Six Car Lengths Behind an Elephant, page 12
At one meeting, we discussed the possibility of having an evening dinner party so that our husbands could meet each other. This suggestion was met with enormous enthusiasm, and it was decided that we would cook as many Spanish or Mexican dishes as we could, with whatever ingredients we could find.
One of the group was an attractive American woman who had lived in Madrid for a few years because she had been engaged to marry a Spaniard when she was quite young, hence her study of the language. The engagement did not last, but her love of the language did. She had subsequently married an American diplomat. Turned out, he was the case officer who was hostile to Frank.
It was decided that because I had the largest living room and veranda, our house should be the location of the dinner party. There was one small potential problem: A woman from Spain, who was in our group, was married to an Indian who was an agent for the CIA, working for Frank. How could we invite “Bob” (our name for him), and the case officer, David, to the same party? Frank didn’t think there would be a problem because David had only read reports from and about Bob, and didn’t know who he was. Nor had Bob ever heard of David.
On the night of the party, we experienced a rare, chilly evening, which botched our plans for the party to move out to the veranda. David was not a party person, obviously. He wore a grim face. I saw that he had cornered Frank and they were having a serious discussion in the library, which opened to the veranda. Bob didn’t handle liquor well, but he loved drinking and dancing and began twirling to the music, first in the living room, then out to the veranda, like Gene Kelly, and I was horrified to see him suddenly burst into the library, with a pirouette and a bow. Later, Frank told me that after the bow, he threw his arms up and said, “Here I am! The spy who came in from the cold!” I think David’s wife should have waited for another Spaniard.
Delhi Belly and the Arsenic Pact
On the day I arrived, when I collapsed with dysentery, I had no idea how serious the invisible amoeba was. For some of us it was permanent, a full-time occupation. And for two people we knew, it was fatal. One was a sixteen-year old American boy, and the other was a man with the Australian High Commission. The amoeba had invaded his liver and ultimately, his heart. He had been sent back to Australia, where he died. A German woman, who was a friend of mine, had to return to Germany and was hospitalized for more than two months there.
This condition was not something that anyone laughed about, and we openly discussed the problem with each other. Our “specimens” were sent to the pathologist on a regular basis, and depending on how vehemently the amoeba had taken over, the condition was graded with a number of Xs, much like a restaurant reviewer using the $ sign to grade the expense category. I had the dubious distinction of having five Xs on my report, and the even more dubious distinction of receiving a request from the pathologist to send her an extra specimen for her to show her students at the medical school, because “it was the first time the amoebas were almost visible.” I was the champion.
Treatment of amoebic dysentery was a medication to be taken three times a day, if the situation was serious. The medication caused vertigo, headache, and nausea, as well as depression. It contained a small amount of arsenic. When my condition became even worse, the pain was intolerable and constant. It was the only pain I have experienced that was as bad as full labor pains. It was potentially embarrassing for me to go anywhere during a bad siege, and I had actually fainted in the bathroom, more than once, left so weak when I regained consciousness that I couldn’t even crawl. I just hoped that someone would find me there.
My doctor told me that drastic measures had to be taken. He took a deep breath and then told me that he thought I should take ten tablets at one time. He knew it would be an awful assault on my body, but it was his opinion that primarily, it would be an assault on the amoeba. I immediately balked and asked if that amount of arsenic might actually kill me. The doctor, who had become a personal friend of ours, said he had given it a lot of thought, and that he had been apprehensive too, so he himself had taken ten tablets at once, in his home with his wife monitoring his reaction. “I survived,” he said with a smile and a shrug. It was very courageous of him, not to mention altruistic. He did say that the resulting vertigo, disorientation, and abdominal pain were hard to take for at least twelve hours. Still, he was suggesting such drastic measures because he feared the amoeba might invade my liver or my heart.
The doctor had come to our house to talk about this, and had asked that Frank be there to help me to decide. Poison. A difficult decision, but ultimately the only one. Frank did something that I considered to be the epitome of gallantry and love. He insisted he would also take ten tablets, and stay home with me, even though his attacks of dysentery had always been mild. He said we would go through the day together. Frank had always been an attentive and romantic man, but there was nothing that he had ever done before or since that so displayed his unselfish love and generosity. It was our arsenic pact. It was a terrible twelve hours, but I didn’t have to do it alone.
Hospitals
All foreign residents were regularly inoculated for cholera, small pox, typhoid, and sometimes tetanus. Everyone feared hepatitis; there was no inoculation for that. If we were exposed to it, early shots of gamma globulin were advised. The local hospital was fondly called the “hepatitis factory.” If you didn’t have it when you were admitted, you would have it when you left.
The fear of hepatitis was such that we couldn’t pursue our collective hobby: drinking. Malaria was also a danger, especially during the monsoons when the mosquitoes seemed to rain from heaven. There were very few days when I felt well, so I tried to go on with whatever my normal life was. One evening when we had guests, I became very tired and was trying to ignore a terrible headache. Theresa came to the door of the living room and beckoned to me. I went out to the hall where she was waiting. “I think Madam look sick,” she said, holding out a thermometer. She took my temperature, and it was dangerously high. Her suspicions were correct. I had malaria, but I hadn’t noticed it because I was so accustomed to feeling awful.
Due to the loss of fluid in my body, I was constantly fatigued, and I had vitamin B12 and iron injections every week. Going to the clinic was a dreary experience. It was dark and dirty, and the room to which I was escorted usually had bloody rags on the floor or even on the examining table (where were they from . . . ?). I refused to even sit on the table, and always took my shots standing up. I was very wary about the doctor’s repeated use of the same hypodermic needle, and I could see no sterilization. When I told the doctor about my concern, he said he could readily understand my misgivings, and said he wished disposable needles were available, not only for me, but for the clinic. I told him I would write to a friend of mine who was a doctor in Canada, and ask him to send a case of disposable syringes directly to my doctor, thus avoiding problems with customs. When the doctor went to pick up that box at customs, he discovered that every single needle had been snapped in half “to see what was in them.”
Our doctor had gone to medical school in the United States, so we had confidence in his credentials, but bemoaned the shocking facilities available to him. One time Johanna had cut her finger; it had become swollen and it hurt. I could see the wound had become infected. The infection trailed in a red line from her finger up her arm, and I knew she had blood poisoning.
We were in the middle of a power outage but Sharma rushed us to the clinic, which was also experiencing the blackout. It was the dinner hour, and the air was dusty with the burning of cow dung, the Indian cooking fuel.
The doctor suggested he take Johanna out to the street to lacerate her finger. I was shocked, immediately turning into a witch as I pulled Johanna away from the doctor. I shouted, “We’re going to the British American Hospital, and she is going to have a general anesthetic in a clean operating room!”
I knew that the British American Hospital had its own generator, and I knew that its facilities were not available to regular businessmen; only diplomats were admitted. The doctor reminded me that we did not have the right to use the British American Hospital, but I was on a rant. I couldn’t possibly remember the stream of epithets I spat on the way about the horrors of that country, and if the doctor tried to say anything, I hissed.
Nobody tried to stop me from entering the hospital because I was unstoppable. Their generators were working and an operating room was available. My child was safe. I could not have been more terrifying if I had had a gun.
The Episode
One day we were visiting friends at their home for lunch, enjoying their imported American coffee. I began feeling unwell, which was not unusual, but this was a new sensation. I was weak and dizzy and short of breath, and then suddenly felt cold and strange, and fell to the floor unconscious. This was the second time that I had experienced these sensations. The first time had been a week before when I went to a movie with Indian friends. Frank was out of town, and I had appreciated their invitation. I felt a pain in my chest and arm, but ignored it as “just one more thing” for my medical chart. I didn’t want to say anything to cause them to leave the movie.
On that Sunday afternoon of our coffee worship, Frank thought, having watched me endure a lot of illness, that it was just one of those things. He said, “Have a drink, you’ll feel better.” The panacea for all problems was always “a drink.” I didn’t want to appear dramatic, but I insisted that I wanted to go home. Frank suggested that the driver take me, and then return to pick Frank up later. When I got home the ayah called the doctor, who immediately came to the house. He suspected that I was having a heart attack.
The doctor went to his office and returned with equipment for an electrocardiograph. The results showed that I was experiencing a “schemic” change in the regularity of the heart, so the doctor ordered bed rest. He said that my pulse rate was a very low 52. He arranged for medication to be delivered, and said that a shot of brandy three times a day would help to increase my heart rate. I knew of no source for brandy, but thought that under these circumstances, someone might be able to procure some for me.
I was so tired that I slept for hours. When Frank came home, he did not want to believe that I had had a heart attack. He patted my hand and kissed my forehead, as though I were a child. I was the main source of his strength, his cheerleader, and it was entirely unacceptable that I had a faulty heart. That was too frightening for him. (His mother had been in a constant state of heart episodes.) Even though I was too weak to get out of bed, Frank did not show concern. The buzz about my episode had zipped through Delhi, and people were calling. A Spanish woman from my club brought me a bottle of brandy. A full month later, the doctor said I would have to leave the country to escape the worst of the heat. I wanted to go.
I was afraid.
During the month following my diagnosis, Frank was cheerful, humoring me as though I were not really ill at all, in spite of the fact that the doctor repeated the electrocardiogram every few days. One evening, when Frank had brought a business friend for dinner, he came into the bedroom and said to me, “Matt is here. Why don’t you put on a robe and come in for a drink?” He knew that Matt was one of my favorite people in the company, but he didn’t realize how weak I was. I knew that this attitude resulted directly from his experience with the hypochondria in his family when he was a child. And I felt guilty, almost convincing myself that I was just playing a part. Was I trying to persuade my mother that I shouldn’t go to school? That’s how I felt. Frank told me to “put on my Viking hat” and march into the living room and beat the world. Putting on my Viking hat was an affectionate term he always used when he was referring to any kind of problem that I could solve when nobody else could. He admired my strength. Losing my strength was tantamount to Frank losing his.
How I longed to be looked after. My dear ayah sat outside my door, and even slept there. But it was Frank’s attention I wanted. At times, I even convinced myself that I was a sham and the heart attack was a figment of my imagination. Even today, when I feel that I’m coming down with the flu or a cold, I make myself get up, make the bed, and dress. Then I allow myself to lie on top of the bed, covered with an afghan. No school tomorrow.
I left India that summer as directed by my doctor. I left with mixed emotions. I felt like the rat leaving the sinking ship. Leaving the children was especially difficult, as it was summer vacation time for them, and there was little for them to do to occupy themselves. A large percentage of children had gone back to their homes in other countries for two months, so it was a socially barren wasteland for that time. The luxury of having a car and driver at their disposal was moot when there were so few friends to visit.
Although Kristin had been horseback riding in the very early hours of the morning, it had become too hot to do that now. Almost all the other women and children had left, so New Delhi was a city filled with abandoned men. I knew that Frank would entertain, as gregarious as he was, and that having kitchen staff would make it easy. I became extremely depressed and self-absorbed, having done nothing in the past month but think. I felt guilty because I was looking forward to visiting dear friends, and my first stop would be in Madrid. I knew how much Frank missed Spain, but he was generous and only wanted what was good for me.
When I saw my best friend at the Madrid airport, I felt like I had come home. It was morning and when we arrived at her house we sat and had coffee, there was so much to talk about. When she took me upstairs to show me an antique chest in their bedroom, she asked me, with a smile, why I was carrying my purse from room to room. I was flustered. “Do you think someone is going to rob you?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied. I forgot I was in a different society and surrounded by good Catholic maids.
“You’re in great luck, arriving today,” my friend said, “There’s a big party tonight and I think all the people are friends of yours.” I was overjoyed. That evening was an occasion. I was embraced over and over again, and there was real beef for dinner. But my emotions bewildered me. I didn’t seem to belong there any more. I had known these people for years, but was surprised to find myself feeling aloof. Or was it they who were aloof? It wasn’t until much later that I realized that, odd as it might seem, I had more in common with our friends in India now than I did at that party. In Delhi, we all had something in common, and that was the extreme difficulty of almost everyday living.
I was still easily tired and I found myself sitting in a corner, totally confused. My emotions ran rampant. Where did I belong?
The Good Life
After Spain, I went to Canada. I was greeted by another good friend we had known in Spain and who was now living there. She told me that adjusting to another way of life had been difficult, and that she thought Canadians were not friendly. Our nomadic way of life did bring trauma, however slight, but I was just passing through. Their home was on a beautiful street, and the breeze was fragrant.
On my first visit to a supermarket, I was overwhelmed with the multiple choices and had no idea what to buy. There were products on the shelves I had never heard of. Everything was so bright, so clean, so dazzling. I felt as though I had been in India forever. I was like a complete stranger in my own country.
Going to a department store, I was even more stunned, although I had been dreaming of this for a long time. I actually found myself having a paralyzing anxiety attack. My friend, who understood this experience, put her arm around me and suggested we leave. I had been standing at a counter where women’s blouses were displayed. The abundance. The meticulous fabrics. Most of all, I was dizzied by the perfume and cosmetic counters, with all the sweet, glorious scents and beautiful packages.
I had become so accustomed to accepting the least terrible that the offering of just everything was more than I could emotionally handle. When I got into the car, I started to cry, and my friend embraced me and didn’t have to ask why. I was keenly aware of how much Canadians or Americans take for granted. I truly knew how to count the blessings, which I still do, every day.
Home Again
Letters from Frank were waiting for me at my sister’s house in Canada. They were love letters of such sweetness and purity that I read them over and over for many years. He also said the children were going to summer school, which was actually the American school, but they were solely absorbed in arts and crafts, and were, of course, making pottery for me. He said that the staff was taking good care of the children, and when Frank had to travel, they were always safe. But they were also lonely, and they missed me.
Kristin was reading all the Edith Blyton books again, finding comfort in Spanish. My guilt rose in my throat, even though I knew I would not be entertaining the children if I were there, but at least I would simply be there. I felt no regret that the children had not yet completely mastered English phrases when I read Kristin’s letter to me, which said, “I am filled with missingness.” Could there be a more beautiful word?
Before a month had passed, I was longing to go home to my family. That was where my heart was. I was entertained by my friends and family, and had stopped coveting things and places and homes and cars and all the good material things we had dreamed about. I wanted to go home and be with Frank and John and Kristin and Johanna. I wanted to wake in the morning to hear Frank say, “Hey, it’s another sunny day in Delhi!” I knew that my contentment lay with my family, wherever we would be.
The trip back to India was very long and tiring, and of course the plane arrived in the wee hours of the morning, black as pitch. When I came out the front door of the miserable airport, six of our friends, festooned with garlands, were there to serenade me. The garlands were the only things that smelled good, but I was now a veteran.
