Dei, how long is too long, to be away?
Dei,
From the hospital bed, my father asks if there are any nice boys in my future.
I scrawl the letters of my name in the column for ‘NEXT OF KIN’. Another ER nurse announces Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim before piercing my father’s arm for the fourth time. I am annoyed at every God that enabled this orientation of events. We are not supposed to be here, yet.
In the triage room, my father declares to a medical professional that he feels fine. I am wearing the kind of dress that demands my concerns be taken seriously. The medic listens to my father’s narration but reads the truths across my face. Machines beep to orchestrate a loud uncertainty. We experience an inevitable reality that arrived too soon.
At the counter of the cardiac unit, my father’s presence is printed on a dozen essential stickers. I hold his doctor hostage with a collapse of questions and a well-positioned arm. He diagnoses my father with denial and I do not disagree. The caterer greets us with the menu for tomorrow’s tasteless meals. We decide to accept what has been decided.
Next to the vending machine, my father cannot hear the chokehold of my crying. I begin to list all matters more pressing and come up with nothing. Counting usually helps my knees rise from the floor so I start numbering tiles to failure. A man holding a refrigerated sandwich feeds the slot a creased one ringgit note despite repeated rejection. We fulfil each other’s immediate needs before walking away.
Across the visitor’s chair, my father grips the mattress as he asks when I’ll return to my second country instead of staying here. Another nurse apologises with prayer before piercing my father’s finger. I wrestle with a banking app to temporarily increase my credit card limit. He fears needles but does not say, I fear leaving but do not admit. We discuss trivialities to tilt time from our imminent independence.
Along the air-conditioned corridor, my father’s urgent footsteps are echoed by the rhythm of my feet. Stubbornly, he lies on his left side and tangles the wires. Insistently, I stay out of his sight and keep him in mine. A hospital administrator asks for my signature in exchange for the promise of providing extraordinary care. Foolishly, she tells me it is safe to exit now and come back later. We relinquish control upon knowing we will never fully recover.
May elevator doors respect your hurry,
Melizarani
On repeat
Rahul’s ANECDOTE has held my days of inability in ways I’ll be eternally grateful.
My father said
“Three wives! Can you believe it? Only when a man dies the truth comes out.”