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?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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....
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...
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...
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...
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 47: Keep your tools in the Shed, Dr. GQ
I opened my eyes and Dr. GQ was next to me, talking to the nurse.
"Hey, you are awake! Welcome back, brown-eyed girl."
I wasn't sure where I was. I got up slightly only to be hit by the pain in my side.
"I am still in emergency?" There were about four people in the room, separated by curtains. I looked over at the clock. An hour had elapsed.
"We got your blood results back," he said while flipping my chart. Then it all came back to me. I dared not ask about the exam down below. I was hoping that my blackout episode prevented him from doing it. Nothing more eerie than to be unconscious and ...well, I think you get the idea.
I kept quiet. I had remembered what I asked before passing out. I better maintain silence than to challenge the man who held my fate in his hands.
"Your white blood cell count is very high, indicating appendicitis. So we are going to open you up and have a look. I have booked an OR. You will be going in an hour."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. The nurse smiled at me and left to attend the older man next to me who was clearly having problems breathing. She and Dr. GQ were laughing about something. I did not hear what they were saying (probably some joke about administering my rectal exam while I was conked out) but I could clearly see she was enthralled in her conversation with him. Whenever he spoke to her, she would light up. Made me want to barf. Dr. GQ walked over to a desk nearby to complete his charts. I watched him from my bed. It was too quiet, except for the old man's troubled breathing next to me. I had to make small talk.
"Were you trying to distract me from my pain by feeding me the line about my eyes?"
He stopped writing and directly looked at me. I slipped lower into the sheets. His dreamy gaze made me want to melt.
"Of course not. I do not pay compliments unless I absolutely mean them," he smiled and then returned to his chart. I became highly suspicious. The nurse said to me he was a professional. Since when do doctors compliment their female patients? My imagination ran wild and I thought about how my surgery would pan out -- they would take out my infected appendix and he would announce to me, post surgery: "We removed your beautiful appendix. May I keep it in a jar and take it home with me?"
I felt woozy. Instead of sedation, the morphine kept me talking.
"How long have you been a doctor?" I questioned. He continued to write in his files without lifting his head.
"Three years," he responded.
My suspicions were confirmed. He was a newbie! I knew he was too young.
"I fast-tracked high school, undergrad and medical school. I am just a smart guy. Its funny how many people ask me the same question, but yes, I really know what I am doing. Guess some of us are gifted," he said.
I bit my lip and sighed. His looks were affecting my ability to concentrate and I did not have enough strength to ask about his 'gift'. I lay back and after ten minutes my father arrived. He came over to me and placed his hand on my forehead.
"Are you ok? What did the doctor say?" My father explained that he got my brother's message when he came out of court that--I was taken to the hospital in excruciating pain. The doctor walked over to my father.
"Suspected appendicitis. She will be on the operating table within the hour."
My father looked past him.
"I would like to talk directly to the doctor please," my dad answered, in his heavy accent. I pulled the sheet up over my mouth, trying hard not to laugh.
The doctor smirked and folded his arms across his chest. "I AM the doctor. We ran the tests and I am pretty sure its her appendix. I will follow up with both of you after the surgery." My father looked at him confused and then proceeded to ask him if he was a resident student doctor. Dr. GQ man, trying to discern my father's accent, rubbed his chin and shook his head. He then proceed to walk out in a huff.
My father turned to me. I thought he was going to comment on his age or the fact that the looked MY age but my father... was alas, my father.
"See how young he is and he has completed his medical degree! You should learn from this example. I told you to do science instead of English! You already know how to read and write English!"
I pulled the covers over my head. I should have told him that this fine specimen of a young man just finished giving me a rectal exam.
"Your brother told me that Yvonne came to study at our house. She showed up with coffee and donuts but he told her that you went to the hospital."
Yvonne! I had totally forgot about our Sociology exam. It took me half an hour to explain the procedure of how to alert the University about missing an exam. My father did not get why I couldn't complete the surgery and write the exam the next day. I asked the nurse for more morphine.
After bidding my father goodbye, I was wheeled down the hall towards the operating room. The anesthesiologist stopped me to explain how I was to be put under. I did not hear a word he said. All I heard was Dr. GQ a few steps away, flirting with one of the surgical nurses!
The anesthesiologist noticed that I was not paying attention to him while Dr. GQ schmoozed the nurse. Instead, he stopped mid-sentence and waited. When I realized that he was no longer speaking, I looked back at him and studied his face. He was older, perhaps in his 50s, but the lines on his face told me a story -- knowledge, wisdom and genuineness. I had been physically shaking as we approached the OR but now I felt strangely comfortable and relaxed in his presence.
"Are you nervous?" he asked. I nodded my head slowly. He came closer to me and I felt I could see his soul through his eyes. He had such kind eyes.
"Well kiddo. You will do great. Focus on Dr. So and So -- as you can see, he is not hard on the eyes. I suspect something more is going on, requiring us to keep you under a bit longer," he winked at me. My heart sank.
"Are you going to be there? Will I wake up? What if I die on the table?" I asked, my eyes welling up with tears. He laughed and squeezed my arm. He had a nice, hearty laugh.
"I've been doing this for 30 years and as long as you don't mind falling asleep and waking up to me, I will stay with you every step of the way. Deal?" His eyes crinkled around the corners as he smiled. I suddenly felt ashamed.
He did not coerce, bully or pressure me into doing anything. He was real. He was true. He was no Mr. GQ but I was willing to wake up to him, welcoming me back to life after surgery. Certainly not to Dr. Your-eyes-are-so-beautiful.
Men always want to know what women are thinking. Well, I will tell you. The most handsome and attractive man can open his mouth and be revealed as the biggest tool in the shed. He loses his appeal and his words and actions betray him on the spot. Here Dr. GQ was telling me about his accolades, how gifted he was, using his wiles and charm on women to get what he wanted. Dr. Anesthesiologist won me over with his words, the twinkle in his eye and the kindness of his heart.
I learned two lessons that day: Inner beauty and that tool, Dr. GQ, was only partially right with my diagnosis.
"Hey, you are awake! Welcome back, brown-eyed girl."
I wasn't sure where I was. I got up slightly only to be hit by the pain in my side.
"I am still in emergency?" There were about four people in the room, separated by curtains. I looked over at the clock. An hour had elapsed.
"We got your blood results back," he said while flipping my chart. Then it all came back to me. I dared not ask about the exam down below. I was hoping that my blackout episode prevented him from doing it. Nothing more eerie than to be unconscious and ...well, I think you get the idea.
I kept quiet. I had remembered what I asked before passing out. I better maintain silence than to challenge the man who held my fate in his hands.
"Your white blood cell count is very high, indicating appendicitis. So we are going to open you up and have a look. I have booked an OR. You will be going in an hour."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. The nurse smiled at me and left to attend the older man next to me who was clearly having problems breathing. She and Dr. GQ were laughing about something. I did not hear what they were saying (probably some joke about administering my rectal exam while I was conked out) but I could clearly see she was enthralled in her conversation with him. Whenever he spoke to her, she would light up. Made me want to barf. Dr. GQ walked over to a desk nearby to complete his charts. I watched him from my bed. It was too quiet, except for the old man's troubled breathing next to me. I had to make small talk.
"Were you trying to distract me from my pain by feeding me the line about my eyes?"
He stopped writing and directly looked at me. I slipped lower into the sheets. His dreamy gaze made me want to melt.
"Of course not. I do not pay compliments unless I absolutely mean them," he smiled and then returned to his chart. I became highly suspicious. The nurse said to me he was a professional. Since when do doctors compliment their female patients? My imagination ran wild and I thought about how my surgery would pan out -- they would take out my infected appendix and he would announce to me, post surgery: "We removed your beautiful appendix. May I keep it in a jar and take it home with me?"
I felt woozy. Instead of sedation, the morphine kept me talking.
"How long have you been a doctor?" I questioned. He continued to write in his files without lifting his head.
"Three years," he responded.
My suspicions were confirmed. He was a newbie! I knew he was too young.
"I fast-tracked high school, undergrad and medical school. I am just a smart guy. Its funny how many people ask me the same question, but yes, I really know what I am doing. Guess some of us are gifted," he said.
I bit my lip and sighed. His looks were affecting my ability to concentrate and I did not have enough strength to ask about his 'gift'. I lay back and after ten minutes my father arrived. He came over to me and placed his hand on my forehead.
"Are you ok? What did the doctor say?" My father explained that he got my brother's message when he came out of court that--I was taken to the hospital in excruciating pain. The doctor walked over to my father.
"Suspected appendicitis. She will be on the operating table within the hour."
My father looked past him.
"I would like to talk directly to the doctor please," my dad answered, in his heavy accent. I pulled the sheet up over my mouth, trying hard not to laugh.
The doctor smirked and folded his arms across his chest. "I AM the doctor. We ran the tests and I am pretty sure its her appendix. I will follow up with both of you after the surgery." My father looked at him confused and then proceeded to ask him if he was a resident student doctor. Dr. GQ man, trying to discern my father's accent, rubbed his chin and shook his head. He then proceed to walk out in a huff.
My father turned to me. I thought he was going to comment on his age or the fact that the looked MY age but my father... was alas, my father.
"See how young he is and he has completed his medical degree! You should learn from this example. I told you to do science instead of English! You already know how to read and write English!"
I pulled the covers over my head. I should have told him that this fine specimen of a young man just finished giving me a rectal exam.
"Your brother told me that Yvonne came to study at our house. She showed up with coffee and donuts but he told her that you went to the hospital."
Yvonne! I had totally forgot about our Sociology exam. It took me half an hour to explain the procedure of how to alert the University about missing an exam. My father did not get why I couldn't complete the surgery and write the exam the next day. I asked the nurse for more morphine.
After bidding my father goodbye, I was wheeled down the hall towards the operating room. The anesthesiologist stopped me to explain how I was to be put under. I did not hear a word he said. All I heard was Dr. GQ a few steps away, flirting with one of the surgical nurses!
The anesthesiologist noticed that I was not paying attention to him while Dr. GQ schmoozed the nurse. Instead, he stopped mid-sentence and waited. When I realized that he was no longer speaking, I looked back at him and studied his face. He was older, perhaps in his 50s, but the lines on his face told me a story -- knowledge, wisdom and genuineness. I had been physically shaking as we approached the OR but now I felt strangely comfortable and relaxed in his presence.
"Are you nervous?" he asked. I nodded my head slowly. He came closer to me and I felt I could see his soul through his eyes. He had such kind eyes.
"Well kiddo. You will do great. Focus on Dr. So and So -- as you can see, he is not hard on the eyes. I suspect something more is going on, requiring us to keep you under a bit longer," he winked at me. My heart sank.
"Are you going to be there? Will I wake up? What if I die on the table?" I asked, my eyes welling up with tears. He laughed and squeezed my arm. He had a nice, hearty laugh.
"I've been doing this for 30 years and as long as you don't mind falling asleep and waking up to me, I will stay with you every step of the way. Deal?" His eyes crinkled around the corners as he smiled. I suddenly felt ashamed.
He did not coerce, bully or pressure me into doing anything. He was real. He was true. He was no Mr. GQ but I was willing to wake up to him, welcoming me back to life after surgery. Certainly not to Dr. Your-eyes-are-so-beautiful.
Men always want to know what women are thinking. Well, I will tell you. The most handsome and attractive man can open his mouth and be revealed as the biggest tool in the shed. He loses his appeal and his words and actions betray him on the spot. Here Dr. GQ was telling me about his accolades, how gifted he was, using his wiles and charm on women to get what he wanted. Dr. Anesthesiologist won me over with his words, the twinkle in his eye and the kindness of his heart.
I learned two lessons that day: Inner beauty and that tool, Dr. GQ, was only partially right with my diagnosis.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 46: Inner Beauty
For me, the bullying started in Grade 4 and lasted straight into Grade 8. The neighborhood I grew up in had very few immigrant families. We were surrounded by caucasians and we stuck out like a sore thumb. Especially me. Loud, brash, fiesty and ...brown. And kids were mean. If you were different, they were threatened. Fearing what they did not know. There were many days I would come home, bury my head in my mother's lap, crying.
"Mamma, I was on my way to Krista's house and those boys stopped my bike and threw me off," I sighed, wiping my tears away. I climbed back on and had to take another longer route to get to her house. Every morning on the way to school, these older boys would stop me, knowing I would be barrelling down their street to pick up my friend. A part of me wanted to avoid that route, but the other part, a more sound and brave part convinced myself that I had just as much right to travel on that road as they did. Everyday, the colour of my skin betrayed me.
"Go back to your home, you PAKI!" the ugliest boy spat at me. He had red hair and freckles all over his body. When he saw me coming, he ran out of his house and grabbed my handlebars. I frantically looked around to see if any adult was witnessing the scene.
I sucked in my breath and lashed out: "This is my country! I was born here so if you want me to go home, I AM home, you moron!" My attempts of challenging his intellect did not help the situation. His friends laughed which enraged him further. He tipped me off my bike. I fell onto the sidewalk and scraped my knee. Blood trickled out and was diluted with water. Where was the water coming from? I then realized it was from my own tears. When I looked up, Krista was standing behind the boys.
"Leave her alone! She is my friend. Why do you bother her everyday? If you don't leave her alone, I will not let my brother play with you!" she exclaimed. She grabbed my hand and picked up my bike. We were a block away when she turned around and faced me.
"Don't show it. When you do, they win. Ignore them. You are giving them what they want."
"Show them what?" I asked confused.
"Your emotion. Do not react. You are playing right into their hands," Krista reasoned.
I went home after school that day and looked up at my mother's face as she stroked my hair. I told her the whole story but she disagreed with Krista.
"They stop you because they like you, my dear. You are smart, pretty and fun. They just want to be part of your life," she smiled. Somehow I was unconvinced. I assumed my mother had no idea what I was going through. She lived with all her friends in Pakistan where everyone was brown, girls had moustaches and unibrows and no one asked what cricket was. Here in Canada, blond hair was easily camoflaged with fair skin, people had roast beef with mashed potatoes and drove cars that did not need a coat hanger to keep the trunk closed. It was hard to believe that any boy wanted a part of my culture where tandoori chicken was the staple, riding a boy's bike spray painted pink was normal and my clothes were that week's KMart special.
I so desperately wanted my mom's conclusion to be true. Maybe they liked me because I was not your run-of-the-mill type of girl and that my differences appealed to them. So from that day on, I endeavoured to test out this hypothesis. Only to be humiliated once again.
The next day, I went to school, happy about my new-found appeal. My confidence shot up and I walked onto the playground with a renewed spirit. I had a crush on the most popular boy in our Grade 5 class. He was a soccer player and all the girls swooned over him everytime he played. I still remember his name. David. We watched from the bleachers during gym class. I was sitting at the end with my one friend, Krista. I told her what my mother told me and she shook her head sadly. I didn't care. I was going to tell David that I liked him. When the soccer ball came towards us, I grabbed the ball and walked over to David who was coming over to retrieve it. He looked at me oddly as I stood proudly, holding the ball and smiling over at him. When he was close enough, I was prepared to deliver my speech.
"David! Here is your ball. I wanted to tell you that I really, really, really like you. I play soccer in my backyard and I would love for you to come and play with me," I asked.
David looked around and noticed that his buddies where now in earshot of my proclaimation. They all looked at me incredulously, with my pigtails, eyeglasses, unibrow and moustache...looking back at all of them with satisfaction. I felt liberated and extremely giddy. I was sure he was going to accept my invitation and I waited breathlessly for his answer.
Instead, he snatched the soccerball from my hands and whipped it at my head! Dumbfounded, I took two steps back. Everyone was laughing on the bleachers. The teacher came running over and yelled at me.
"Why did you pick up the ball? It was still in play!" Mr. White exclaimed.
"Mr. White, Dave hit me in the head! Aren't you going to do something?" I inquired. This was not how I anticipated the scene to play out. I looked down at my feet. The teacher blew his whistle and asked us to line up outside our portable. Krista grabbed my arm.
"I told you so." She walked away and I struggled to grasp what had just happened.
We were in line and his friends heckled me. Dave kept a far distance and cursed at me from the front of the line. "I wouldn't come to your house if you were the last girl on Earth!" I swallowed the lump in my throat with a sunken feeling in my chest. When Mr. White came around, I tugged at his arm.
"Did you hear them? It's not fair. I get this everyday and no one does anything. This is not right. What do I do?" I pleaded. He gave me an icy stare that made me stop.
"Ignore them. That is all I can tell you. Just ignore it!" and he walked off to open the doors for us. Back then, bullying was never an issue. Nor was racism. There were clear favorites in his class and I was not one of them. I was always picked last for team sports, even by my teacher and when he selected students for school events, I was an afterthought.Even though I felt it, I never let it get the better of me. The principal elected me to be the year long morning announcements girl because I was the best speaker and reader in my school. Upon hearing me every morning, Mr. White, despite David's protests, made me his reading buddy because his reading and writing skills were so dismal. Divine retribution.
From that day on, it took me a long time to trust any boy after that. Even when I was complimented and asked out in high school, that chip remained on my shoulder. After enduring four years of bullying, it took high school to change my adversaries who once, after maturing, accepted my differences. But I never changed for them or anyone. I stayed true to myself and I owed it all to my mother.
When I went home that day, explaining to her how Dave had hit my head with a soccer ball, she did not change her reasoning. She told me, one day, I would realize that he truly did like me but was too afraid to show it because of peer pressure. Even though I was on the receiving end of much bullying and blatant racism, I became a champion for the underdog. I never forgot that girl on the soccer field who just wanted to share her happiness with someone else.
The boys came and went in high school. On the surface, they were my friends. However, a few captured my heart. In the beginning, the chip on my shoulder was, in actuality, a huge rock which took many boys to work on, mainly because of my trust issues. Their friendliness and compliments I mistook as a ruse or attempts to toy with my feelings. The bullying of the past would resurrect at these times. I was a late bloomer - when guys liked me for more than my mind, I became shy and unsure how to react. On the other hand, my mother, seeing all the attention I was garnering, always maintained her inner beauty argument.
"You can prick the skin of anyone: black, brown, yellow, blond and blue-eyed. But we all bleed the same colour. Never be red like anger or envy. You can beautify the outside but if the inside is sick and black, no amount of makeup will ever mask it from the truth."
Back to the hospital and the doctor.
Salma was told to wait outside with my sister as the young doctor pulled back the curtain. She begrudgingly left but winked at me on her way out. I was utterly mortified. Was he my doctor? He must be a nurse, I reasoned. Despite the pain, I was conscious enough to assess the situation.
"Are you going to treat me?" I asked. He had called over a nurse.
"Please undress her and get her into a gown. Yes, I am Dr. So and So. I am the emergency doctor on call right now. Don't worry, we will figure out the source of your pain." The nurse came over, pulled back the covers and unzipped my pants. I was in too much pain to remove my own clothes but extrememly aware of the fact that I was being stripped down in front of a good looking doctor. My problem? Pride? Embaressment? Chastity? All my doctors until this point... had been women. My pediatrician, my family doctor, my dentist, my orthodonist...you name it. I was in too much pain to bargain for a female doctor. I closed my eyes and pretended he was not there. She had stripped me completely and I felt her tying the gown behind my back.
"Darling, am I hurting you? Please open your eyes," the nurse asked me. I opened them slowly. The doctor was not there. The nurse watched me as I looked around and then understood.
"He is a professional. I know this is embaressing for you but we really need to figure what is wrong. Don't be shy. He has seen many naked bodies!" she laughed. I tried to smile. Mind over matter. The pain was less but was it because I was more worried about being examined by a male model pretending to be a doctor? Before I could psychoanalyze the situation further, he came back.
"Alright, let's examine your stomach. He placed his hand over my abdomen and pelvic area. I looked at him directly, searching his face for clues. He looked back.
"Wow. You have very nice eyes. Almond-shaped. Very different." I turned and looked at the wall next to me, wondering where this was coming from. My defenses were on high alert and the chip on my shoulder returned. I stiffened as the pain surged through my body when he touched my right side.
"Where do you feel the pain?" he asked. He was smiling at me. I knew he was trying to distract me. All I wanted to do was clock him!
"Everywhere," I moaned. I tried to focus my attention on the nurse. She had pulled out a needle and was tapping it with her finger. I looked back at the doctor. He spoke some medical jargon to her. She put the needle down and then collected some vials. She instructed me to give her my arm for bloodwork. I nodded and lay still. The doctor disappeared and went to check on another patient.
"Seriously, what do you think it is?" I asked. The nurse swabbed my arm and gently inserted the needle. I watched as she emptied out my blood and pride.
"We will figure it out from the blood work. Then he will come back for a rectal exam. He should be back soon."
SQUEEZE ME?! Did she say RECTAL? No, I pretended not to hear her. I am sure she meant...no, that is what I heard. This was not happening. It was a surreal moment. Under ordinary circumstances, I certainly wouldn't have minded his prodding and observation but I was wary of the fact that I had no choice in the matter.
The room become blurry and the old pain returned. I winced and pulled at the sheets.
"I am going to give you a shot of morphine for the pain, my dear."
The doctor came back. He motioned for the nurse to pass the surgical gloves. I closed my eyes and left my body for a second. I travelled to the ceiling and looked below as this poor, limp, pale girl lying motionless on a stretcher while GQ doctor fitted on his gloves. I felt a prick in my arm.
I became woozy and dizzy all at once but I fought the feeling as long as I could. He explained that he had to administer this last test to understand the source of my pain. At that point, I did not care how good looking the dude was. All I knew was that he was not coming near me. I violently shook my head side to side.
"Are you telling me I am about to get it up the a**?!" I exclaimed. He looked at the nurse in shock and then back at me. Take that, you minor. How do you handle patient outbursts? He was trying hard not to laugh. He smiled and I knew it was no use.
"Close your eyes. They are so nice to look at but you need to close them now and focus your mind somewhere else."
There it was again. The toying of my emotions. Empty compliments. I didn't need the test. The blood exam would certainly show the results. I wasn't about to be bullied into this.
The room went dark. Yes, I blacked out at the most opportune time. I don't remember if it was me or the morphine.
All I remember was, in the next moment, he was right beside me, telling me to open up my "beautiful" eyes.
"Mamma, I was on my way to Krista's house and those boys stopped my bike and threw me off," I sighed, wiping my tears away. I climbed back on and had to take another longer route to get to her house. Every morning on the way to school, these older boys would stop me, knowing I would be barrelling down their street to pick up my friend. A part of me wanted to avoid that route, but the other part, a more sound and brave part convinced myself that I had just as much right to travel on that road as they did. Everyday, the colour of my skin betrayed me.
"Go back to your home, you PAKI!" the ugliest boy spat at me. He had red hair and freckles all over his body. When he saw me coming, he ran out of his house and grabbed my handlebars. I frantically looked around to see if any adult was witnessing the scene.
I sucked in my breath and lashed out: "This is my country! I was born here so if you want me to go home, I AM home, you moron!" My attempts of challenging his intellect did not help the situation. His friends laughed which enraged him further. He tipped me off my bike. I fell onto the sidewalk and scraped my knee. Blood trickled out and was diluted with water. Where was the water coming from? I then realized it was from my own tears. When I looked up, Krista was standing behind the boys.
"Leave her alone! She is my friend. Why do you bother her everyday? If you don't leave her alone, I will not let my brother play with you!" she exclaimed. She grabbed my hand and picked up my bike. We were a block away when she turned around and faced me.
"Don't show it. When you do, they win. Ignore them. You are giving them what they want."
"Show them what?" I asked confused.
"Your emotion. Do not react. You are playing right into their hands," Krista reasoned.
I went home after school that day and looked up at my mother's face as she stroked my hair. I told her the whole story but she disagreed with Krista.
"They stop you because they like you, my dear. You are smart, pretty and fun. They just want to be part of your life," she smiled. Somehow I was unconvinced. I assumed my mother had no idea what I was going through. She lived with all her friends in Pakistan where everyone was brown, girls had moustaches and unibrows and no one asked what cricket was. Here in Canada, blond hair was easily camoflaged with fair skin, people had roast beef with mashed potatoes and drove cars that did not need a coat hanger to keep the trunk closed. It was hard to believe that any boy wanted a part of my culture where tandoori chicken was the staple, riding a boy's bike spray painted pink was normal and my clothes were that week's KMart special.
I so desperately wanted my mom's conclusion to be true. Maybe they liked me because I was not your run-of-the-mill type of girl and that my differences appealed to them. So from that day on, I endeavoured to test out this hypothesis. Only to be humiliated once again.
The next day, I went to school, happy about my new-found appeal. My confidence shot up and I walked onto the playground with a renewed spirit. I had a crush on the most popular boy in our Grade 5 class. He was a soccer player and all the girls swooned over him everytime he played. I still remember his name. David. We watched from the bleachers during gym class. I was sitting at the end with my one friend, Krista. I told her what my mother told me and she shook her head sadly. I didn't care. I was going to tell David that I liked him. When the soccer ball came towards us, I grabbed the ball and walked over to David who was coming over to retrieve it. He looked at me oddly as I stood proudly, holding the ball and smiling over at him. When he was close enough, I was prepared to deliver my speech.
"David! Here is your ball. I wanted to tell you that I really, really, really like you. I play soccer in my backyard and I would love for you to come and play with me," I asked.
David looked around and noticed that his buddies where now in earshot of my proclaimation. They all looked at me incredulously, with my pigtails, eyeglasses, unibrow and moustache...looking back at all of them with satisfaction. I felt liberated and extremely giddy. I was sure he was going to accept my invitation and I waited breathlessly for his answer.
Instead, he snatched the soccerball from my hands and whipped it at my head! Dumbfounded, I took two steps back. Everyone was laughing on the bleachers. The teacher came running over and yelled at me.
"Why did you pick up the ball? It was still in play!" Mr. White exclaimed.
"Mr. White, Dave hit me in the head! Aren't you going to do something?" I inquired. This was not how I anticipated the scene to play out. I looked down at my feet. The teacher blew his whistle and asked us to line up outside our portable. Krista grabbed my arm.
"I told you so." She walked away and I struggled to grasp what had just happened.
We were in line and his friends heckled me. Dave kept a far distance and cursed at me from the front of the line. "I wouldn't come to your house if you were the last girl on Earth!" I swallowed the lump in my throat with a sunken feeling in my chest. When Mr. White came around, I tugged at his arm.
"Did you hear them? It's not fair. I get this everyday and no one does anything. This is not right. What do I do?" I pleaded. He gave me an icy stare that made me stop.
"Ignore them. That is all I can tell you. Just ignore it!" and he walked off to open the doors for us. Back then, bullying was never an issue. Nor was racism. There were clear favorites in his class and I was not one of them. I was always picked last for team sports, even by my teacher and when he selected students for school events, I was an afterthought.Even though I felt it, I never let it get the better of me. The principal elected me to be the year long morning announcements girl because I was the best speaker and reader in my school. Upon hearing me every morning, Mr. White, despite David's protests, made me his reading buddy because his reading and writing skills were so dismal. Divine retribution.
From that day on, it took me a long time to trust any boy after that. Even when I was complimented and asked out in high school, that chip remained on my shoulder. After enduring four years of bullying, it took high school to change my adversaries who once, after maturing, accepted my differences. But I never changed for them or anyone. I stayed true to myself and I owed it all to my mother.
When I went home that day, explaining to her how Dave had hit my head with a soccer ball, she did not change her reasoning. She told me, one day, I would realize that he truly did like me but was too afraid to show it because of peer pressure. Even though I was on the receiving end of much bullying and blatant racism, I became a champion for the underdog. I never forgot that girl on the soccer field who just wanted to share her happiness with someone else.
The boys came and went in high school. On the surface, they were my friends. However, a few captured my heart. In the beginning, the chip on my shoulder was, in actuality, a huge rock which took many boys to work on, mainly because of my trust issues. Their friendliness and compliments I mistook as a ruse or attempts to toy with my feelings. The bullying of the past would resurrect at these times. I was a late bloomer - when guys liked me for more than my mind, I became shy and unsure how to react. On the other hand, my mother, seeing all the attention I was garnering, always maintained her inner beauty argument.
"You can prick the skin of anyone: black, brown, yellow, blond and blue-eyed. But we all bleed the same colour. Never be red like anger or envy. You can beautify the outside but if the inside is sick and black, no amount of makeup will ever mask it from the truth."
Back to the hospital and the doctor.
Salma was told to wait outside with my sister as the young doctor pulled back the curtain. She begrudgingly left but winked at me on her way out. I was utterly mortified. Was he my doctor? He must be a nurse, I reasoned. Despite the pain, I was conscious enough to assess the situation.
"Are you going to treat me?" I asked. He had called over a nurse.
"Please undress her and get her into a gown. Yes, I am Dr. So and So. I am the emergency doctor on call right now. Don't worry, we will figure out the source of your pain." The nurse came over, pulled back the covers and unzipped my pants. I was in too much pain to remove my own clothes but extrememly aware of the fact that I was being stripped down in front of a good looking doctor. My problem? Pride? Embaressment? Chastity? All my doctors until this point... had been women. My pediatrician, my family doctor, my dentist, my orthodonist...you name it. I was in too much pain to bargain for a female doctor. I closed my eyes and pretended he was not there. She had stripped me completely and I felt her tying the gown behind my back.
"Darling, am I hurting you? Please open your eyes," the nurse asked me. I opened them slowly. The doctor was not there. The nurse watched me as I looked around and then understood.
"He is a professional. I know this is embaressing for you but we really need to figure what is wrong. Don't be shy. He has seen many naked bodies!" she laughed. I tried to smile. Mind over matter. The pain was less but was it because I was more worried about being examined by a male model pretending to be a doctor? Before I could psychoanalyze the situation further, he came back.
"Alright, let's examine your stomach. He placed his hand over my abdomen and pelvic area. I looked at him directly, searching his face for clues. He looked back.
"Wow. You have very nice eyes. Almond-shaped. Very different." I turned and looked at the wall next to me, wondering where this was coming from. My defenses were on high alert and the chip on my shoulder returned. I stiffened as the pain surged through my body when he touched my right side.
"Where do you feel the pain?" he asked. He was smiling at me. I knew he was trying to distract me. All I wanted to do was clock him!
"Everywhere," I moaned. I tried to focus my attention on the nurse. She had pulled out a needle and was tapping it with her finger. I looked back at the doctor. He spoke some medical jargon to her. She put the needle down and then collected some vials. She instructed me to give her my arm for bloodwork. I nodded and lay still. The doctor disappeared and went to check on another patient.
"Seriously, what do you think it is?" I asked. The nurse swabbed my arm and gently inserted the needle. I watched as she emptied out my blood and pride.
"We will figure it out from the blood work. Then he will come back for a rectal exam. He should be back soon."
SQUEEZE ME?! Did she say RECTAL? No, I pretended not to hear her. I am sure she meant...no, that is what I heard. This was not happening. It was a surreal moment. Under ordinary circumstances, I certainly wouldn't have minded his prodding and observation but I was wary of the fact that I had no choice in the matter.
The room become blurry and the old pain returned. I winced and pulled at the sheets.
"I am going to give you a shot of morphine for the pain, my dear."
The doctor came back. He motioned for the nurse to pass the surgical gloves. I closed my eyes and left my body for a second. I travelled to the ceiling and looked below as this poor, limp, pale girl lying motionless on a stretcher while GQ doctor fitted on his gloves. I felt a prick in my arm.
I became woozy and dizzy all at once but I fought the feeling as long as I could. He explained that he had to administer this last test to understand the source of my pain. At that point, I did not care how good looking the dude was. All I knew was that he was not coming near me. I violently shook my head side to side.
"Are you telling me I am about to get it up the a**?!" I exclaimed. He looked at the nurse in shock and then back at me. Take that, you minor. How do you handle patient outbursts? He was trying hard not to laugh. He smiled and I knew it was no use.
"Close your eyes. They are so nice to look at but you need to close them now and focus your mind somewhere else."
There it was again. The toying of my emotions. Empty compliments. I didn't need the test. The blood exam would certainly show the results. I wasn't about to be bullied into this.
The room went dark. Yes, I blacked out at the most opportune time. I don't remember if it was me or the morphine.
All I remember was, in the next moment, he was right beside me, telling me to open up my "beautiful" eyes.
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