My family is unfailingly polite. My sisters, during labor, continued saying please & thank you in between contractions, much to the consternation of the staff. And I’m told constantly that I’m a model patient by the nurses. “Stable” is what they like to call me. The easy patient they can assign to the floater nurse because I’ll sleep through the night & will not smack them when they come to take my vitals or blood at 4 am.

Well, all good things must come to an end.

I think I’ve rung the call light more in the last 24 hours than I have since I arrived in the hospital the evening of the 11th. I’ve been itching to go home since yesterday once they completed my 7th & last plex in the morning. I was ready to have the catheter yanked from my jugular (they assure me it’s like taking off a band-aid) & go home immediately after.

Negative. My excellent & science-fiction loving neurologist explained they would need another Magnetic Resonance Image (MRI) of my spine & brain before I left & that they could not take out the catheter until my fibrinogen (blood clotting factor) had returned to at least 100 for fear of excessive bleeding after removal. The day after the plex it is usually only 75 & I would need to be under observation for a few hours afterwards. So, at the earliest it would be Thursday afternoon or, more likely, sometime Friday before I could be discharged.

Somehow, this was unbearable. After quietly getting through each of the last 16 days in the hospital, I was on the verge of flipping out over another 24-48 hours. I wanted to blame it on the Prednisone steroids which can make people very angry & emotional but since I hadn’t been feeling that way before & my dosage is actually decreasing over time I know it’s not that. It’s the not-so-nice, grouchy, cranky, ungrateful side of me coming out that I don’t like to acknowledge but can’t always repress.

I like to think of myself as dealing with this illness with faith, grace, & patience. But the truth of the matter is that there are some days when all the dhikr in the world can’t keep me from boiling over.

Murphy’s Law being what it is, combined with hospital bureaucracy, it took them 24 hours just to schedule the MRI. The test is around two hours long & you can’t move once it starts so I wanted to have at least a couple of hours warning so I could reduce fluid intake, etc. Instead, they came to me 5 minutes before I was to go, just as I had eaten dinner, & was working on the steaming mochaccino Basil brought in for me.

*gnashing of teeth*

Once you’re irritable, the world seems to conspire to bug you. The hospital aide who came to wheel me to the MRI asked, “So, where are you from?”

This is my least favorite question in the world. Freelanders have a passion for asking this question of non-whites as if we don’t belong here, & it always makes me snippy. Even more so in my current foul mood.

“You mean, what’s my heritage?” I asked tightly. “Pakistani.”

“Oh. Maybe you could explain something to me then? It’s been going on for as long as I remember, and I’ve never understood it. What’s happening in the Gaza Strip? I mean there was an earthquake there right?”

*blink*

A teachable moment while I’m in the worst mood possible. I briefly explained the difference between Palestine & Pakistan, & gave some background on Partition & the dispute over Kashmir. By the time we reached the MRI doors, he looked, if anything, even more confused.

The MRI tech wasn’t there yet. Another delay. I grimly decided to meditate. But the chatty tech aide had other plans. She asked my second least favorite question in the world.

“Are you Indian?”

If the fates are conspiring to make me laugh, it isn’t working.

“No.” I say shortly. “Pakistani.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is that offensive?”

(YES. *deep breath*)

“No. You could also ask if someone is South Asian, though. Cover more countries that way & probably won’t offend anyone.”

She’s very young, giddy, & uses “like” for every third word, & just when I think I can’t take the non-stop chatter anymore, they take me to the Machine.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had an MRI, but it’s a very unsettling experience. I’ve had three in the past six weeks alone & many since my MS diagnosis three years ago, but my heart always starts pounding as I face it. It’s like a huge coffin, big enough to swallow you with small openings at both ends. They slide you in head first & the space gets tighter & warmer around you until your elbows are touching the curved walls & the roof is a few inches from your nose. I’m 5′6″ & thin & it makes me claustrophobic, so I can’t imagine what broader, taller people experience.

They provide earplugs to help drown out the noise. It’s a cacophony of jackhammers, clicks, hammers, train horns and bangs jarring you almost endlessly for the duration of the long test. The small light lessens the feeling of entrapment a little, but it still makes me think of the grave. I think that’s what gets my heart racing each time & why it takes a good while for me to control the panic. You’re strapped in unable to move & bombarded by noise that easily translates to that of hell. When a brief silence descends & the cool air blows I’m reminded of the ease & light that is possible there too, insha-Allah.

MRIs always break my heart. They remind me of the day when I’ll be lowered into my grave, spiritually alive, physically dead, able to hear but not to respond as all my loved ones walk away. They remind me that should my illness worsen I could be locked into a paralyzed & blind body in this life long before I die.

Without fail, the lesson is always waiting for me when they slide me out. Last time, there was a small, three year old child drugged into unconscious immobility with a tube ventilator stuck down his throat waiting his turn. The sight of his limp body sickened me and my heart ached for his parents. Today, there was a woman who moaned in anguish at the smallest touch, wires and tubes thrust into her whole body. The doctors held a pen and keys in front of her & asked her what they were. She couldn’t say, just looked at them confused, unspeaking.

We were lying right next to each other, on separate gurneys. Her suffering a handspan away twisted my gut with fear & horror. And that’s when I lost it. Tears started streaming out of my eyes as I realized how lucky I was to be going home, even if a little later than expected. I thought about all my petty complaints during the day & cringed. I thought of how blessed I was to be able move on my own, to be free of pain, to be able to recognize & name the world around me. I thought of how much worse it could be and of how very ungrateful I am.

And I thought of what I heard today. Of strangers with candy in Pakistani earthquake refugee camps. Doctors who have no anesthetic but only sweets to give to children before they amputate their injured limbs.

Ahamdolillah. Alhamdolillah. Alhamdolillah. Sometimes it rips you right in the heart & you finally mean it when you say it. Sometimes the veil is lifted & you realize just how very petty you really are.

Ya Rabb, my Lord, forgive me. Even now I don’t see the infinite blessings You’ve bestowed on me.