That Morning
It was morning. Webster had announced 'the word of the year' for 2016. A single word caught in a swift glance at my phone screen was to sum up what ensued in the early hours of that day; 'Surreal'.
Sleep had been dodging my eyes like a vibrant fly, an ominous swatter in the sweaty hands of a frustrated insomniac. All I had captured since the second Mother informed me, in her usual neutral tone, that you were going to have your skull broken into at 8:00AM on Monday, were harrowing visions of a misguided neurosurgeon’s scalpel missing its mark. You are seated, as Mother described you would be, sedated, and an angry man with every intent on killing his time, is digging into the back of your brain to extract the source of his anxiety.
Images of happy faces; your happy face, over a blurred Skype session reassuring me, “all went well” collided with darker scenes of relatives coming up with insane scenarios as to why I could not talk to you there and then. I guess the ghost of the condolence message on the answering machine from years ago when father passed still haunts me. The struggle for straws of truth in a sickly protective whirlpool of lies; a world that fails to recognize the right of knowing at the right time.
My mind too, had sprinted from one annoying online Trump feature to the next, on Facebook and TV, anxiously trying to absorb what had gone wrong on this earth; a place where decency and civility had been bullied into oblivion. Then there was Aleppo and all the blood. Children hugging the remains of their infancy to their perforated chests; their last gaze fixated on the firmaments, awaiting the mercy that never arrived.
In the midst of all this, you are smiling, hopeful and strong, only breaking down once in a while to express love. I question if my frustration sought these distractions or that the disgust of it all was a genuine deterrent. I somehow had managed to close my eyes for a few hours the night before. I had slept with one arm hugging Sophie, and the other Chocolates, squeezed into an uncomfortable position of my choice, pleading for the proximity of a warmer being, one that emits love like only a canine can.
6:00AM and it is time to learn of your recovery. I may not hear your voice, but I would know that you are ‘alive and well’. I called Mother. I called our brother, and sister-in-law, Alya. I called your husband who had traveled to be with you. I called cousin Nada, and I even called your number. No one answered. When cousin Ayser picked-up, her voice was drained, muffled and highly congested. Had she been crying? In my confused questioning campaign, I learned that your surgery had been cancelled. She passed the phone to her husband, to give me more details, and the line disconnected.
I sat still. Were they telling me the truth? Was this a temporary ‘cover-up’? I stared ahead and saw nothing, in my mind, one demand of the almighty; God, take my life and give her hers; it is an even swap -I think; I know she is the better person. It would stop the pain of my heart now pushing its way out of my mouth. It would put an end to this agony of trying to breathe, as I struggle to climb out of existence. I did not have evidence; but then, I did not have evidence when I got the voice message on the answering machine. I had to fight to obtain it. Silence. Inertia that is bred with the terror of pursuing futile interrogations. Lynn, my neighbor, had passed around Thanksgiving. I sought her spirit, “Help me!”
The phone rang. Alya’s confidence had never served anyone better than it served me that morning. Her voice, firm and convincing, came through like a strong hand gripping and stabilizing a stumbling child. “The hospital staff are idiots! They don’t know how to handle insurance! Thank God Zinnah is not having the surgery there.”
Finally, a semblance of peace; I know I will hear your voice again.