I can't write of the time I lay down with a headache.
You glazed your hands with peanut oil
And hummed to me, and rubbed my feet,
Or the stir-fry you made the first time we ate in,
With Chinese hot peppers,
So many that I couldn't breathe in the kitchen,
So we sat on the porch
And ate with the lights off,
And listened,
And stayed, too full to go in.
Her problem list was long. Asthma, Bronchiolitis, RSV, Failure to Thrive. Toxicology screen positive for cocaine and heroin. Developmentally delayed. HIV positive. All this at 12 months of age. Up until then, my patients on Ward 66 had been somewhat straightforward. I was grateful. Many asthmatics, few poison injestions and some sexual abuse. I could read their cases in Nelson's; there was no complicated differential diagnosis. I was relieved that this problem patient was not mine, especially during morning rounds, for the other medical student would get pimped on many conditions. I could not answer many of the questions she was asked.
The other medical student was extremely overwhelmed this particular call. It was a Tuesday night. My resident had a theory why Tuesday nights were always so busy. No one likes to bring their kids into the hospital on the weekends because it disrupts their plans. Monday night is out of the question; there is usually a game on TV. So Tuesday is the most convenient day for parents to come in when their kids get sick on the weekend. His theory held water tonight. It seemed that as soon as we finished with one patient, two were on their way up from the emergency room. Her intern had given her a list of tasks to finish as he went to get sheets for his bunk. She also had to prepare her five minute presentation for morning report before she went to bed.
So, I understood that look she had when she stormed into the treatment room.
"Where are the hazard waste bags? They were in this cupboard earlier this week. Have you seen them?" she asked.
I, of course, immediately looked in the cupboard that she had just searched for about one minute, as if she would really miss the bright orange fluorescent bags marked "HAZARDOUS WASTE" in big, bold letters. Sure enough, the bags had run out earlier and someone had forgotten to replace them. The clerk at the front desk directed us to the supply room, where we found the bags and supplied ourselves with a tiny mint of little hand lotion bottles, band-aids and graham crackers.
During this camaraderie of thievery, I volunteered to help her with her work that night. Yes, I know, you're thinking what a kind and generous soul I am. But honestly, my motives were not entirely selfless, for, you see, I had the bottom bunk and she had the top. The bunks clanked and rattled each time she climbed in to go to sleep. It was midnight already and I figured she had about three to four hours of work ahead of her. I did not feel like waking up at 4 o'clock in the morning as she fumbled and blundered her way to bed.
If I could get the blood work out of the way, she could concentrate on her report. Yes, we would be soundly sleeping by 1:30 AM according to my plans. Besides, this would be extra practice for me. In my four weeks there, interns and residents were impressed by my blood drawing technique. Whereas it took my colleague four to five attempts to get a good stick, I always got it first attempt. Five months to 18 years—if blood coursed through their bodies I got it.
The first two patients were no problem. The Addison disease boy did not even wake up. By the time I got to Rgeina's room, my intern and the other medical student were already there, leaning over her crib. A bright red, yellow, and green mobile of monkeys and elephants was clamped above her crib, menacing at me; all the time failing at its job. Instead of brightening up the room, it called attention to the drab walls, floor and sheets, all in the same color, one day old traffic snow. Inside the crib was Regina. She was a mass of culrly black hair and her eyes were the biggest things on her face. Her body was comparable to a five month old. Propped up in a safety seat since she could not raise her head, her wizened face peered at us, a mirror reflecting all the pain of her little 12 months of life. Mass syringes, butterflies, needles, and tubes all stood at attention, surrounded by alcohol pads, gauze, and bandages. They were ready to go to war with the baby, anticipating sticking her more than once if she did not release the precious fluid.
The intern was rubbing alcohol on the dorsum of her hand, while the medical student was shining her penlight. They had stuck the baby four times while I watched. We were all immune to her piercing cries. The unrelentless melody of the mobile filled the room.
"Claire, you can usually get these little ones, why don't you give it a try?" I glanced at my watch as I double gloved, 12:30 AM. I turned the baby's hand over. I could hear in my head my senior resident's voice, "Feel it, you have to feel it." I
reached for the radial and went medial. "Good now, you feel it, bend your butterfly and go straight. No, you're aiming down. Bevel up!" Perfect! The potent liquid raced into the tubing. We had more than enough for the CBC, ABG and blood culture.
We all breathed easier and congratulated ourselves. 12:35 AM. I looked down at Regina as I pressed the gauze against her skin; her big eyes begged for sleep. My intern leaned in to put the band-aid on. As I lifted the gauze, drops of her dark red venom escaped and leapt on to the intern and myself. I blinked. I immediately thought of my white blouse, which I had painstakingly chosen that morning to go with my navy and white trousers. I hope this blood will come out. I blinked again, while I glanced at the intern. Thank God, she had a white coat. There were many little splatterings all over her jacket, neck and face. I blinked again and my eye began to water.
"Claire, go and rinse your eye out! Some blood went in your eye!" the intern yelled.
After five minutes of flooding my eye, one hour in the ER filling out forms and 30 more minutes waiting for my doctor, I was given a six week supply of AZT. I did save time with my blood work, though. I drew them myself. I had so much experience, I did not spill a single drop. I crawled into bed around 4:30 AM that morning while my bunk mate snored loud enough to wake the dead. She awoke at 7:00 that morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed for rounds.
Just desserts? You may think so. Every morning I am reminded of Regina as I wait for my test results. "Only one in 100,000 needle sticks convert to HIV positive and your chances are less than that." Thank you. I feel much better as I almost pass out and choke back the vile, bitter vomit from the AZT. The detachment from patients that I never wanted to experience before is now a seed housed in me, watered by my tears and fed by my anger.
I do not know what happened to Regina. She was still on our service, but we never rounded on her while I was there. Avoiding her, eyes averted, heads bowed, we walked past the room in silence as her mobile taunted us. She was a victim, a silent victim, of her mother's behavior. I never saw her mother. In the four weeks Regina was on the ward, she never visited. I'm glad for I would have remembered everything about her. Each line in her face. Her smell. The way she walked. I would have carried all this with me, while an intense hate and rage devoured me. Instead, I wonder and wait, while my AZT prescription runs out, for my test results. I remain waiting.
I really want my baby
but I am so scared
I wish someone would help me
Is there someone out there
She says I am the father
and I know it's true
but if I let her know this
whatever would I do
I have nothing to offer
A father I cannot be
It's not like I don't care
But no one was a father to me!
Red blood, Doctor—
for over a month, and I don't feel well.
Doctor says I'm hairy, and chubby,
and have breasts that are too small.
But Doctor...
Crimson in embarassment, I slide to the table's edge.
A hormonal imbalance Doctor Proclaims;
birth control pills are the answer.
But Doctor, all the time passing dark black clots.
And I've never had sex.
Not meeting my eyes,
Doctor says there will be no babies in the future;
come back in three months.
Ignored
my anger is dark like the emptiness
inside.
My parents are now
white-coated lecturers bringing
simultaneous information
five forms of data:
chalk, overhead pen,
you must, you must, you must,
photos of people who you want to cry about so you laugh,
sounds and the power of the multiple choice test.
Sometimes people move to a new town
and they forget why they came.
They mow their lawns,
they make friends,
they get used to living next to the cemetery,
above radioactive ash, and without telephones.
In the smallest ways,
I've moved into medicine's
latest storefront on the mall.
I've learned to live on promises
of a better day next week,
next year.
When Thursday comes,
I may forget why I came.
The short period of silence experienced by the members of the Kapoor household during the night of November 4, 1982, was shattered at around 4:30 A.M. when the phone screamed out for the twelfth time that night, awakening everyone. Tippy, the family guard dog who was trained to bark loudly and unremittingly at any sound that occurred during the night, only let out a short low-pitched growl and quickly went back to sleep. Even she had become accustomed to the frequent phone calls.
"Hello?" my dad wearily answered the phone. From the sound of his voice, it was obvious that the stress of being a physician was quickly catching up to him. Although there was a time where he would be able to work 36 hours straight without showing the least bit of weariness, now, at age 55, and after having worked 30 years in medicine, he was finally showing the premature signs of "burn out."
"What do you mean he won't agree?!! Doesn't he know he will die if he doesn't get dialysed soon?!!"
I could hear my dad's voice rise as he continued to talk to the nurse. Presumably, it was about one of his patients, a 55-year-old alcoholic drug abuser with diabetes and chronic renal failure who refused to consent to dialysis but was too sick to leave the hospital. It was a story I knew well, as many of my father's patients were of this type. This particular patient I knew because the hospital had been calling throughout the previous evening and night, asking my father what steps they should take in his medical management.
"Well, get the patient on the phone. Let me talk to him."
Two minutes of silence—almost enough time for me to fall back asleep...but not quite enough.
"Hello, Mr. Walters? This is Dr. Kapoor. You understand that you're very sick, right? Well, we need to clean your blood otherwise you'll become even sicker. But we need for you to sign the paper to let us do the procedure."
I thought my father was showing incredible compassion, composure, and patience, especially for a man who had been awakened 12 times during the night.
"No, Mr. Walters, if you drink water your blood will not be cleaned. You have to get dialysed. I'm not sure I understand why you do not want this to be done. You've had it done before and it only takes a few hours. Is anything wrong?"
A few more moments of silence. Our second line rings. Most likely, it is one of my mother's patients. I can hear my mother run to the second floor study to take the call. I cannot hear what is being said.
"Mr. Walters," my father started talking again, "I understand that you want to be at the racetracks tomorrow because your favorite horse is racing, but you're not going to be able to go unless you undergo dialysis. Maybe we can work this out some other way....Hello? Mr. Walters?"
Mr. Walters apparently did not think that "Lucky Charlie" could wait. I could hear my father dialing the hospital again.
"Hello, Estelle? What's happening with Mr. Walters? What?!! He's threatening to just walk out?!! OK, OK. See if you can stall him. I'm coming to the hospital now."
I could hear my father walk into his bathroom. He would have to make it to the hospital pretty fast or "Lucky Charlie" might just win out. By the time my father closed the bathroom door, my mother walked into my room.
"Anie, I've got to go to the hospital. One of my patients went into labor. Can you make breakfast for Anita and take out the dog? Your father will drive you to school."
"I don't think so. Dad's going to the hospital also."
"Oh, well then I guess you'll just have to walk. I'm sorry. I'll set the alarm for 6:00. That should give you plenty of time. O.K., let's see...what else do I have to tell you? Oh, yes. Mary has the day off, so you'll have to order out tonight—I'm going to a conference and should be back around 10:00. I think your father has a meeting with the Chicago Medical Society tonight and he won't be home either. I have to go. Goodnight...or should I say good morning?"
My mother laughed, obviously thinking what she had said was incredibly funny. I realized that the sleepless nights were probably getting to her.
Within twenty minutes, both my mother and father were gone. I could finally go back to sleep...for about one hour that is.November 4, 1982 — 11:30 P.M.
The sound of my parents talking in their bedroom next door woke me up that night at around 11:30 P.M. Falling asleep at 10:00 had been quite easy because I, as usual, had not gotten a lot of sleep the night before and had quite a busy day at school.
"How is Mr. Walters doing?" my mom asked my father very cautiously.
"Not as good as `Lucky Charlie'— that's for sure. I couldn't convince him to stay for dialysis and he left soon after I got to the hospital. Later that morning he became uremic and was brought into the emergency room. He died at around 4:30 P.M."
"I'm sorry. You tried your best."
"I know, but I can't help but think that there must have been something that I could do...I don't know...His death was totally preventable."
"I am really sorry."
"Was your day any better?"
"Actually, it was probably worse. I just found out that I'm being sued by Mrs. Thompson."
"Who is that?"
"Remember, she's that 46-year-old woman whose son I delivered three years ago. Well, they found out he has a learning disability and are contending that it was due to brain damage suffered through foreceps delivery."
"They don't have a very strong case, do they?" My father was trying to reassure my mother.
"Of course not, but the hassle of going to see the attorneys and all of that is going to make my life more of a living hell."
"Well, that's the life of an obstetrician." If my father was trying to calm my mother, he was failing miserably.
"How are the kids?"
"They're OK, but I think we need to spend more time with them. We should go on vacation for a couple of weeks and spend some real quality time with the family. How about over Christmas?"
"Can't. I'm covering for Martinez and Brown. How about during the kid's spring break in April?"
"I can't. My quality assurance exam is the first of May and I've really got to study. You know, let's discuss this tomorrow. I'm really tired."
My mother's voice trailed off. She had fallen asleep. I was sure my father was asleep as well. I lay there in bed and listened. I heard something that I had rarely heard before in my house: utter silence. It was the most peaceful feeling I had experienced all day. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. It was midnight and now time for me to go to sleep.November 5, 1982 — 12:01 A.M.
The phone rings....
A brow bears the wrinkles of sorrow and fear,
frowning a fervor of passion and tears,
while revealing the passage of so many years.
"Will foreheads' folds
shed grief untold?"
A chin, once proud, is now lost to space,
showing the slowing of body and pace,
but fighting the forces—disdaining disgrace.
"Where might the jaw
defy earth's law?"
Cheeks before rosy are since wry and pale.
Glowing no further, the skin leaks a tale
by concealing no pores or vessels too frail.
"Which jowl is discreet:
mauve, peach, or pink?"
The nares now reveal a character rift,
sensing transition, on-going and swift;
and inspiring life's breath, they create yet a lift.
"How does the snout
guide pathways out?"
A mouth speaks of changes without any tact,
smiling with kindness past memories lack,
still telling the truth of time looking back.
"What whisper lips
of secrets and quips?"
Eyes see the wonder and, thus, blind the pain,
reflecting a knowledge of joy, lust and shame.
For perceiving life's scenes, fate's future is feigned.
"Why do the eyes
seek soulful minds?"
This face peers forth to the person once known,
mocking an image still fading, but shown.
Though beholding conversion, it's challenged alone.
"Who owns this face
which thoughts displace?"
that batter my heart
they tell me that,
my baby boy
is going to die.
They talk about,
gun shots,
they talk about knives,
they talk about blunt trauma
Oh, for God's sake make them stop!
Holding you close,
wrapping you with my arms
I want to protect you
to feel your heartbeat next to mine.
Oh, my poor child
What's going to happen when you grow up?
Number one risk factor,
for a young man to die
is not to have cancer
but to be Black....
"Doctor, you're late!" chided Nancy, the receptionist at my office. She had a stern expression, but she was all compassion to the patients. She only had sterness and exasperation for me today. She had been there since I opened the practice, and would probably outlast my practice. "You have three patients already waiting in rooms."
"I know, I know. We lost electricity and you should have seen the traf—"
I didn't even bother finishing, she was rolling her eyes and moving to help patient number four fill out the registration forms. Taking the first chart off the door and going to my office to remove my coat, I began to read the first chart. Ms. Jones, the first patient, had also been with me nearly since I began my practice in this town. She was a woman in excellent health, but feared every twitch and ache was the herald of severe life-threatening disease. This started after the sudden demise of her sister, whom one year prior to her death was running marathons and actively caring for her three children. I see that today she is here for abdominal discomfort.
"Ms. Jones, how are you doing today?" I noticed immediately upon entering the exam room that she was doubled over and her expression was one of extreme pain. She looked pale and wan.
"I've been waiting for 40 minutes, and now my stomach hurts worse." I can tell by her arch tone that it's going to be one of those days. This must have really been bothering her for her to be so irritable.
"Tell me about the pain that brought you in to see me today." "It all started four days ago—"
Without any conscious attempt my mind began to wander and I had to force it back to Ms. Jones' problem.
"Then, while I was sitting around knitting,—"
I feel like I forgot something at home, was it the charts, no I have those; was it the prescriptions for another patient, no those are in my coat pocket; was it—
"Then when I was walking down the street, on my way to pick up some milk, when—"
Perhaps it was my lunch, yes that was it. Well, Anne will bring it by later.
"That was what made me decide that today was the day to come see you about it."
"Let me see if I have it..." Knock, knock
"Yes," I answered, looking apologetically at Ms. Jones, "come in."
Nancy peeked her head in. "Sorry to interrupt, but Dr. Smithe is on the phone."
I had been waiting on that call for two days for the pathology report on another patient. Looking at Ms. Jones, I knew, she would not take kindly to this intrusion.
"Get his number and I'll call him back in an hour."
"Dr. Smithe said he was leaving the office, and would not be available for consult later in the day. He also said he should talk to you, personally," Nancy reported matter-of-factly.
Knowing that I had an appointment later in the day with this patient, I decided to take the call.
"I'm terribly sorry Ms. Jones, but I have to take this call. I'll be back as soon as possible."
I spent 20 minutes on the phone with Dr. Smithe getting the details of the results. They were not positive or reassuring for the patient, so I spent a few moments making a note in the patient's chart regarding the rsults and the options. Then I returned to Ms. Jones. She was sitting in the same place where I left her; however, she was now tapping her foot, and she raised her head sharply when I entered. She was no longer doubled over in pain as when I first arrived, and instead of pale in appearance, she now looked flushed.
"Sorry that took so long, Ms. Jones, but let's get back to discussing your pain."
"I already told you everything."
"Then let me try to summarize, and you can add information that I have left out. This pain started a few days ago—"
"Four."
"Four days ago, and has not been constant, but appears to mainly coincide with..." I paused waiting for her to fill in the details.
"A little while after I eat."
"Right, the pain is related to meals. Nothing you did alleviated this pain."
"Except drinking milk."
"Right, except for drinking milk." This continued on with constant corrections by her until I finally had a possible
picture of a peptic ulcer.
"Well, Ms. Jones, It appears that you may have an ulcer. What I advise is that you avoid eating spicy foods, alcohol and caffeine. Try to take Maalox when you get the pain. We'll see you in one week to see if it is better. If not then we will look at some other alternatives and tests that can be done to verify an ulcer or lead us to look for other problems. How does that sound to you, Ms. Jones?"
"If you think that is all you can do for me now, then it will have to do, won't it."
"Do you have any questions, Ms. Jones?"
"No."
"Do you have anything else you would like to talk about?"
"No."
"Well, then we will see you in a week. Try to do as I have suggested."
"I always do, Doctor."
Well, on to the next patient.
I wake up in the morning with the same feeling that I have experienced for the past four days straight. The pain is dull, until after I've eaten or drunk something and then it is gone for a few hours. At this time the pain returns, but now it is sharp, like a knife. I hope that it is nothing serious, yet my friends and husband have convinced me to go see the doctor. Luckily the office was able to squeeze me in first thing today.
As usual I arrive early for an appointment, but expect to wait. Yet I am perpetually hopeful. I gather a smile for the receptionist, who I see almost as often as my priest.
"Hello, Nancy, any hope of starting on time today?"
I asked for the first appointment time in anticipation of being seen in a timely manner. Yet I can tell by her expression that it is not to be as I wish.
"I'm sorry Ms. Jones, but the doctor is not yet in for the morning. However, I have some forms for you to fill out while you wait," Nancy stated in her friendliest voice, one over the years I have come to associate with a long, long wait.
I take the forms, which I know to only be partially necessary. Long ago, I realized that in order to make time pass more quickly for someone waiting in a queue, the time is broken up with various activities. Filling in these forms is one of the activities. Fortunately, it also takes my mind off the burning pain that I have started to get in my stomach. It is probably due to my breakfast of eggs, bacon, and coffee.
I have waited so long that I wonder if the seasons have changed. Finally, Nancy calls me back to the exam rooms. These rooms are fifteen degrees cooler that the waiting room. I often wonder if the reduced room temperature serves to cool me off as I wait endlessly. Nancy, with an expression that conveys patience, but a tone and rate that convey haste, asks me the usual questions regarding my pain. When she finished the questioning that the doctor would repeat, Nancy instructs me to undress and to put on the gown (if you can call it so elegant a name). She further states the doctor will be with me shortly. I wonder if any one has ever quantified the time span of "shortly."
I have decided not to undress until I speak to the doctor, or at least know there is some hope of being seen soon. I have even more time to think about the pains that steadily have been increasing during the time I have waited. I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of eating breakfast prior to my appointment. Unfortunately, once you are in a room, there are no longer any activities with which to amuse yourself. So, I am forced to concentrate on and amplify the growing pain. If I bend over, it eases the pain for a little while. I am wondering if I should lie down on the exam table. What is it that I hear?? Is it the sound of the doctor arriving?? Am I to be seen soon?? Wait, I think I just heard the chart on my door being removed. Now silence in the hall. Maybe I will lie down. Thank heavens, the door is opening.
"Ms. Jones, how are you doing today?" the doctor callously asks, without one comment on the time I have waited. Usually, the Doctor apologizes.
I respond that I have been waiting for close to an hour, and the pain is worsening as we sit here. A look of pity crosses the Doctor's face. I am unsure if the pity is for my pain or the Doctor's.
"Tell me about the pain that brought you in to see me today," he asks, very appropriately to my mind. However, as I begin to describe the entire sequence of events, I can tell that the doctor is not paying attention. I am of a mind to say something outlandish when there is a knocking at the door. Of course it is Nancy, with some tale of another physician on the phone that my doctor must speak to immediately. So the doctor abandons me in favor of a patient that is not even here.
Now I have even more time to dwell on my gnawing, burning pain. I realize that part of the problem is that the doctor, and probably everyone else in this office, believes me to be a hypochondriac. I have come in every time something out of the ordinary occurs, just in case it is a terrible disease. Maybe I am a hypochondriac, but I would rather catch some illness in the early stages, rather than be like my sister who ignored her symptoms until too late. In fact this could be some cancer growing in side of me right now. It could be spreading as I sit here. Goodness gracious, will the doctor ever return? How long do I have to wait? It seems like forever. Oh, the door is opening again.
Unfortunately, it wasn't the doctor, but rather Nancy who peaked her head in and said, "We are sorry it is taking so long, Ms. Jones, but it is very important that the doctor take this call. Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes, you can get the doctor." I no longer had any patience left.
"The doctor will be in as soon as possible," Nancy said quickly, and shut the door firmly behind her.
It was still a while before the Doctor came in and I was fuming with righteous anger.
"Sorry that it took so long, Ms. Jones, but let's get back to discussing your pain," the doctor said when finally returning to my exam room.
At least the doctor acknowledged my pain, but I was still angry at the treatment I had received today, so I retorted, "I already told you everything." I already knew that I would never express how I really felt. I wanted to make sure that they pay attention to me.
"Then let me try to summarize, and you can add information that I have left out. This pain started a few days ago—"
"Four." Goodness, the doctor couldn't even remember how long I've been feeling this pain. I didn't go on to retell the whole story, but waited for the Doctor to ask me questions. I offered no information. This went on for quite some time. I was surprised at how complete the picture was, even without my help. I guess this is a good doctor.
The doctor went on to tell me that I may have an ulcer and what to do to protect my stomach. I am to return in one week. Isn't the doctor going to examine me? Or even look closer at me? I wish the doctor would at least look at my stomach.
"How does that sound to you Ms. Jones?"
"If you think that it is all you can do for me now, then it will have to do, won't it?"
"Do you have any questions, Ms. Jones?"
I can tell when the doctor uses that tone the interview and exam are over, and I am to go home. Maybe Nancy will be able to talk to me about this ulcer and tell me what it is.
"No."
"Do you have anything else you would like to talk about?"
The required ansewer here is no, so I give it.
"Well, then we will see you in a week. Try to do as I have suggested," the doctor helpfully advises on the way out of the door.
I meekly respond, "I always do, Doctor." I always do.
Two red lights on a distant tower beacon to each other through
the night - first one, then the other; first one,
then the other.
They speak of things that no one can know or dream-
perhaps tales of wind and rain - perhaps they speak
of loves long lost
And a myriad of city lights like a sea outside my window
They dance, they shimmer, they shake.
They flicker against the wind and even its gusts
cannot
extinguish their flames - their souls cling on,
they give no ground.
and tubes Touching the
cool dampness of your exposed
skin like a hard rain on old aluminum
siding, clueless The whirring machines
generate an aura of disem—
bodiment that clings to you
invisible but palpable On
the wall appears the paint by num—
bers picture of the stage
coach thundering up
the embankment of a rocky
desert landscape the wide
eyed driver chased by bandits on
flying horses kicking up hot
sand meticulously
filled in by your hand.
The night arrives early this time of year—
panic packed in the saddlebags,
a death wish strapped
to the saddle,
a falling star
tangled
in the mane,
a quiet rage
cinching
the stirrups.
The marked horse is anxious to run past the borders
of restraint.
It rears,
gathering speed.
The underbrush
whips back—
yet we seek
tenderness
and thoughtfulness
sculpted in the
crucible of time.
Oh marked horse I rode at midnight,
the rotten apples
and aging pumpkins
lie in the field.
Never mind, gallop on.
May peace renew us.
May calm surround us.
May new thoughts
enliven us.
Gallop on,
far from here.
Marked horse, take no one as your rider.
Pass these fields
where I rode desperate
in blizzards of fear.
I tip my hat
to all the winters
of my lifetime.
Marked horse,
take no rider,
not this time,
not from here.
Two days later the young
nurse returned.
The baby was stable.
A work-up was impending—
a possible abuse in the baby's home.
The young man sat in a rocker
cuddling the baby
rocking back and forth.
His care plan for the day,
summarized, not in writing, but in words:
"She doesn't need a nurse.
Today she needs a daddy."
The alarm clock shrieked in agony. With a swift karate chop, I put it out of its misery. Keeping my eyes tightly shut, I got out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom.
"Five o'clock," I muttered to myself as I switched on the bathroom lights. "Who in their right mind would wake up at five o'clock?"
With my eyes still closed, I brushed my teeth and lathered my face. Since I had not mastered the art of shaving blindfolded yet, I reluctantly opened my eyes and looked into the mirror. The mirror was ablaze with color. Flecks of green, gold, red, and silver flickered in front of me as if I were looking through a giant kaleidoscope. As my blurry eyes adjusted, the colors disentangled themselves and formed definite characters. On a large piece of manila paper my six-year-old daughter had used glue and glitter to writeDaddy, Come home early. It is my birthday! Love, Anjali. I shaved, showered, dressed, took the note off the mirror, carefully folded it, and placed it in my front pant pocket. As I was about to leave for the office, Sangeeta came down the stairs wearing my thick robe over her night dress. When she asked me if I had seen the note, I took the manila paper out of my pocket and showed it to her. She begged me to come home early. As I kissed her goodbye, I promised her that I would.
The day at the office was like any other day. There were expectant mothers who had come for prenatal care, there were toddlers who had come for immunization shots, there were the women who had come for their yearly check-up, there were the men who had come to demand antibiotics for their colds, and there were the elderly who had come just to have someone listen to them for a while. By four o'clock, the waiting room was empty. I decided to close up shop early in order to buy Anjali a birthday gift.
At Toys-R-Us, I walked up and down the aisles stacked with toys searching for the perfect gift for Anjali. I walked past the Nintendo games, the GI Joe action figures, and the Barbie dolls. These were too commercial—too artificial—for my daughter. Finally, I stopped in front of the stuffed animal section. In the menagerie of lions and dogs and bears and cats, a piece of red glitter at the back of the top shelf caught my eye. When I reached up to pluck the red glitter from the darkness, I found myself holding a fluffy white bunny with floppy ears, large pink beady eyes, a charcoal black nose, and a shiny red bow tie. I knew that I had found what I was looking for.
By the time I reached home, only a speck of the winter sun was still visible on the horizon. Since the house was surrounded by cars already, I parked my car further down the street. Cradling Anjali's gift under my right arm, I stepped onto the sidewalk and started walking towards the front door. I glanced quickly at the house in which we had lived ever since Anjali was born. The sloping roof covered in a blanket of snow, the Christmas lights along the border, the wreath with the red ribbon hanging on the front screen door, the porch light which shined like a beacon—all of these items begged me to come home. However, I stopped. I stopped. I let go of the bunny and walked away.
As I turned around the bend, other houses with their luminescent porch lights beckoned me. As I turned around the bend, the demons within awoke from their long slumber.
"Hey, Dr. Shah, that's 413 Taylor. Isn't that where the Smiths live? On your first wedding anniversary, didn't you interrupt your candlelight dinner with Sangeeta to set young Joey's fractured arm?" one voice whispered.
"And that's 216 Lincoln, Dr. Shah. Isn't that where the Johnsons live? Weren't you in the ICU treating Mr. Johnson's pneumonia the night your mother gasped for her last breath?" whispered another.
"Oh, and Dr. Shah. Isn't that 543 Davis? Doesn't Mrs. Greene and her infant son live there? Didn't you rush to the hospital to deliver her baby instead of attending Anjali's Bachelor of Rhymes pre-school graduation ceremony?" questioned the third. In a chorus, the hounded, "It's clear as day, isn't it Dr. Shah? You take care of everyone in this town, but you never cared for your own family. Did you ever care for your parents? Did you ever care for Sangeeta? Did you ever care for Anjali? You never did. You NEVER did. YOU NEVER DID!"
Now, I was running as fast as I could. I sprinted away from the houses. I sprinted away from the street lights. I sprinted past the end of the sidewalk and into the snow-covered woods on the outskirts of the town. And I did not stop. I did not stop until I felt that my heart was going to crash through my rib cage and run away from me. Then, I fell to my knees, leaned on the trunk of a big tree and watched the clouds of white mist drift from my mouth into the blackness above me.
As I sat there and looked at my surroundings, I vaguely sensed that I had been here before. Then, it hit me. I was not sitting under just any tree; I was sitting under The Tree. Seven springs ago, on a mild April Saturday morning, Sangeeta and I had stepped off the normal trail and had found ourselves walking through this section of the woods. Intoxicated by the passion floating in the spring air, we hurriedly had lain on the carpet of pink blossoms underneath this tree. For a brief moment, we had become one. Under this tree, the seed we planted eventually flowered into Anjali.
Now, as I sat under The Tree, the pink blossoms were buried under layers of white snow. The passion of that spring morning was long gone. All I felt was the damp coldness of the snow as it seeped through my overcoat. As the cold numbed my body, the demons went back into hibernation. I fell asleep.
By the time I woke up, it was late. I got up from under the tree, brushed the snow off my overcoat and started walking home. When I entered the town, the porch lights of the houses on Davis, Lincoln, and Jackson streets had long been extinguished. Only the occasional aluminum sentry at a street corner lighted my way. As I approached my car, I bent down, picked up the white bunny with the glittering red bow tie and brushed the snow off its fur. Then, I walked towards the only house which still had its porch light on.
After I entered the front door, I placed my drenched overcoat over the stair railing and took off my soaked shoes. After setting the stuffed bunny on my favorite recliner in the living room, I wandered into the kitchen and switched on the lights. Trapped in a net of streamers, the balloons still clung to the ceiling. In the center of the kitchen table was a deflated ice-cream birthday cake. The six candles had long since become tiny wax islands on an ocean of cream frosting. The ice cream had long since melted to form a chocolate-covered rivulet that meandered along the tabletop. As the stream approached the edge of the table, solitary drops fell to their death, sending shivers of concentric circles through the muddy puddle on the floor. I switched off the kitchen lights and retraced my steps to the stairway.
Trying to avoid all the creaking steps, I walked up the unlit stairs. When I reached the landing, I turned to the right and walked down the hallway. I slowly opened the door to Anjali's room and silently approached her bed. I bent down to brush the hair away from her tightly shut eyes and placed a small kiss on her warm right cheek. The salt of her dried tears burned on my lips.
After leaving Anjali's room, I walked to the other end of the hallway. When I opened the door to the darkened master bedroom, I noticed the silhouette of Sangeeta's back under the bed covers. Her long black hair hid her face. While I knew her eyes were wide open, I pretended that she was asleep. There was nothing I could say to her tonight. There was nothing I could ever say.
After closing the bedroom door, I went back to the living room. I moved the white bunny aside and sat in my recliner. As I sat down. I heard a crinkling in my front pant pocket. I reached down into the pocket and pulled out the folded sheet of manila paper. When my trembling hands unfolded the paper, the glitter—the flecks of red, of gold, of green, and of silver—fell onto my lap. All that was left on the paper was the raised beads of dried glue. I dropped Anjali's note on the floor. As the tears welled up in my eyes, I whispered to myself, "I must come home, I must come home, I must come home...."
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