by Amy B. Scher
My parents are smiling at their new hero.
Two men who are dragging our luggage accompany him with four suitcases for the three of us for eight weeks. O.P.’s wide and dazzling smile makes him look eager with his every word.
“The hospital has sent me to pick you up!” he says, motioning to me with a wink and a nod. He flips his perfectly parted thick mound of dark hair and we follow him.
O.P., our new leader, is speaking in Hindi to his team, laughing as he tips his head from side to side. He is a wave of joy. Weaving and dodging with no effort at all, he maneuvers us through hundreds of cars.
I watch with anticipation as Mom and Dad try to process and react to the shock of their disordered new surroundings. This is their first time out of the United States. They didn’t even have passports before I brought them here, on this grand undertaking, to this beautiful, messy, wild country. Back in 1976, they traveled across the country from New Jersey in a brown VW bus they named Bernie, and settled in California to start a family. This is pretty much the extent of their travels, up until this moment. What have I done to them, my sweet parents, who have come to the ends of the earth for me?
O.P. halts and turns to address us. “Now!” he announces with gusto. “You”—he points to the three of us—“will go in thiiis car!” He pauses. “Aaaaand . . . your bags”—he points—“will go in thaaaat car.”
My mind is blank. Whaaaat? I can’t make any words go to my lips to respond, but am not sure what to say anyway. He wants us to part from our belongings. He is sporting an extra-extra-huge smile, to assure us that his plan is a sound one. In front of us are two white minivans, but far less superior in size to those we see in the States. They are something like mini minivans. Everyone knows not to go with unknown men in unmarked white vans, especially without any of your stuff. And while I certainly know better, I somehow completely trust him.
I make eye contact with my parents in an effort to have a nonverbal conversation that brings some clarity about what we should do here. I can hardly think straight, between my narcotic painkillers, antianxiety meds, no sleep, and it being first thing in the morning California time. I half-smile toward Mom, asking with my face, Do you think this is okay? She turns her eyes away and stiffens her body. Read: What did you get us into? When I look at my dad, he is clenching the travel pouch holding his all-important documents that is dangling around his neck. He has a look of sheer terror in his eyes, his rosy, plump cheeks glowing. I think he is planning to tie himself to his luggage to make sure it goes with us.
O.P.’s face is frozen in sheer delight, as if he’s about to hear wonderful news in response to his proposal.
“Let’s go then?!” he questions excitedly. In the quick second that I look away to privately contemplate, I spot an Indian man’s leg become pegged under a moving car and his army-green luggage flies from his cart and hits the gravel. The white four-door car stops and reverses slightly, the victim’s leg is released, and no one seems to care. He gathers his dust-covered bags from the ground and limps away, waving his hand at no one.
I realize I need to make an executive family decision about this luggage, because although I am the child, I feel like the parent at this moment. They are here because of me. I owe them at least the appearance of bravery. But I am terrified.
I was thirty thousand feet in the air on the plane here, fourteen hours into our twenty-one-hour journey, when I experienced my first real moment of massive doubt about this whole thing. The plane, and my destiny, were already well in flight.
It all started with having to pee. I unbuckled my seat belt and shimmied down the aisle to the bathroom. I didn’t have far to go because I was only three rows away from it—the worst possible section to be in on an international flight. I kept my sweatshirt hood pulled loosely over my head, feeling a false sense of privacy. I was fourth in line among my fellow full-bladdered passengers. But the thing about this line was that there was no actual formation. Two beautiful Indian women draped in saris plus one Indian businessman in dress pants and a half-untucked shirt were gathered in the short galley way, arranged in no particular fashion. When I joined the congregation, they moved closely toward me, their eyes fixated on my face, their clothes kissing mine.
I read many travel books before leaving home, all of them touching upon the cultural differences between India and America in some way. Personal space, as they all described it, was not as important in Indian culture. This was the first time I experienced this truth for myself, but it most certainly wouldn’t be the last. One by one, the Indian passengers drew in around me, and soon five people were questioning why I was on this flight.
“I’m going for medical treatment that I can’t get in America,” I said, giving minimal details. “The nerves in my legs are damaged and it’s very painful.”
I had lost the energy to explain my condition in its entirety. Lyme disease can be complicated to understand and, especially in its chronic form, difficult to cure. It is caused by the bacterium Borrelia burgdorferi, which is most commonly transferred by certain types of ticks and, some believe, by mosquitoes, flies, and fleas. If the infection is caught early on, it may require only a short dose of antibiotic therapy. However, like me, the majority of people never find the tiny tick that bit them, see the bite itself, or get the bull’s-eye rash that’s commonly associated with Lyme. When this happens, and the infection goes undiagnosed and untreated, it can become incredibly dangerous, especially for those with weakened immune systems. The bacteria can attack the immune system, burrow in the bone marrow, hide and evade treatment, and destroy multiple body systems. This is called chronic, or late-stage, Lyme disease. That’s where I am.
But to this audience on the plane, I left it at the legs.
“Oh! You are so brave. It’s a rough city.” The flight attendant clapped nervously. “Actually, my mother had very bad leg pain. She drank tonic water and it was a success!” I giggled silently in my mind. Ahhh, if only tonic water really did the trick. But then I thought, Wait—did I try that? Tonic water cost seventy-five cents, and I was on my way to a “rough city” for a $30,000 medical experiment in the most vulnerable state of my life.
This talk of tonic water triggered one of my greatest fears: that there is something silly and uncomplicated that I’ve missed—the elusive, unturned stone. I have heard stories about Lyme disease patients who struggled for years, and then found a straightforward missing piece—something like vitamin B12 shots, a detox supplement, juicing, or an additional antibiotic to add to their regimen. It did the trick and then they were on their merry way to healing! Just like that. These are the stories that haunt me; driving me back again and again to the thought of What am I missing? It is this simple question that stalks my every move, doubling its force and persistence when I try to resist it. Why can’t my thankless body take one of the hundreds of things I’ve offered it and actually use it? But at this point, it’s been pretty well confirmed that that’s not going to happen.
In fact, it was only the year before this trip that I turned my life into Mission: Try-Everything. Because you just never know. The first thing I ever tried, the Carrot Juice Cure, caused my hands to turn orange from a beta-carotene overdose. All that juicing was colorful but not very effective. I then moved on to drinking cow colostrum via the brags of an online group swearing the early secretion of bovine breast milk was a miracle. One word for that experience: gross. I also saw various psychics and intuitives who gave me vague information like “It seems your legs don’t work” (thank you!) or offered cryptic messages such as “Your body is full of toxic oil!” (what?) and “You have a terrible relationship with your mother, yes?” (um, no). At one point, I had a session with a healer, whose specialty I never really figured out, who swirled his hands over me and talked to my body in a gibberish language. He seemed as broken and confused as I was. To this day, I still love all things metaphysical—intuitives, mediums, healers, astrologers, crystals, angel communicators, and palm readers—but it’s p
retty clear that at that time I did not gravitate toward the most talented guidance out there. There was also the Master Cleanse (a.k.a. the Lemonade Diet), which has been around since the 1940s. For twelve days straight, I would drink lemonade only: homemade with cayenne pepper and agave. But several days in, I choked from accidentally sniffing cayenne pepper up my nose and called it quits.
After all that, it seemed stupid to not try the tonic water. Because, well, what if? That tonic water might be it.
On the next beverage round, I asked for a glass of it. I drank it with my fingers crossed, a superstition from childhood I still sometimes honor in times of great need. I waited. It did nothing. I still had electrocuting pains in my legs and felt exhausted as if I were a million years old. I hated to be relieved by this, but to find a cure on my way to India would seriously suck.
That is why, when I see my mom’s face in that ramshackle Delhi airport parking lot, blatantly unsure about our next move with O.P. and the white vans, I force my bravery. I am fueled by the confidence that I even tried one last thing (again!) on the way here. Whatever happens from here on out needs to happen. I commit to this for the foreseeable future and decide not to look back.
“Let’s go!” I tell O.P., confirming that we will indeed part with our luggage in a foreign land, at night—based on the promise of a man we met ten minutes ago, because he acted like it would be totally fine. I have not had any luck with prayers so far, but I close my eyes and say a short one for kicks: Dear Universe, please help make sure that our luggage meets us at our destination. Thank you and amen! If Nutech Mediworld hospital embraces the arrival of both my family and all our luggage tonight, I will consider it a miracle.
Mom and Dad cannot pile into the van fast enough. Once O.P. closes the door to seal out the chaos, we all collectively exhale, forcefully enough to signal cautiously optimistic relief.
“Shit,” my dad says with a laugh, breaking the silence, his big lovely belly jiggling like it does when he’s thoroughly entertained. Mom and I laugh too, because from the assumed safety of inside this van, things actually start to seem pretty funny.
O.P. acts as a tour guide, talking on and off for the entire bumpy ride into the night. He turns around from the front seat often, taking his eyes off the road. “So, here you are!” he declares. “You like India?” So far I only like it because I have survived it, I think. “Yep!” my mom chimes in, the perfect student, or maybe just startled with fear. The half hour of rough and rugged driving thrashes my digestive system and rattles my nerves. The van bounding over the uneven street sounds like falling rocks. We are thrusting in and out of traffic (how is there such terrible traffic at ten o’clock at night?), and the noise of honking horns is so constant that, after a while, it’s just a background roar.
“We’re here!” O.P. exclaims as we stop without slowing down first. We are outside a modern-looking three-story building faced with mostly tinted windows. I tilt my head to look up from inside the van. Directly behind us, van number two arrives, canceling the possibility that we’ll be dubbed the idiots who let strangers steal our belongings. At least, not tonight.
Climbing out of the mini minivan and into the mildly cool winter air, I hear at least fifty dogs wailing. Horns are angry and ambitious. People are walking and shouting to each other across the busy street. The sky is dark, but the entire city is high with energy. The smell of a fire has followed us.
This twenty-bed facility in South Delhi, squished between a small hotel and a bank with an armed guard stationed outside, will be my new home. The hospital’s entrance has a wheelchair ramp alongside the stairs, which we make our way up. We are greeted at the doorway by a group of smiling staff. It feels like we’ve arrived at Disneyland for a special event. The hospital, humble in appearance, looks clean, smells neutral, and is actually nicer than I had envisioned. The chairs in the lobby area are wooden and clunky, like those you might see in a doctor’s office where the furniture hasn’t been replaced since the seventies. The royal-blue cushions paired with the wooden frames offer an almost exotic, resort-style feel. The floors are shiny, freshly mopped and maybe waxed.
“Miss Amy?” one of the young women questions, edging toward me in a shuffle. She is dressed in a pressed white nurse’s outfit, her hair pulled back in a perfect bun. She is petite, with a tone that is quiet and kind.
“That’s me,” I respond, raising my hand just to be clear. All the other nurses, who are about her same small size and look to be in their twenties, are grouped around her just watching.
“I am Sahana,” the nurse says. I am bad with names and usually forget before the person is even done telling me. I focus hard and review in my head where I am so far: O.P. Sahana. Two is easy. “Ready for your room? We show you now.”
Mom and Dad are staying at a small bed-and-breakfast a few blocks away for the six weeks they are here with me. For the final two weeks of my treatment, I’ll be in Delhi by myself. This plan seemed fine when we made it at home, but I am, all of a sudden, nervous about it now.
“Can I take you to your new place?!” O.P. asks them, putting his hand out to offer them a lift. We wrap our arms around each other for a lingering hug, and they are gone.
Sahana and her gang of “sisters” (sisters is the term for nurses in India) lead me to the elevator, which delivers us to the second floor. Two, my lucky number. Well, twenty-two is actually my lucky number, because two twos are obviously better than one. But I take two when I need it most. Now, I need it most.
Through the walls in the corridor leading to my room I can hear patients watching TV. A few are mingling in their doorways and stop to smile. Sisters bustle about, walking around with blood pressure cuffs that are reminiscent of another era.
When we get to the end of the hall, Sahana points to the left corner room: my new home for the next two months. I enter, the girls following and observing my every move closely. As it turns out, my new home is a pleasant surprise. I take a quick inventory of the space. My room is decorated in bold blues; the walls match the chair cushions downstairs and the sheets are a more subtle shade. A plasma TV is affixed to the wall. Score! I have wired Internet—it will be slow, but definitely better than none. Email has been the only consistent lifeline to the world these past years, and I don’t want to lose it now. The hospital bed is smaller than my bed at home, but after sitting up in a plane seat for so long, it’s as good as a king-size at a luxury hotel. There is a small royal-blue fold-out mattress pad next to it that converts into a chair for extra seating. I have a million different lighting options, although when I flick them on and off, none of the switches correspond correctly to the closest bulbs. In the corner of my room, there is a mini refrigerator. On it are a loaf of bread labeled “brown,” Indian crackers, cereal, and bananas. There is a stack of sunflower-yellow-colored bowls, two forks, two spoons, and a knife. Next to it is an electric teakettle, more modern than the old-school stovetop teapot I have at home. Inside the fridge I find a box of milk labeled “soya.” At home, I eat mostly organic. Here, I don’t recognize the brands and can’t read the ingredients. It’s probably for the best.
After I inspect my room in its entirety, I go straight to the large window over the bed and peek out from behind the thick blue fabric roll-up blinds. From here, I have a perfect view of the wide-open main street. I see a monkey on the roof directly across from me chasing and jumping around for trash that is blowing about in the wind.
Stepping cautiously into the square bathroom, I am shocked into new territory. I’m immediately confused by the shower because it has no door, curtain, or lip. The floor of the shower is the same floor that extends to the rest of the bathroom. The toilet sits right next to this shower and the drain for the whole bathroom is in the middle of the floor. It reminds me of an outdoor beach shower that you have to wear flip-flops in, but this has the added awkwardness of the toilet. I can’t imagine how I’d use this without getting the entire bathroom soaking wet.
“It is not like your home?”
one of the girls asks, perplexed by the amount of time I spend staring.
I smile and sit on the toilet to demonstrate. From this position, I reach over a few feet and playfully grab the detachable showerhead, holding it over my head. “You see, at home, I couldn’t pee and wash my hair at the same time.” They look horrified, as if this is something I will actually do now that I’ve discovered it. “Very different,” I say. I privately rename this combination the “shoilet,” because it’s a little bit of a shower and toilet sharing the same space.
“Rest. You need sleep,” Sahana instructs, now that our bathroom lesson is over. I nod. “Tomorrow, nine a.m., you go downstairs. You will meet Dr. Shroff. We will ring Mom and Dad.” I know I desperately need sleep, but there are so many questions: When will my treatments start? What will the protocol be? Did my parents even make it to their hotel? And, oh crap, if they didn’t, how would I ever even know?
When the caravan of sisters leaves, I am alone for the very first time in this unfamiliar world. Everything feels still and I am surprisingly at ease, except I can’t seem to ignore the strong smoke odor permeating my room. I begin to investigate for a short circuit somewhere along a wall. In my early twenties, I worked at a newspaper in the editorial department, and even though it’s almost a decade later, experiences in my life still sometimes cause story headlines to involuntarily flash in my head. Right now, it is: Girl Tries to Beat Incurable Illness, Perishes in Hospital Fire.
After no defect is found inside, I look outside once again. I see a barrel full of smoke, but no fire. It seems several men across the street are huddling over their burned-out bonfire to stay warm. The smell of the outside world is leaking in through my unsealed concrete walls. Looking more carefully, I can see light through the cracks where the corners meet and spaces where the windows don’t quite match up.
Climbing onto my bed, I sit erect, completely motionless for a minute, trying to fasten myself into my new reality.
