Princess: Secrets to Share

by Jean Sasson

  The physician paid no notice to any of the women in our family, as most expatriate men who work in the kingdom feel that the slightest attention given to a Saudi woman might be misinterpreted and cause offense. That is why they interact only with male family members and act as though the females are invisible. (Although my daughters and I could request a male physician for any illnesses we might have, it is our routine to be examined by one of the two female doctors. But since Little Sultana is only a child, it was entirely appropriate for whoever might be on call to tend to her.)

  I understand this cautious attitude, as so many Saudi men would fly into a rage if a man from another country looked or talked to their women. Indeed, I have heard of cases where Saudi men have attacked foreign men living and working in our land if they have been so bold as to open a conversation with their women, even if they are physicians and merely doing their duty as such.

  The doctor spoke briefly and softly to Kareem and Abdullah, advising them that only they should be in the examination room. Zain refused to accept that she would be banned from her child and she firmly spoke up: “Abdullah, I will go in, too. No one can stop me.”

  Abdullah nodded in agreement, telling the doctor, “Little Sultana’s mother must be with her at all times.” I felt the pull to insist upon staying too but knew in my heart that it was the place of my son and his wife to be with their child.

  I pulled Kareem by his arm and said, “Come, Husband. Let’s sit here,” then gestured toward the comfortable red sofas in the waiting room.

  Kareem understood my point and he acquiesced, but before sitting he had a brief conference with the doctor. What he said, I do not know, but most likely he was telling the physician that he would receive a huge bonus should all be well. The doctor was obviously offended because he spoke up. “I thank you, but I am paid well for what I do. Nothing more is necessary.”

  I felt even more respect for the doctor—and was slightly embarrassed, as Kareem feels it is necessary to offer money for everything he wants. I do not agree with this tactic. In reality, I felt an urge to speak sharply to my husband, but I bit my tongue and turned away. Although I will speak my full mind in our home, and in front of our children and other relatives, I am too respectful of him, and of our relationship, to disagree with him in public.

  Despite Kareem’s heavy-handed approach, I knew that all would be well because my husband has always had a good relationship with all four of our doctors. He was especially familiar with the head physician, as both have a love of astronomy and sometimes the two of them share an evening staring at the stars using Kareem’s super-powerful telescope, which had won the physician’s notice. My husband also expressed his admiration that no one could order this man about, not even he himself—his boss and the man who paid his salary and the clinical bills. The German was known to be an outstanding physician, and he commanded respect. Kareem valued his attitude, as he has never cared for “yes” men and likes to fill the jobs available with people he knows will perform at the very top level and, ironically, who will not be swayed by offers of bonuses relating to their work. For these reasons, we both had the utmost confidence in the medical staff operating our clinic.

  Maha finally thought to release the various mechanisms that kept her skates on her feet and sat in her socks, which I saw had three holes in one, two in the other. My eldest daughter has never cared about “things” and will wear clothes long after they are best suited for a garbage can. I knew that Kareem was displeased with her attire because she was wearing tight, stretchy leggings and a sleeveless top, but I had glared at him when I saw his expression of displeasure, whispering, ‘“Stop, Kareem. It does not matter.”

  And it did not. We were on our own palace grounds, and no one was there but our family and the people who worked for us. My daughter should be allowed to wear appropriate exercise attire when working out. Never had Maha worn shorts or revealing tops, and I knew that baggy trousers would be a threat to her safety while skating.

  Looking at Maha, I remembered one instance when she had convinced her sister into attempting to learn to skate. Amani had appeared more than ridiculous skating around with her abaya flying and her veil loosening from her face. These moments reinforce my wonder that I could have borne two such opposite daughters.

  On that day, I had overheard the laughter of our servants but reprimanded none because they had a valid reason for their mirth. Although I am a Saudi woman who also wears the veil when I am in my country, I feel just as amused when incidents such as this occur, where the many meters yards of fabric we are obliged to wear hamper our leisure pursuits. When our family visits our palace in Jidda, we often sit on our balcony and observe foreign beachgoers as they scrutinize Saudi women flailing about while trying to swim in the sea with their abaya ballooning with water and trailing behind them like a black octopus in the blue sea.

  Such preposterous sights usually depress me because women should not be forced to swim in a long black costume. It makes them look foolish and it is dangerous. I have heard of two cases where young mothers have drowned while trying to swim in the full Saudi abaya. Such a thing should not be allowed to happen.

  As a result of these cultural constraints, I rarely swim in the Red Sea, saving my swimming activities for when we are in Europe or other countries where women wear swimming costumes without concern that they will be attacked by religious clerics. This does not mean that I wear a bikini. I am a woman born and raised in conservative Saudi Arabia, and I would feel uncomfortable dressed in one, but I do not frown upon those who choose to wear such swimming attire.

  My thoughts returned to the seriousness of the moment. The three of us waited for an hour that felt like a year. Kareem sat and stared straight ahead without speaking. Genetically, Maha is her father’s child, and she has so many of his qualities, so she sat without speaking as well. I fidgeted, needing to talk to someone, but I was wedged between Kareem and Maha, both of whom have the bizarre ability to stare into infinity for several hours at a time while remaining voiceless. I was alone with my fear.

  Finally, the German physician came to Kareem. “You can put your heart to rest,” I heard him say. “Your granddaughter will be fine. But she does have a virus.”

  I gasped, thinking only of MERS.

  Kareem reassuringly laid his left hand upon my right hand, preparing us both for bad news.

  “Your granddaughter has somehow or another contracted a virus called respiratory syncytial,” the physician reported. “Generally, children contract it from other children. Perhaps one of her playmates is sick and that is the source.

  “But do not worry, this is not a fatal virus. Only rarely does it require hospitalization. But, in this case, and to put all minds at ease, I suggest that you take your granddaughter to one of the royal hospitals in the country so that there will be a large staff tending to her.” He paused. “Is that possible?”

  “Yes, of course,” Kareem answered. “Anything is possible.”

  Of course, Little Sultana could be admitted to any hospital that our family felt was best for her. As a high-ranking prince in the Saudi royal family, Kareem often submits requests for non-royal Saudi citizens who appeal to him for medical care and to be admitted into this hospital or that hospital. I knew that with one telephone call Kareem would have Little Sultana admitted to the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Centre in Riyadh, as that is where most of the royals go when they need medical attention in the kingdom.

  We are all very familiar and pleased with the hospital that was the dream of my uncle Faisal, who was also king, before being assassinated by his own nephew on March 25, 1975, one of the saddest days in Saudi Arabia’s history; for us, this rivals the grief felt in the United States when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

  The German physician was pleased. “Good, good,” he said.

  Kareem asked, “Tell me more about this virus, Doctor, if you will.”

  “This is the virus mainly responsible for bronchio
litis and pneumonia in children. Most are well after a few watchful days with appropriate medication and care. This is not a virus that calls for antibiotics. Bringing down the fever and keeping Little Sultana hydrated is the best course to take. If she becomes dehydrated, the hospital can provide intravenous fluids, and even humidified oxygen. I’ve only known a few children, perhaps three percent, who had complications.

  “Her fever was highly elevated, so I have given her acetaminophen to bring it down. Only if there is a complication, such as bacterial pneumonia, will the physician at the hospital put her on an antibiotic. Otherwise, they will keep her as comfortable as possible, and will provide plenty of fluids. I predict that your granddaughter will be home and will be happily playing within the week.”

  I breathed easily for the first time since I had heard of Little Sultana’s sickness. I felt emotionally drained. Mothers and grandmothers worldwide will understand my extreme worry. There is nothing more upsetting than for a beloved child to be stricken with a potentially serious illness.

  Maha and I hugged each other tightly. Maha volunteered to call her sister, to give her the good news. I rushed into the emergency area and saw my son comforting his wife, who was weeping tears of joy and relief.

  Little Sultana was sleeping and it looked like her fever was not so high, since her cheeks were less flushed and she was not nearly so damp. I overheard Kareem calling one of his assistants and advising them to prepare the documents for our granddaughter to be admitted into the royal hospital in Riyadh.

  Within moments, I saw the medical staff preparing Little Sultana to be moved and I was unintentionally pushed to the side by the bed, as staff wheeled my granddaughter out of the emergency area and into a long white van that had ample space to hold a hospital bed.

  My heart contracted in fear watching Abdullah and Zain join Little Sultana in the vehicle. Kareem rushed away, shouting without turning back to look at me that he was accompanying Abdullah and Zain. I soon heard the roar of his automobile as he raced his engine.

  Maha calmly and methodically put on her skates and skated away. “I will see you soon, Mother,” she called out. My daughter then paused, turned around, looked at me with some emotion, and walked my way. She hugged me, kissed me, and whispered, “Mother, I want you to know that I think that you are the best mother, and the best grandmother, in the world.”

  I was stunned and could not speak, although I felt my eyes become wet. Maha hugged me again before adjusting her skates and then skating away, as though there were no troubles in all the world.

  With Maha’s departure, I suddenly felt terribly forlorn and alone. As the excitement died down and life returned to normal for most, I stood quietly for a moment to collect my thoughts and then walked slowly back into our palace. I was determined to pick up the pieces of my everyday life for I knew that if I was not fully occupied, I would burst into tears—and once I began crying, I might never stop.

  Given the situation with my little granddaughter and the fact that I felt emotionally exhausted, I ticked off in my mind several important social engagements that must be canceled soon, none of which I regretted missing. That’s when I felt the plunge of disappointment, for I remembered my much anticipated appointment with Dr. Meena. She would be the first person I telephoned.

  ***

  I slept fitfully, as Kareem decided to stay at the hospital, very much in command, as though it was a war room. Yet, I understood his decision. I decided to go to see my granddaughter the following day for I was also eager to know how she was faring and I felt impatient for the little darling to return home and resume her normal life. Anything can happen when one is ill, as I had discovered when a royal cousin traveled abroad to have what was believed to be a minor plastic surgery procedure in Europe, but nearly died from an unexpected complication when one of the nursing staff accidentally gave the princess cousin a medicine that belonged to another patient who was only three doors away.

  After my cousin nearly perished from human error, I asked several of my office assistants to investigate the problem my cousin had endured. I was curious to know just how many people die from preventable medical mistakes and was quite shocked at the information one of my assistants uncovered after her research. According to the prestigious Journal of Patient Safety, as many as 440,000 people each year in the United States die from medical errors.

  Such an astounding high figure of preventable deaths was enough to get my full attention.

  The journal also reported that medical mistakes in America claim the third spot as the leading cause of death in that country! There were many errors that were made routinely, such as instruments left inside a patient during surgery, wrong dosages of medication, or infections from contaminated medical equipment.

  There are also high numbers of preventative medical blunders made in hospitals in the United Kingdom. All of this information was very troubling and I vowed to avoid elective medical care that would require a hospital visit, even though three of my sisters had traveled to Los Angeles, California, to have various procedures done to try to keep them youthful in appearance. Thankfully, those surgeries were successful and all returned looking refreshed and younger.

  Although I have creases around my eyes, and a little pouch under my chin, once I had knowledge of preventable medical errors, I decided to retain my facial features rather than risk mistakes that might cost me my life, and precious time with my children and grandchildren. Rather a live, aging mother and grandmother than a youthful corpse, I teased my children when they asked if I might consider beautifying surgery, as had their aunts.

  There is a second reason I have not embraced plastic surgery. I enjoy looking older than my children. I have a number of royal cousins who cannot be identified as mothers, as they look much younger than some of their adult children. This is not a world I would embrace. I am proud to be older, and to look older, than the ones I birthed.

  Tired and emotional, I began imagining all manner of awful possibilities, including the chance of Little Sultana being given the wrong medication. Before I could think this through I telephoned my husband as quickly as my fingers could move. When Kareem answered, I was impolite, for I gave him no opportunity to speak. “Husband!” I shouted. “Demand two of each medications for Little Sultana. You take one first, and if it is safe, then allow the doctors to give her the second one.”

  Kareem was silenced by my bewildering instruction, but finally spoke. “Sultana, calm down! You are talking like a crazy person. Who, exactly, do you believe I am? A food taster?”

  My husband and I are familiar with food tasters, for the leaders of our al-Saud family frequently hire food tasters when they are attending functions where food is prepared by those they do not know personally. Food tasters risk their lives, eating food prepared by others to confirm that it is safe for the one they are paid to endanger their own lives to protect.

  Indeed, my own father had hired several food tasters for years. This habit began after my father became violently ill after eating food at a diplomatic event when Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, the leader of Libya, was the host for an event for Prince Abdullah, some years before he became king of Saudi Arabia.

  Prince Abdullah and Colonel Gaddafi always had a stormy relationship: Abdullah is a man of his word and has always carried an aversion to known liars. During an Arab summit before the war in Iraq, the two men argued in front of others, which is not something usual in our culture. Crown Prince Abdullah failed to conceal his repulsion during the argument, telling the colonel, “Your lies precede you and your grave is in front of you.”

  Colonel Gaddafi never forgot or forgave what he felt was as a grave insult, and in 2004 a conspiracy to murder Crown Prince Abdullah was uncovered when American Abdurahman Alamoudi, and Colonel Mohammed Ismail, a Libyan intelligence officer, gave credible testimony under questioning regarding two meetings with Colonel Gaddafi during 2003. At those meetings, they had accepted money to assassinate Crown Prince Abdullah.

  I was se
cretly delighted that Kareem was given copies of the confidential documents detailing the meetings, for I was curious to know exactly what had transpired. Kareem secretly told me that Colonel Gaddafi was raving mad because Crown Prince Abdullah had not been assassinated as planned. Under oath, Alamoudi had sworn that Gaddafi shouted, “I want the crown prince killed either through assassination or through a coup!” A second plan was to deliver funds to a group of Saudi militants who were plotting to attack the crown prince’s motorcade with shoulder-held missiles. Thanks be to Allah, this mission failed, for some reason or another.

  In a meeting held two months later, Colonel Gaddafi screeched the question as to why he had not seen “heads flying” in the Saudi royal family.

  All things considered, the men in my family are wise to hire food tasters, even though, on this occasion, my husband, Kareem, had no desire to be a taster, not even for our little granddaughter.

  I could not let the matter rest. “Well, why not? You are big and strong and nothing will harm you. Take her medications first. Please, Kareem!”

  “Sultana, you have finally lost your mind,” my husband retorted in a low voice. He told me, “If you feel so strongly about the matter, then you should come immediately to the hospital. I will give instructions that you take Little Sultana’s medications. If you become ill, darling, we will not allow her to take the same one.”

  I heard him give a big gasp of total irritation. He then disconnected my call.

  I telephoned Abdullah and asked his opinion. Abdullah told me not to be paranoid, that they were watching everything given to Little Sultana and thus far she had received nothing but intravenous fluids.

  Since no one else in the family was worried by the possibility of medical mistakes, I could do nothing but fret the night away, which was the reason I slept so poorly.