogs and look at me pitifully while I ate my boring, lacklustre sandwich. But I knew one day, I would eat the forbidden. Who would know? How would they find out? My logical thinking skills at eight years of age were deferred as I succumbed to my insatiable appetite.

On one particular day, I went for lunch and proclaimed that I was allowed to eat hotdogs--that my parents no longer deemed it unlawful. She raised one eyebrow and questioned me. "Are you sure?" she inquired. I nodded profusely and stuck out my plate for a hotdog. My stomach growled as I eyed the jumbo sausage, delicately tucked into a monstrous bun. I sat with my friends who squealed in delight, and I finally felt like I was part of the lunch group now. The hotdog was delicious and I skipped back to school with absolutely no remorse. When I returned after school, my mother had asked me what I ate for lunch. I shrugged, the usual Mummy...peanut butter and jam. She smiled and patted me on the head. "Good girl." I ran upstairs and thought to myself how easy it was to get away with lying.

Until later that night....

My mother took me for her weekly grocery shopping. At the store, she pulled out her flyers and coupons. As I helped push the cart, along with our regular groceries, she threw in every pork-related food item possible! Bacon, ham, hotdogs, pork ribs, sausages, bologna, salami--you name it. I halted and stood astonished. "Mummy, why are you putting all this food in the cart?!" I exclaimed. She did not look at me and continued to shop. As we were nearing the checkout line, I prevented the cart from moving any further. She tugged it forward while I pulled it back.

"Mom! We cannot buy this pork!"

She looked at me quietly. "Why not?" she asked.

"Because we are not allowed to eat it," I rolled my eyes and put my hands on my hip.

"Are you sure about that?" she demanded. Suddenly, it dawned on me. I looked sheepishly at my feet, not daring to look her in the eye.

"Tara's mom called me after lunch. She told me that you ate the hotdog," my mother fired back in rapid Urdu. "So if its ok, then let's buy it all tonight, go home and cook it for your father." I looked at the pork in the cart and then up at her. She was not angry but the look on her face showed disappointment.

"The worst lies are the ones you tell to yourself. Remember, God is watching all the time."

Without yelling, creating a scene or scolding me in public, that one sentence she uttered took a hold of me and was etched onto the walls of my soul.

And with that, she made me return all the items to their original places and never brought up the incident again. From then on, I could never lie to my mother again and found it difficult to lie in general.

Here I was, no mother to guide me and my father preventing me for disclosing the truth. But I had already made up my mind to be honest. Nothing good could come out of keeping this secret. I practised what to say to my fiancee, but it kept coming out wrong. I needed my mother. My sister was a poor substitute and was of no help as I cried for the remainder of the day.

By the time they came to see me, my eyes were swollen and my heart was heavy. And my burden turned into silence.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 50: Me and my Bible

I had Tylenol 3 once before--after I had bridgework done the previous year. Considering I had never drank liquor in my life, I likened it to being drunk. Everything seemed unreal around me. People were talking to me and then laughing, for no reason. The room would increase in size and then deflate. I felt exhilarated one moment and then sedated the next. I stood trembling in the washroom, looking at my reflection, wondering if I could get through this.

By the time I returned to my bed, I was exhausted. I closed my eyes but the room would spin. I rang for the nurse and when I told her how I felt, she smiled and said that it would take time for my body to adjust to the affects of the codeine. I told her I wanted to visit the maternity ward. She looked at me oddly and tucked me into bed.

"Ring me if you need me," she said. I pressed the button right after she said that. She shook her head and laughed. "You will be fine. Just let yourself go and fall asleep, ok?"

Let myself go. Go where?! I did not want to close my eyes because the shapes, sizes and colours of nothing would appear. I felt like I was at the circus. To keep myself occupied, I opened the drawer next to me and found the Bible. I took it out and randomly opened it up, only to encounter the following passage:

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."

I was trembling again but this time I knew it was not the codeine. The words flew off the page and circled me in the room. How ironic to read this in a book I never had read before, the Bible. It did not matter what religion I was that night. For me, He was there, in the room with me, watching over me, when I thought I was truly alone. I closed the Bible and left it on top of my chest and willed myself to melt away....

She was wearing her red sari and bright red lipstick. She looked beautiful. And she was in my room, at the foot of my hospital bed. She put her hand on my foot.

"Wake up my darling. Don't be scared. I am here with you. You are never alone. Just remember to smile and be brave," she assured me. I looked down at the end of my bed. Craddle in the crook of my legs was a bundle. I jumped when it moved. It was a baby.

"Be brave," she repeated.


I woke up. It was now morning. The Bible was still on my chest and I looked at the foot of my bed. My overnight bag was situated near my legs. Dad must have come in, seen me sleeping, and left it where I could find it, I thought.

I gently put the Bible back in the drawer and eased my way out of the bed. The pain on my side took me by surprised. Hunched over, I took my bag over to the locker. I needed to brush my teeth and take a shower before the inlaws came by.

When I opened the bag, my mother was looking back at me. It was a picture, neatly placed on the top of my things--a picture of my mother, holding me as a baby, beaming proudly into the camera.

...He will never leave you or foresake you....

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 49: The Mother of all problems

As with any man in this position, without a wife or a mother for his daughter, my father was not equipped to handle the scene before him. I lay on my hospital bed, weeping uncontrollably, praying that what I had heard was in part, due to the drugs that put me out for my surgery.

My father sat on the side of the bed and put his arms around me. He stroked my hair which was now matted with tears and sweat. I was a mess--physically and emotionally and unsure where to turn.

"The nurse told me about the surgery," he said. He purposely announced this so I would not go into detail about ovarian cyst. It was embaressing enough to know that he knew. Ironically the nurse walked in at that particular moment.

"Who was that Doctor that came in to see me," I asked her.

"Oh, he is the staff gyneocologist, Dr. So and So," she smiled as she checked my IV. When she left I turned to my father.

"That man told me I could not have kids," I blurted out, tears welling up again in my eyes. My father froze and looked at me confused.

"Are you sure that is what he said? You sure you didn't dream it? You look pretty groggy to me." I turned my head towards the window. Married in four weeks. All I could think of was how I was going to break this to my husband-to-be.

The nurse came back with Tylenol 3. I told her what the doctor had said. She shook her head and told me not to worry--that it was his job to give me the worst-case scenario.

But it bothered me. Where was his edicate? Was it right to hit someone with a diagnosis just after surgery while they were still coming to? Was it right to reveal information without my general doctor being present? I felt some violation had occured or was it just me trying to recover from the shock of it all?

"Your fiancee and inlaws are coming tomorrow to visit. They will ask about your surgery--only say your appendix was removed. No need to go into detail," my father advised and then announced he had to leave to tend to my brother and sister.

When he left, I pondered over what he said. I wouldn't be lying if I said my appendix was removed but I wasn't telling the whole truth either. If it was embaressing to tell my father about my delinquent ovarian cyst, it would be next to impossible to tell it to my fiance, who I couldn't even hold an entire conversation with! His mother would overhear and then freak out about the possibility of no grandchildren. His father would stamp his foot and declare the marriage off and then he would ask for the ring back and leave with the whole family. I would be left, alone, in the hospital with the evil gynecologist lurking in the hallway, waiting for me to sleep to take out the rest of my reproductive system.

Ok, so my imagination went wild. Tylenol 3 never suited me. And when I slept that night, I was not sure whether the drugs brought my mother to me or my call for help...

Sunday, May 1, 2011

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 48: Submerged beneath the waves

I remember waking up but not. My throat was parched and my eyes were wired shut. I sensed the world around me. I could hear a machine beeping, faraway voices of nurses and an eerie feeling of something that loomed over me. I could not put my finger on it nor could I identify the source but it was there.

It came back to me in pieces. The pain. Dr. GQ. My father. Yvonne. The scribbles on my textbook. And as these thoughts penetrated my mind, slowly I began to wake up physically. I moved my hands on the sheets and tried to open my eyes. I turned my head slowly and as my eyes were opening, I saw a blurry image before me. I could make out a white labcoat and eyeglasses. Someone was watching me at my bedside. I wanted to pretend I was sleeping again but it was too late. They saw that I was about to wake up.

"Your surgery is complete," the faceless voice said. A wave of nausea hit me as I opened my eyes and looked around the room. I was not in the surgery unit but in my own hosptial bed. An older, stern looking gentlemen stood before me. I had no idea who he was. Where was my anaesthesiologist? No one else was in the room. This doctor stood before me in a stiff fashion, waiting for me to acknowledge him. I nodded.

"Your appendix was inflamed and therefore removed. But this was not the source of your problem. You had a massive cyst on your ovary which caused the inflammation of your appendix. Once we opened you, the cyst deflated and we cleaned up the infection. Everything is fine now."

I nodded again and swallowed slowly, expecting him to leave. However he continued to stand before me with his hands now clasped behind his back.

"Do understand that this may affect your ability to have children in the future. You will have great difficulty in conceiving or may not be able to at all." And with that, he walked out of my room.

The second wave of nausea hit with a greater force as I put together this doctor's diagnosis and the fact that I was to be married in four weeks. Two minutes later my father walked in. I heaved and heaved but the only thing to come out were waves of tears...