“Could I help you?” asked the old,
bespectacled woman perched behind the reception desk.
“Yes,” I said trying to be decorous and
respectful, “I’m trying to locate Linda Cofoni; I’ve been assigned to be her
instructor.”
Unperturbed, she glanced at her computer
screen trying to locate Linda’s room.
“That will be 112,” she said, cutting a
half smile.
I had responded to the Department’s request
to be a hospital instructor because of the lucrative hourly rate. Given a choice of work places, I would have
preferred almost any other to the County Hospital. It had the unsavory reputation as the health
net for the incorrigibles of the city.
A rotund nurse, with an oddly impersonal
voice, showed me room 112, and I entered with ambivalence heightened by
curiosity.
I was intimidated by the silence of the
room and I saw a figure, noiseless as a ghost, lying in an immaculately white
hospital cot.
“Are you Linda?”
“Yes,” came the faint response from the
young woman who remained transfixed; eyes unblinking. She appeared smitten by a terrible
sickness. Her cheek bones resembled
those of an anorexic and were even more pronounced because of her small frame.
Miserably juggling with the unavoidable
initiation of introducing myself, I said, Linda, my name is Doc, and I been
assigned to be your instructor until the end of the semester.”
There was no facial response; no delight,
no disgust, no glimmer of an eye. In
fact, I am not sure whether or not she even looked at me through the motionless
slits of her eyes. A profound silence
dominated my nervousness in the passing minutes, but I had to appear calm and
conscientious.
“I will do my best to assist you in the
area of reading and comprehension. Perhaps
if time permits, we can also work at improving your vocabulary.” Those last
words carried the slightest hint of sarcasm.
Again, there was no observable reaction
or response. Awkwardly, I waited five minutes. “How long have you been here?”
Her response was so soft and delicate that
I had to read her lips.
Five weeks for a young person to lie
immobile is a long time. As a novice
psychologist, I tried to comprehend her mental state; her reaction to
people—especially to people who stood before her white fastidious shrine, whole
and in bodily capacity. Of course she
was apathetic.
That night was spent in arduous and
painstaking work compounding and processing mental drugs like a chemist in his
lab. After an hour, I took a break.
In the corridor, I saw a
leeway-set nurse.
In a raw, Southern accented tone she
said, “So you are Linda’s new instructor,
right?”
“Right!”
“Good luck! You are her fifth instructor in
the past month. The last one left in disgust,
she’s a hard nut to crack and I’m not fooling!”
“Thanks for telling me.” Warily, I thought, I should have said,
“Thanks for the discouragement!” I was
shaken by her ignorance and became more determined to face the challenge.
I entered room 112 surreptitiously
ambivalent, carefully monitoring the tone of my Caribbean accent and my face to
reflect confidence and cheerfulness
that I should have had.
“You know what, I think you will get
better soon. I saw a little old lady in a wheelchair and I asked her how she
was doing, she replied, ‘I’m living!’ That’s a
happy outlook to life,
don’t you think?”
I got a nod accompanied by a
half-hearted smile.
Before my time had expired, I had read
two short stories to her about “The
Little girl of Mango
Street.” I shared my feelings about the stories. I asked if she had questions about them. I had anticipated correctly, no response.
The next day, I pondered my motives.
Was it money or the burning desire to reach the mind of this young girl? Confused thoughts were raining havoc on my
mind. Trying to find sufficient time to
reflect, I grabbed the water hose and started to spray the roots of my roses. Roses?
An idea instantly slapped my disjointed thoughts.
The next day, I headed for the County
Hospital. I entered her room with a new
plan. I saw bright piercing eyes and without skipping a beat, I handed her a
rose.
“This rose is as beautiful as you and
I wanted you to have it.”
“So nice of you,” she said trembling
visibly.
I was shocked by her clear tone;
shocked that the rose had evoked such a responsive chord. Now her true radiance
broke the indifference that had greeted me just days ago.
Suddenly, under a state of pleasant
bewilderment, I read to her the Diary of
Anne Frank .
Weeks hurried by; we exchanged gifts,
cards saying, “Thank you, Doc,” were somber and poignant. It came from a heart which formerly had been
unreachable.
One Monday, I was greeted with a knitted
scarf that read, “Thanks, Doc. Love, Linda.” Little kind gestures made me
intensify my pace. I had now found a
heart that was hungry and I wanted to feed it with human love.
On
a cold night in December, I made my way to Linda’s room. The bed was
empty. Maybe she had been relocated. The
nurse, who had been indifferent to my quest at the beginning, informed me that
Linda had been taken to the Intensive Care Unit on the First Floor.
Judy, the Head Nurse, watched my
approach.
“Are you Doc?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a note here for you.”
“Where’s Linda?”
“Behind that blind.”
My human instincts took control; I didn’t
want to look. My fingernails ripped through the note. I forced myself to glance
through the gaping slits of the blind. Her
body was wrapped in white linen. And I
sat, head in hands; tears trickling down my cheeks as I reluctantly looked at
the note:
“Dear Doc,
I waited for you and
begged the nurse to give me a little time before they
rolled me here. They said they
could not wait. I am lying here thinking
about the joys you have given me. Your
reading has opened my mind to a
whole new world of people,nature and things.
Doc, I hope you continue to
read to me. I hope you never stop. You are a good
teacher and I want you
to know that you made me a better person. I must go now, for I
see a
nurse with a tray followed by three doctors entering my room. See yah.
Love,
Linda”
I
had
arrived fifteen minutes
late. Linda had developed more
complications several minutes after having written her note. She had fallen unconscious
and died suddenly.
Today, I read and teach the Lindas of
the world. My motivation comes from the spirit of hope and enlightenment which
are manifested by young people who are gradually transformed from the dark
world of ignorance.
There is a rose in my heart for Linda;
a rose for anyone who crosses my path in search of that light and knowledge.
Prof. Harold Mahabir (Doc)
Note: This is a true short
story.
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