My binder in Sociology was neatly decorated with scribbles and odd-looking flower shapes. Every Monday and Wednesday night, I dreaded going to class to listen to the professor talk about the economics of marriage. That week's topic: Sex in marriage in exchange for money. I looked over to my 40 year old friend at the time (ironically I write this blog now at the ripe old age of 40) and raised my eyebrow. She laughed it off. After I told her my story of my arrangement, she was probably the most understanding of all my twenty-something friends. Was it her age? More open and wiser because of experience or just accepting of different cultures and religions?
Yvonne and I would pass notes to each other during the lecture despite trying very hard to follow the monotone drone of his voice. He was an enigmatic lecturer and many nights I saw quite a few students snoring it up. He bounced from one topic to the next, with no clear connection, bent more on finishing the course that summer than enlightening us on first year sociological aspects.
Yvonne and I would take turns meeting up for tests and midterms. Each time, one of us would bring coffee and snacks to allow for the caffeine and sugar to take effect so we could sift through our large textbook and drill each other on terms, definitions and possible essay questions that bore us incredibly. When we took breaks, Yvonne would ask me how the wedding preparations were coming along, asking me cultural and religious questions to understand what each stage entailed. She poured over my engagement pictures, asking about every detail. We became quite close over a course of two months and I elected to invite her to my wedding. She became a sort of mother-figure to me, helping me at times, to grasp the reality of the situation. No matter how hard I tried to not think about what was going on, drowning my thoughts by keeping myself busy was not helping. In fact, I relied on Yvonne to get my through the summer. I would come to class with cold feet on Monday. By Wednesday, she convinced me that I came this far to back out.
Squeeze me?
Oh yes, I had many nights, waking up with a cold sweat wondering what the hell I was thinking. And what was worse were the crank calls. My husband-to-be was getting calls at work from a girl who claimed to me one of my friends that attended our engagement. She would warn him against marrying me. When he heard this, he immediately hung up the phone. His frantic mother called my father one night, complaining about the calls.
Our wedding was to be the first in our small, close-knit community and the first in his large community. It was not uncommon for people to be jealous and try to sabotage the wedding. It could be a mother who wanted him for her daughter or vice versa. But I knew better. I knew exactly who the culprit was.
When my father came and told me about the crank calls, we both confirmed our suspicions. It was my ex-fiancee's sister. The last call I had with her came back to mind. She was furious over our breakup and I was sure she got wind of our engagement. Our wedding was on the social calendars for over 450 people.
I went to class one night, unable to focus.
"Yvonne, what if she crashes my wedding? She has been calling three weeks in a row now?" I wrote in one of the many notes that we passed that night.
"Listen. Be patient. If its meant to be, then what can you do? But it seems that your inlaws and your fiancee are not bothered by it so leave it. Don't let it get to you," she whispered in my ear. At break, we met outside in the warm, breezy night.
"Do they know about your ex-fiancee?" she asked. I shook my head.
"How come?" I struggled with an explanation. I looked up at the summer sky, feeling dizzy.
"It doesn't look good to come out of a broken engagement. I get the reputation even though there was no formal agreement. Its just a cultural thing. Even if we didn't date, it always looks bad on the girl." Yvonne looked at me confused.
"Well, that is not fair. If you didn't do anything, why should YOU be blamed for it? Is it because you broke it off?"
"I know she is crank calling because I broke it off. She is now trying to come up with lies so my inlaws will call off the wedding. I think they know that this is a common occurence so they are not taking it seriously but they really don't realize that its coming from a 'scorned lover', so to speak." I shook my head. I was feeling very weak but did not know why. I figured it was from pre-wedding stress.
"Are we meeting to study tomorrow morning," Yvonne asked?
"Yes. Meet me at my house at noon," I said.
I drove home feeling down. I am supposed to feel happy. I am getting married. But with the bouts of doubt and worry over the crank-calling, I wanted to dive under my bed covers and not wake up the next morning.
But I did wake up and prepared my notes for our study session that morning. While I was cleaning up my room, I felt a sharp pain in my side. I sucked in my breath and exhaled slowly. I walked around for about ten minutes, but the pain was relentless. My brother came up the stairs and saw me clutching the staircase railing, my face pale and my knuckles turning white.
"What is wrong with you? Did you eat too much?" he asked while I massaged my side. I could barely speak. I felt like I was dying. At this point, I could not walk. I lay down on the landing above the stairs while my brother prepared a hot water bottle. He placed a cold cloth over my forehead and the water bottle on my side. I was sweating profusely. He tried calling my father but he was stuck in a court case all afternoon, with no way to contact him.
"I am calling Salma to take you to the hospital." With only one car in the possession of my father at the time, my brother made the executive decision to phone my friend. I begged him not to call her but he saw me gasping for air and I saw that he was clearly frightened.
"You better not die. We still have to pay the banquet hall," he joked. Unfortunately I could not even smile. He knew it was serious now.
Salma came within 10 minutes. My brother had to carry me to the car and my sister jumped in the back with my purse and health information. She drove like a maniac to the hospital. I remember looking out the window and wondering what God had in store for me. I wallowed in self-pity and thought maybe I should be put out of my misery so at least the crank calling would stop.
We reached the hospital and both Salma and my sister had to carry me in. When we got to the front desk, the nurse passed me a urine bottle. I almost let her have it. I could not walk, or barely talk, let alone sit for a urine test.
I was admitted immediately and waited on a stretcher in the hallway outside emergency. Salma and my sister stood next to me, calming my fears. The pain was still there but not as bad. I stared up at the ceiling. Salma asked me if I was pregnant and I let out a laugh. My sister shook her head and waited outside.
"Immaculate conception, my dear," I smiled. At this point, I was trying to self-diagnose myself but I had no clue of the cause. Salma turned around and announced that my doctor was coming. She turned back to me and started giggling nervously.
"HOLY SH**! May the Lord have Mercy on you. The man is HOT HOT HOT," she kept mumbling under her breath. Her face had turned scarlet and she kept bumping into my stretcher. Each push sent jolts of pain in my side. She grabbed my wrist, trying to calm herself down.
When my doctor pulled back the curtain, I almost fell off the stretcher. Despite the pain, and the horrible physical state I was in, I could not ignore the fine specimen of a man standing before me. Too young to be a doctor and too good-looking to be treating patients in any emergency room.
And for the next ten minutes, despite his attempts to get rid of her, Salma was glued to the floor next to me. And the rest, was a heavenly blur.
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