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.
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