Unintended Destination

I am sitting in a hospital.  There was so much I wanted to write about but I can’t think of anything because I am sitting in a hospital, wondering what happened to her.  Not this particular time, or even last month when she was in this exact room, but in general, how did we get to this point?  How did mom become the 61 year old woman trapped in an 80 year old’s body?  How did her health decline so rapidly that now she requires a cane, and sometimes a wheelchair.  She requires constant care and has minimal energy.  

This was a woman who would be the life of the party, who would lighten up a room with her laughter, laughing so hard she would start crying.  But now its just crying.  No laughter, just crying--- hiding and crying.  How did this happen to her? 

I want to ask WHY did this happen to her but I know better than that.  I know that such a question will drive me quickly into insanity, there is no logical reason.  She is the type of person who has a wonderful heart and wants nothing but to give to others, to take care of others, but now she can barely take care of herself.

I look in on her in the hospital bed, she is sleeping.  Her pajamas are fitting clumsily and she is contorted, looking uncomfortable and so meek.   I pull that bedsheet down over her one perfectly painted exposed toe. This wakes her up.  She looks at me and smiles.  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be ok.” I've heard that phrase my entire life.

Her body has broken out in hives.  It’s an allergic reaction to something, what thing we still do not know.  Because of the allergy, she has a high temperature. On a normal healthy person this is not a cause for the emergency room.  But in Mom’s condition, we raced over to the hospital and demanded immediate attention.

The doctor, who is a family friend, calls my dad over and hands him a slip of paper.  My dad rushes over to the pharmacy.  In Pakistan, the hospitals do not supply you with any medications or tools for administering medications.  You are given a list of prescriptions and items needed for treatment, then you have to go pick them up and bring them back to the doctor.  

In this case, Dad had to pick up 3 injections, sterile needles, latex gloves, and some kind of alcohol swab for cleaning the area the shots were to be administered. 

After a total of 2 hours, 4 doctors and 1 false diagnosis, Mom was wheeled out on a bright blue wheelchair, an inappropriately cheerful color for its purpose.  

We waited for the driver while Dad filled out the paperwork.  The paperwork was given after treatment was administered… no information was taken before.  If the doctor was not a family friend, she would have had no idea of the name, age, or medical history of the patient.  

The entire bill came out to the equivalent of about $8.  Like they say, you get what you pay for.

P.S.- My mother is better now and at home resting.

 

 

 

 

 

Culture Shock Part 2

Once on the short 3-hour flight from Abu Dhabi to Lahore, the third world madness really set in. What I had experienced as a very nice airline with clean modern planes and a clean modern crew took a turn for the worst on this leg of the journey.  Gone were the "can I get you anything’s, the clean blankets and pillows, and the miniature accessory bags I had indulged in on the previous leg of the journey.  I was now sitting in a run down airplane from the Reagan era (first term).  The crew was even more run down and obnoxious than the plane they were working.  

I made my way to the back of the airplane where a young scrawny Pakistani man was sitting in my seat. 

"That’s my seat."

He quickly moved over to let me in the row and sat back down next to me.  Though he looked relatively clean cut and was wearing a mismatched suit instead of a shalwar kurta, he badly needed deodorant.  I could see him staring at me from the corner of my eye.  

"You Pakistani?"

"Yes and No" I said.  "I'm from America," which for the first time in 8 years I actually felt proud to say.

"Oh, you go visit family in Pakistan?"

"Yes, my parents live there.  I'm going to see them."  I started digging through my bag to pull out my book, my safety net against talkers on airplanes.  

"So you're husband at home in America?"

"No, I'm not married."  The marital status of a woman seems to be everybody's business in this culture.  No one thinks of it as private information.  And once it is known, it's like you have a broken leg and everyone tries to help you with everything, since you are obviously handicapped, being single at age 31.

"So you're parents live in Pakistan.... you live alone?"  He was clearly astonished that I, the handicapped American girl, have been abandoned by my parents and by men.  "Why you not married?"

By this point I wanted to punch the scrawny little bastard.  Who the hell was he to ask me questions about my life? I decided to give him a verbal bash to the face, just for fun.

"No, I'm not married. I have no intention of getting married.  It's a useless institution."

Just then the airline steward asked to see my boarding card for the third time.  Apparently they were having trouble acknowledging my existence as a passenger, or perhaps, as an unaccompanied single 31 year old woman.

I looked over at my scrawny neighbor, he was just staring straight ahead, looking really confused.  I think he was trying to see if he heard me right, after all, English is his second language and he may have mistranslated what he heard.  I opened my book and started to read, content that I had shut him up for at least a few minutes.

The plane was filling up and a tall white guy walked down the aisle.  He was looking for a seat, apparently the plane was overbooked and someone was already sitting in his seat.  I prayed that he would take the final seat in our row so I would at least have someone with similar social etiquette to talk to.  And when he approached and sat down, I felt at ease again.  I was suddenly quite aware of how racist I am against the males of my own ethnicity.  

About 20 minutes into the flight, they started serving drinks.  The cart was about 6 rows away, and Mr. Scrawny began asking me what I would like to drink.  I said I didn't know and turned my head. When she was two rows closer, he asked me again.  I said I guess I’ll just have to see what they have.  He was apparently trying to order for me because I was unmarried and therefore in need of any male assistance I could find.  

I leaned over to the white guy and struck up a conversation, about his origins and his opinion of Obama winning the election-- the topic of conversation anywhere I happened to stop on my way to Pakistan.  Mr. Scrawny looked really offended that I would rather talk to the gora than to him.

When I exchanged numbers with the white guy, Mr. Scrawny looked downright hurt, I think he actually let out a sarcastic laugh... HE wanted to be the only male to assist me in all my needs. 

Harry, the German, was visiting Lahore to work on a multicultural art project.  Artists from all over the world were flying in to Lahore to put together an exhibition.  I had no idea Lahore had any art culture whatsoever, or any culture other than Islamist.  I was amazed and excited to see my narrow view of this country expand.  We promised to meet up over an illegal drink and check out some artwork. I was ready to be beguiled by a Lahore I had never seen.

Unfortunately, the meeting never occurred but the expansion of my views did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Culture Shock Part 1

I think the mandatory culture shock set in the 20th hour of travel.  I had made my journey from LA to NY smoothly.  Then from NY to Abu Dhabi, also without a hitch.  It wasn't until I reached the Abu Dhabi airport where things started hitting me.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, people started losing respect for personal space, personal hygiene and personal business.  Its as if the ocean drained those qualities from those susceptible and left them rude and pungent versions of themselves.  

I stepped out of the plane in Abu Dhabi and was immediately herded to the side with all the other Pakistanis going to Lahore and told to wait.  My connecting flight to Lahore was leaving shortly, in fact, final boarding calls were being announced for the flight.  And since everybody else was standing around like sheep, I asked the airline "official" why were are waiting and what are we waiting for?  He told me that it was because we (as in the passengers) did not know what gate to go to.  I said it was Gate 30.  He just looked at me blankly, perhaps in shock that I knew the correct, and apparently classified, gate information.

 

"This is the final boarding call for Etihad Flight 241.  All passengers must be on board."

Since the plane was already in final boarding stages, I figured it would be better to stay with the mass of sweaty Pakistanis, rather than venture off on my own to the plane and have no one to blame if the plane left without me. 

So, in true Pakistani style, we were taken through the departure lounge (the weird fishbowl vegas picture above), to Gate 22, which led us to a bus.  We boarded the bus, which then drove us to Gate 28 (yes, only 6 gates away). We were dropped off at Gate 28 and left to our own devices, our airline "official" had deserted us.  We climbed the stairs with all our rolling bags and boxes with gifts and computer bags, and proceeded over to Gate 30 (because I was in the know, and therefore, in the lead).  The entire journey took us 20 minutes... to walk straight to the gate would only have taken us about 10.  This is the Pakistani way, stubbornness without logic or deodorant.