I had been living my life just like any other sheep among the herd. My being was one of a mundane, meaningless nature. I did not know that what was to come will define my very existence. One stormy night some six years ago, I woke up at 3:00 AM screaming from an unendurably agonizing pain in my left shin; it was the month of my sixteenth birthday. My parents woke up frightened looking for the source of that terrifying wail which sounded like someone was being tortured in the depths of hell, when they discovered it was just their little boy struggling with some sort devilish misfortune. My father, a humble and god-fearing man, approached me mumbling some prayers with eyes of fear and disbelief. ‘what’s the matter son?’ he asked and looked at my poor mother who stood there watching with a perplexed shock on her face; she couldn’t believe nor comprehend what was happening to her child.
‘My leg! My leg!!’ I shouted in a voice that made my dear old father shudder and shed a tear which was a rare sight for me. At that moment, he unmistakably knew the gravity of the situation. He cast off my blanket and saw it. It was something that no parent should see happening to their child. My left leg swelled up to the point that it ceased to look like a human’s; it was pinkish and close to red. My mother did not have the courage to look. She asked her husband, ‘what is it? What’s wrong with his leg? Answer me Mohammed, what’s the matter with him?’
‘ I don’t know!’ he said, ‘ we need to get him to the hospital, now!’
I woke up in a big hospital room which had six beds, four of which were occupied; it was dim, dirty and not well-lit. I realized that I passed out from the pain. I felt something in my hand and when I moved it a bit painfully, I saw a needle attached to a tube coming from a bottle which hanged close to my head. I saw my mother sleeping uncomfortably on a chair next to my bed. I remembered my leg, but did not dare to look; I could not feel it. When my mother woke up, she cried my name and hugged me as if I came back from death. ‘Are you okay? How do you feel?’ she asked eagerly and passionately. ‘I’m okay mom; I don’t feel pain anymore’ I assured her and asked, ‘Where’s dad?’
‘He’s speaking to the doctor’
......
A moment later, I saw my father coming through the door in a state of extreme grief and sadness. When he looked at me, a kind of mutual understanding took place; I knew that the news he carried were in no way good, and that our lives will never be the same again. Yet, I accepted this fact with a certain helpless fatalism. ‘This is God’s will’, I said to myself. ‘What did the doctor say?’ my mother asked hesitantly expecting the worst as any mother would.
‘He is not certain. He thinks, according to the symptoms, that it is a disease which attacks the bone marrow, an infection. It is called Osteomyelitis. But he needs to do a test on the pus he extracted earlier just to be sure’
‘There is a cure for it, right?’ asked my mother, while I watched.
‘Aaah, no! It is a chronic disease; the only cure is amputation’
My mother stopped listening and sobbed as if I was dead. I covered my head under the blanket and cried silently, for I did not wish to show my tears to anyone especially the strangers on the beds beside me. I was contemplating the fact that I might lose my leg and what it meant. Since my childhood, I always had this ability of blind optimism, but the time had come for me to truly test my ability. At first, I thought of the possibility of a prosthetic; it seemed cool to a gullible teenager.
Some five minutes after hearing the horrible news, I started feeling a little tingle in my leg; it was the pain creeping in again. The pain killers’ effect was wearing off. Oh my God. I could not bear the thought of going through that experience again. I could hear the clock of the excruciating agony ticking, ticking, ticking. I started shouting, the pain was more real, more torturesome than the night before. ‘Chop it off, chop the damn leg off!! I don’t care, just stop it. Stop the pain.’ I screamed at my father who ran instantly to the nurses’ station. It took him ages, and when he came back, he was alone, he couldn’t find anyone, and I was on the verge of passing out from the pain, when an old, stout, ugly-looking nurse came in saying, ‘What’s all this noise? What’s the matter?’. ‘It’s my son a lalla. Please help him!’
‘What is it boy?’ she asked.
‘The pain, the pain!!’ I barely uttered through the screaming.
‘You have to be patient’ she said with no affection, and turned to my mother who was crying, ‘Don’t beat yourself. I’m sure he’s exaggerating, plus he was just given a big dose of morphine; I can’t give him any more.’
I gave her a look of pure hatred, and said to myself, ‘I wish the fat bitch was in my stead, then she can see for herself if I’m exaggerating’.
Fate
Some four years of constant pain, surgeries and unbearable commute back and forth to a private clinic where my doctor was had passed. I became a man or rather a limping man with a cane. My childish ability of blind optimism had faded away and turned into a pessimistic view of a life not worth living. My parents were starting to lose hope, but were not able to show it in fear of making my psychological state worse than it already is. I had a sister or a guardian angel, for that is what she was. One of those few people in the world who are willing to give whatever they had, have or will have to see their loved ones happy and smiling again. Rose was the string linking me to that unfamiliar thing, that long lost thing called hope. She was in charge of everything. But even she couldn’t stop the pain and suffering; I could see that it tore her inside to see me like that. She was indeed a portrayal of pure selflessness.
As a twenty years old who was deprived of enjoying his youth impulsively like his peers, I was capable of recognizing the small things in life, things that could be a great source of enjoyment and relief, but are usually neglected by most. They are the trivialities craved only by those who cannot have them, old people, ill people like myself or the dead. Walking, going to the bathroom, being able to wipe one’s own ass, watching the sun rise or set and feeling free, free of pain, free of worries and weaknesses, these are the things that make happiness if ever there was any. When one is a cripple, they have, among other things of course, the luxury of time even though it might be merely the illusion of time. In that time, they get the chance to contemplate their being and the unfair manner of their existence. Naturally, the religious type always find the silver lining, they always find someone whose situation is more or less worse than theirs and can be a source of solace to them; they thank God for not making their being harder. As for me, I was not able to maintain that power to thank God for my misfortune. I needed someone or something, anything to blame. Why does this have to happen to me? Why does it have to happen to anyone? Is it a test? Then why isn’t everyone tested? What makes me and others so special or rather so unlucky? At times, I was on the verge of exploding with these unanswerable questions.
One day when, despite my hardship, I found a passion in this life, in this miserable life. I started reading, and fell upon this book entitled Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption which changed my perception of things and marked a turning point in my life. This novella was about a man wrongfully condemned to spend the rest of his life in prison. Even though he was innocent, his fate was sealed. Yet, against all odds, this man challenged fate and fought for years to regain his freedom and his life. He found a way to dig a hole in his cell through the jail walls and into liberty. I guess what touched me most about this story is the unwavering hope that lies within its protagonist. That quality only few know and feel, as the author subtitled the story: Hope Springs Eternal. Ever since then I began to appreciate and enjoy every second of my life, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, not because of some confounded religious obligation nor because it was so damn fulfilling; I did it because I made a vow to myself to dig a hole of my own in these walls around me and come out on the other side as clean and fresh as Andy in that story.
Today, I read, I write and I live a life without regrets. Is it all thanks to a book, a disease or is it a divine intervention to make my life mean something? I do not know, and I do not want to know. My misfortune opened my eyes and gave me purpose, therefore I guess I truly am thankful.
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