Tuesday, October 16, 2012

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME by Prof. Harold Mahabir (Doc)




   “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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