On Saturday 26 July I was admitted to Mehr Hospital for an obstetric operation. I had a private room with its own bathroom. If it wasn’t for the hospital gown and the oxygen outlet over the bed, one would almost mistake it for a hotel.
Private rooms are paid for at double the rate of a two-bed ones, primarily because patients want a relative to stay with them overnight and not, as in the case of freaky foreigners, in order to be alone. On the Saturday nothing much was happening, so I welcomed the opportunity to finish off some reading and some writing I had started. Except for the two hours of visiting (3-5 pm) when Hossein and the children came to see me that afternoon, I spent a day of perfect solitude, except for the nurses, the catering lady and the cleaner who came and went in the course of their duties, repeatedly asking, “Haven’t you got a companion tonight?”
Sunday morning I was scheduled for the operation between 8 and 8.30 am. I had hoped that Hossein and his sister, who had kindly offered to stay the night with me, would be there before that. As it happened, the doctor came in at 7.30 to say hello and shortly afterwards I was wheeled into the operating theatre. I had to take off my glasses in the room, before getting on the wheeled stretcher (incidentally, why can’t patients walk to the operating theatre?), so from that point onwards the whole thing is, literally, a blur. I looked at the ceiling of the lift, at people’s heads looking down at me and felt like a scene from Casualty. The first porter handed me on to another, as far as I could see, younger one. “Are you in for a Caesarean, lady?” he asked me. Well, I don’t blame him.
“No, thank you,” I answered.
“But you are scheduled for no. 6, which is a Caesarean room,”
“Well, please make sure…it’s not a Caesarean,” I stuttered.
“The doctor knows anyway,” he answered.
The young man left and a nurse took over. She chatted warmly, trying to help me relax while she tried to find a vein for the drip.
“Not very easy,” she said. “Your arms are chubby. But then, Iranian women are chubby, just like me,” she joked.
“Firstly, I am not Iranian, and secondly, you are not chubby,” I retorted.
“Oh, aren’t you? So how come you speak Persian so well?”
The doctor came in at that moment, dressed in green.
“My husband is Iranian,” I answered.
“So,” the doctor asked, “are Iranian men good?”
“Well, mine is; I don’t know about the others.”
“Excellent,” the doctor said, “that’s a fine answer. There are good and bad people everywhere.”
The clock showed 8 am when the needle for the drip went in.
The next time I remember looking at the clock it was 5 pm: I was back in my room with an oxygen mask on my face. I was feeling sick and very thirsty, but at least I had survived the anaesthetic. I had been worried about that.
That night passed without major problems, except that I couldn’t sleep comfortably because of the drip. I came home on Monday afternoon and I was advised to rest in bed as much as possible for the following two weeks. Today is the eleventh day after the operation. I am feeling much better but I get tired easily and if I stand or sit for too long I feel the internal stitches pulling, just like now. I’ll sign off now and take it easy until Monday 18 August, when we are flying to Constantinople, where we will stay for five days on the way to Athens. Fingers crossed, I’ll be all right by then.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Bank clerk
Forgive the cliché, but my blogs are like buses: there isn’t one for ages and then two come along.
Yesterday I visited Bank Parsian in order to transfer money from my account to our joint and pay for the Greece fares. Hossein advised me to go at about 3 pm when it shouldn’t be too crowded. I got there at 3, and pulled out queue number 523 from the machine. At the time queue number 397 was being served and out of the twelve counters only half were open. I thought I wouldn’t get to be seen until 4, when the bank closes.
I asked a woman sitting next to me how long she had been waiting for. She told me for an hour and a quarter, and her queue number was 463, but a man had given her his number (405), so she gave me hers, which brought me sixty numbers forward.
Eventually, I got to the counter at ten minutes to four. I had a couple of transactions to do and was tying myself in knots (I still mix up the digits as they are written in Iran). It didn’t take long before the clerk asked me where I am from. (Is it the smile that betrays me?)
“From Greece,” I replied.
“So what are you doing here?”
“Erm…living?” (as good a candidate as any).
“Pretty place you’ve chosen to live, haven’t you?” he asked and fed my passbook into the machine.
“What’s wrong with it?” (my chance to do some research for the book).
“Sign the back of the slip, here. Do you think it’s good?”
“It’s very good. The people are friendly…” (and you’ve got fresh, steaming bread and real cream cakes, I wanted to say).
“No, it’s not good, not as it used to be. There’s nothing for young people here.” He took the slip. “So, do you work here?” (maybe he was an interrogator in another life).
“I am writing a book on Iranian culture, which is very interesting.”
“So Iran is a good place, but we didn’t know it,” he mused, counting the fifty-thousand rial bills.
I wanted to tell him that the fact that he struck a conversation with a total stranger should point him to the right direction.
Yesterday I visited Bank Parsian in order to transfer money from my account to our joint and pay for the Greece fares. Hossein advised me to go at about 3 pm when it shouldn’t be too crowded. I got there at 3, and pulled out queue number 523 from the machine. At the time queue number 397 was being served and out of the twelve counters only half were open. I thought I wouldn’t get to be seen until 4, when the bank closes.
I asked a woman sitting next to me how long she had been waiting for. She told me for an hour and a quarter, and her queue number was 463, but a man had given her his number (405), so she gave me hers, which brought me sixty numbers forward.
Eventually, I got to the counter at ten minutes to four. I had a couple of transactions to do and was tying myself in knots (I still mix up the digits as they are written in Iran). It didn’t take long before the clerk asked me where I am from. (Is it the smile that betrays me?)
“From Greece,” I replied.
“So what are you doing here?”
“Erm…living?” (as good a candidate as any).
“Pretty place you’ve chosen to live, haven’t you?” he asked and fed my passbook into the machine.
“What’s wrong with it?” (my chance to do some research for the book).
“Sign the back of the slip, here. Do you think it’s good?”
“It’s very good. The people are friendly…” (and you’ve got fresh, steaming bread and real cream cakes, I wanted to say).
“No, it’s not good, not as it used to be. There’s nothing for young people here.” He took the slip. “So, do you work here?” (maybe he was an interrogator in another life).
“I am writing a book on Iranian culture, which is very interesting.”
“So Iran is a good place, but we didn’t know it,” he mused, counting the fifty-thousand rial bills.
I wanted to tell him that the fact that he struck a conversation with a total stranger should point him to the right direction.
London Visit
I haven’t written recently, I know. With apologies to those friends I didn’t get to speak with, I was in London from 6 to 15 July. The main reason of my visit was to visit a prospective publisher who shows a very strong interest in my book on Iranian culture.
It felt funny to be back after a year of absence: as if I hadn’t been away at all. When I got off at West Acton tube station, dragging my suitcase after me and getting drenched in a summer shower of rain, I felt back at home. As soon as I let myself into our flat I sat down on the bed and cried, sobbing loudly. Everything around me reminded me of how much trouble we took over the house extension: how we chose the floor tiles, the dishwasher, the cooker, and how little use we made of them before we decided to pull up sticks and move to Tehran. In the dresser drawer I found Athena’s small pink purse, Yusef’s old school diary, drawings, my old spectacles I was planning to give away to Specsaver’s charity bin, detritus of our old life.
But I was happy to be back in London, even for a few days and determined to make the most of it. A parable of life’s transience.
Days went by very quickly, what with browsing in Waterstone’s and Foyles, seeing my good friend Alex twice (bless her, she is such a great help with the book project), visiting my other very close friend Mali three times, meeting the publisher and sorting out a few things in Hossein’s office. After nine days I was ready to come back, with some new ideas in my head and quite a few books in my suitcase.
The meeting with the publisher went very well: he likes the concept and the style of the book but he would like me to package it differently, so as to make information more accessible. I promised to think about it a bit more and get back to him by mid- August, when we are all travelling to Athens via Constantinople (no direct flights from Tehran to Athens).
Oh, and another thing. On Sunday 27 July I will be having an operation (women’s troubles, but nothing serious, I hope), so I may be out of action for a few days – as if I were very punctual otherwise! Please remember me in your prayers.
It felt funny to be back after a year of absence: as if I hadn’t been away at all. When I got off at West Acton tube station, dragging my suitcase after me and getting drenched in a summer shower of rain, I felt back at home. As soon as I let myself into our flat I sat down on the bed and cried, sobbing loudly. Everything around me reminded me of how much trouble we took over the house extension: how we chose the floor tiles, the dishwasher, the cooker, and how little use we made of them before we decided to pull up sticks and move to Tehran. In the dresser drawer I found Athena’s small pink purse, Yusef’s old school diary, drawings, my old spectacles I was planning to give away to Specsaver’s charity bin, detritus of our old life.
But I was happy to be back in London, even for a few days and determined to make the most of it. A parable of life’s transience.
Days went by very quickly, what with browsing in Waterstone’s and Foyles, seeing my good friend Alex twice (bless her, she is such a great help with the book project), visiting my other very close friend Mali three times, meeting the publisher and sorting out a few things in Hossein’s office. After nine days I was ready to come back, with some new ideas in my head and quite a few books in my suitcase.
The meeting with the publisher went very well: he likes the concept and the style of the book but he would like me to package it differently, so as to make information more accessible. I promised to think about it a bit more and get back to him by mid- August, when we are all travelling to Athens via Constantinople (no direct flights from Tehran to Athens).
Oh, and another thing. On Sunday 27 July I will be having an operation (women’s troubles, but nothing serious, I hope), so I may be out of action for a few days – as if I were very punctual otherwise! Please remember me in your prayers.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
Nightly Adventure
21 June 2008, early morning
Just when we thought that life was getting rather boring…
At four o’clock this morning I was woken up by the sound of the rubbish collectors’ van emptying the skips: it was a rattling noise, like lots of glass bottles tumbling down. I turned over, trying to block it out of my ears; then I heard water running in the bathroom. In a couple of minutes Athena stood over my bed, in tears. “Mummy, my ring is stuck on my finger and it’s stopping the blood.”
“Try using soap,” I mumbled, half asleep.
“I have; it won’t come out,” she whined.
I sat up and reached for my handcream, which didn’t work either. Athena made a lot of noise, moaning, saying that her finger felt numb, it was going to explode, she was dying..the usual drama queen stuff.
We went to the kitchen and squirted washing liquid on her finger. I tried easing the ring out, but the pleat of flesh over the knuckle was swollen. Things were complicated more because the ring was wide like a wedding band.
I reasoned that if we used hot water, the ring would expand. The unsuccessful experiment proved that so would the finger. How about using oil? That might help the ring slip out. But Athena’s fussing and fretting didn’t let me think.
As I was struggling to pull the ring out, we heard the call to the morning prayer: it was 4.08 am. Hossein got out of bed and offered his morning prayers, then sat down in front of Athena to work with the washing liquid. He massaged the finger for a few minutes and managed to push the ring almost over the knuckle. If somebody heard Athena’s cries, they would think we were torturing her. She screamed and shouted, and pulled her finger away. The ring slipped back.
I suggested we ring the emergency services. The hospital nearby said that we could take her there so that they have a look, but our best bet would be to take her to a jeweller’s in the morning to have the ring cut.
I thought that if hot water didn’t work, cold water might. I filled a bowl of cold water and put it on a chair by her bed. By that time Yusef was awake too.
“Why didn’t you get up then?” I asked him.
“I thought she felt sick but couldn’t and was trying to.” Yusef, just like me, has got a thing about seeing people get sick.
“So you thought you’d lie low, eh?” I joked. He pulled the sheet over his face, probably smiling.
Hossein came into the room. “Does the fire brigade deal with that sort of thing?”
I thought of cats high up on trees and a nervous laughter came all over me; but it might work. Hossein got on the phone again and thankfully, in a few minutes all four of us were in the local Fire Brigade Station.
The young man there thought this was a piece of cake. He brought his First Aid kit over and took out a contraption that slides under a ring; a lever on top of it is turned, cutting the ring through. He struggled with this for a few minutes but he only managed a minute chip at the edge of the ring.
“What metal is this, lady?” he asked me.
“Titanium, I think.” A metal that up to now I had not given much thought to. As hard as steel. Why do they make jewellery out of this? Good for handcuffs, I bet.
The young man went out and called his superior, a surly man in his fifties with a paunch and two chunky agate rings on his right hand.
“Don’t worry, sister,” he told Athena. “We’ll have it out in no time.” He brought a thin metal file and a circular saw. Athena looked at me terrified.
“It’s OK, don’t worry,” the man reassured her. He sent the younger officer out, who returned with a plastic pail and a washing liquid bottle filled with water. Then they set to work: he slid the metal file under the ring, squashing Athena’s finger even more. The saw struggled to cut the metal, firing sparks in all directions. The young man kept pouring water over Athena’s finger to prevent it from burning. Once or twice Athena pulled her hand away, but was told to sit still. I’ve got to hand it to her, she is impeccable in front of strangers.
Eventually a deep ridge was cut in the ring but the innermost part, near the finger, was still joined. The officer put the saw away and pulled at the sides of the ring with two pincers; after a lot of effort he managed to ease the ring apart, enough for the finger to be freed.
We all breathed a sigh of relief.
Athena’s finger got two long blisters, which have now dried and turned into dark red lines, a memento of an unpleasant experience that will, like many memories, turn to a story in the years to come.
Just when we thought that life was getting rather boring…
At four o’clock this morning I was woken up by the sound of the rubbish collectors’ van emptying the skips: it was a rattling noise, like lots of glass bottles tumbling down. I turned over, trying to block it out of my ears; then I heard water running in the bathroom. In a couple of minutes Athena stood over my bed, in tears. “Mummy, my ring is stuck on my finger and it’s stopping the blood.”
“Try using soap,” I mumbled, half asleep.
“I have; it won’t come out,” she whined.
I sat up and reached for my handcream, which didn’t work either. Athena made a lot of noise, moaning, saying that her finger felt numb, it was going to explode, she was dying..the usual drama queen stuff.
We went to the kitchen and squirted washing liquid on her finger. I tried easing the ring out, but the pleat of flesh over the knuckle was swollen. Things were complicated more because the ring was wide like a wedding band.
I reasoned that if we used hot water, the ring would expand. The unsuccessful experiment proved that so would the finger. How about using oil? That might help the ring slip out. But Athena’s fussing and fretting didn’t let me think.
As I was struggling to pull the ring out, we heard the call to the morning prayer: it was 4.08 am. Hossein got out of bed and offered his morning prayers, then sat down in front of Athena to work with the washing liquid. He massaged the finger for a few minutes and managed to push the ring almost over the knuckle. If somebody heard Athena’s cries, they would think we were torturing her. She screamed and shouted, and pulled her finger away. The ring slipped back.
I suggested we ring the emergency services. The hospital nearby said that we could take her there so that they have a look, but our best bet would be to take her to a jeweller’s in the morning to have the ring cut.
I thought that if hot water didn’t work, cold water might. I filled a bowl of cold water and put it on a chair by her bed. By that time Yusef was awake too.
“Why didn’t you get up then?” I asked him.
“I thought she felt sick but couldn’t and was trying to.” Yusef, just like me, has got a thing about seeing people get sick.
“So you thought you’d lie low, eh?” I joked. He pulled the sheet over his face, probably smiling.
Hossein came into the room. “Does the fire brigade deal with that sort of thing?”
I thought of cats high up on trees and a nervous laughter came all over me; but it might work. Hossein got on the phone again and thankfully, in a few minutes all four of us were in the local Fire Brigade Station.
The young man there thought this was a piece of cake. He brought his First Aid kit over and took out a contraption that slides under a ring; a lever on top of it is turned, cutting the ring through. He struggled with this for a few minutes but he only managed a minute chip at the edge of the ring.
“What metal is this, lady?” he asked me.
“Titanium, I think.” A metal that up to now I had not given much thought to. As hard as steel. Why do they make jewellery out of this? Good for handcuffs, I bet.
The young man went out and called his superior, a surly man in his fifties with a paunch and two chunky agate rings on his right hand.
“Don’t worry, sister,” he told Athena. “We’ll have it out in no time.” He brought a thin metal file and a circular saw. Athena looked at me terrified.
“It’s OK, don’t worry,” the man reassured her. He sent the younger officer out, who returned with a plastic pail and a washing liquid bottle filled with water. Then they set to work: he slid the metal file under the ring, squashing Athena’s finger even more. The saw struggled to cut the metal, firing sparks in all directions. The young man kept pouring water over Athena’s finger to prevent it from burning. Once or twice Athena pulled her hand away, but was told to sit still. I’ve got to hand it to her, she is impeccable in front of strangers.
Eventually a deep ridge was cut in the ring but the innermost part, near the finger, was still joined. The officer put the saw away and pulled at the sides of the ring with two pincers; after a lot of effort he managed to ease the ring apart, enough for the finger to be freed.
We all breathed a sigh of relief.
Athena’s finger got two long blisters, which have now dried and turned into dark red lines, a memento of an unpleasant experience that will, like many memories, turn to a story in the years to come.
Friday, 30 May 2008
Storm
After a few hot days, the evening before last Tehran was covered in thick, grey cloud. Eventually an intense electric storm broke out, lasting for hours into the night. It was spectacular: the whole of the sky was torn by lightning, the thunder rolled from the east and in a second echoed from the west.
The storm raged until the small hours of the morning: at about 3.15 am I woke up with the sensation of water being sprayed on my face but it wasn’t a dream. The wind blew so hard on the curtains that they almost touched the ceiling and the rain was driven through the mosquito net on the window inside the room and on my bed! The carpet under the window was soaked.
The morning after the Alborz mountains looked blue and clear, like a picture postcard.
The storm raged until the small hours of the morning: at about 3.15 am I woke up with the sensation of water being sprayed on my face but it wasn’t a dream. The wind blew so hard on the curtains that they almost touched the ceiling and the rain was driven through the mosquito net on the window inside the room and on my bed! The carpet under the window was soaked.
The morning after the Alborz mountains looked blue and clear, like a picture postcard.
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Good News (fingers crossed)
My book Among the Iranians has been under consideration by the North America branch of a British publisher for the last fourteen months. After a change in personnel and my proposal going astray, I now have some good news: two days ago the publishers rang me from Boston. It seems that they are considering it very seriously and indicated that it would make a difference if I could meet the owner of the company in London, so I am trying to arrange a short trip to London in the middle of June in the hope that this should clinch the deal.
At Last!
Three days ago we got an ADSL internet connection, so there goes my excuse for not updating this blog more often! Still, the procrastinator in me will find something else soon.
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