A cardboard
box on the kitchen surface was now the only reminder that this was not yet
Alice’s home. As she unwrapped teacups and stored them on new shelves she
marvelled at the amount of space she had. Her tiny offerings from their last
home had barely filled half of the new cupboards. The vast kitchen led in open
plan style to an immaculate dining and then living area. Saleem had already
tried to scooter around the fancy oak panelling and faced the wrath of an
over-tired father, trying to install the TV and Xbox. The whole house had a
gorgeous fresh feel to it giving Alice the constant sensation of living in a
‘Home and Gardens’ photo-shoot. They had already all started discussing how and
where things would go at Christmas. “We’ll have the biggest tree ever!!!!” Lily
had shouted, twirling round and round in the designated spot.
Everything
was bigger and better about this wonderful place. There was even an extra room
downstairs where Hassan could sleep before and after the long flights he was
making to Karachi without disturbing her. True it took them almost exactly two
hours to get back to their family, friends, schools and old jobs, but now they
had more space and, most importantly, it was less than 15 minutes from Heathrow
Terminal 3 so Hassan could take a taxi instead of them all going down the
motorway to drop him off. Now he’d be home longer and back sooner. Karachi, and
all of his business there, would be just round the corner, and family life
would get back to somewhere near normality.
Strange
thing was, she hadn’t moved her hospital. She was sure that there would be
bigger, flashier hospitals around London offering a whole host of fancy
treatments for her “lumpy-legs” as Lily put it. But somehow she hankered after
that narrow nicotine corridor and consulting room number seven. She told
herself that this was because it would probably delay the surgery. She told
herself that it was because maybe a consultant in London wouldn’t do the op on
the NHS. She told herself that as they were so close to the motorway it really
didn’t matter, it was a short enough drive. But in the end she didn’t drive.
Her husband’s family, her family, met her at New Street Station the evening
before and delivered her with great ceremony the next day to the same
mountainous receptionist she had seen all those months ago. Hussain’s brother
Parvez had actually managed to make the mountain giggle “Think you could fit me
in for a bit of treatment whilst you’re at it?” he’d winked. Meanwhile her
mother-in-law, or Dadi had pushed a warm foil package into her bag, “A
little ‘khana’ for you Alice; the food in these places is terrible.”
Parvez had shouted “Break a leg!” as he ushered Dadi back through the swing
doors, he was trying to be ironic.
And there
she was back in the plastic rectangle waiting for her name to be called. It was
longer this time. 27 minutes of flicking through magazines and half reading
then re-reading pages in the book she had brought with her. When her name was
called it was a different nurse who took her down, past consulting room number
seven and on to another different set of identical rooms where she donned a
surgical gown and sat on a different identical bed. Whilst she waited she took
a photo of her leg. A ‘before’ shot. Then she took a picture of her face. She
looked scared. She texted Hassan: ‘All well. Waiting to go under knife. See you
on the other side.’ Then ‘Tell kids I love them x’ which she deleted and
replaced with ‘xxxxxxx’. But the text wouldn’t send, they were so deep within
the body of the hospital now nothing could get out. The anaesthetist came in
first and noticed the rising panic in her eyes. It would be alright, he told
her. She was doing the right thing because without this operation her veins could
burst or, worse, ulcerate. ‘I’ll tell you a secret’, he confided ‘I’ve had it
and you really don’t realise how much pain you are in until the pain goes
away.’ All Alice could do was nod. But she began to feel vain and
irresponsible. How could she have agreed to this operation and a general anaesthetic
when she had young children? What if she was the one in one hundred thousand
who never came round after the anaesthetic? How could her children ever reconcile
the fact that their mother died because she wanted to be able to wear a pair of
shorts? She was a foolish, foolish (and moreover extremely selfish) girl.
She felt him
before she saw him. He held a clip board like a shield and sat down beside her.
Same blue pinstripe. Same sleek accent. So she understood the operation? He
would make cuts into her groin and make cuts down her legs. Yes she understood.
All too well. “Don’t tell me again” she said and their eyes caught for a
moment. A memory of a guileless wince, a fleeting smile and the smallest of victories
flashed between them.
He knelt down and
criss-crossed the backs of her legs with black marks. This was where he would
cut her. She smelled of Chanel. From time to time he placed his hands on her
hips, like he did with all his patients, moving her round for a better angle of
the saphenous veins and their meandering journey up each leg. She held up her
dressing gown and tried to peer at the dot-to-dot that was forming. Once the
legs were marked he jumped away and told her to sit back down. Any questions?
No? Well sign this and out he went with the words ‘The nurse will be with...’
trailing after him.
She was
first on his list and all too soon she was lying gazing at three smiling faces
all wearing blue bandannas and all looking into her eyes, whilst one of them
administered an anaesthetic. ‘Think happy thoughts’ said another. She thought
of Lily, Annas and Saleem, and felt her heart jerk.
Palm to
palm. Whilst Mr
Dhoni scrubbed, he ran through the procedure in his mind, just as he did with all
of his operations. Right palm over left dorsum and left palm over right
dorsum. It was a straightforward ligation and stripping of the two
saphenous veins and stab avulsion of the tributaries - ninety minutes tops. Palm to palm, fingers interlaced. He would
make sure they used plenty of Videne to get rid of that Chanel smell. Backs
of fingers to opposing palms with fingers interlocked. He thought of the
big red ‘Caution’ and pledged to do a thorough job. That way he would be sure
that there would be no complications. Rotational rubbing of right thumb
clasped in left palm and vice versa.
Just like any other patient. Rotational rubbing backwards and
forwards of right hand in left palm. He would be punctilious and detached. And
vice versa. The two minutes timer
sounded and Dhoni walked into the theatre ready to be gowned and gloved.
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