Breaking Me Down—Slowmmation Version

The consultation fee varies depending on the doctor, but it ranges from $20 to $100, $150. In local currency that starts at 700,000, the professional voice of the billing department informed me over the phone. In shock, I thanked her, then hung up and redialled the main number, asking for the doctor's office. 

I have an appointment with Dr. B tomorrow. How much is the initial visit? 

One moment please, another kind voice said, then put me on hold. A moment later, she was back on the line quoting the same information the first woman had given me. We give a receipt, she was quick to assure me. 

Thank you, I would like to cancel my appointment at this time. The receptionist sounded somewhat surprised that I would cancel, but accepted my cancellation. I couldn't get off the phone fast enough. 

I pulled up a calculator on my laptop, typing in the minimum fee and figuring out what my 25% would be after submitting the reimbursement to the business office. I would be paying anywhere from 175,000 to over 1,300,000. In dollars, it didn't seem like much, around $5 - $40 but when exchanged to the local currency it represented a possible third of my take-home local salary for the month. And I just couldn't justify spending that much on a doctor's visit. 

If I can't walk, then I will make an appointment, I reasoned, even as I worried that if I didn't see a doctor, I would end up with a crippling problem for life.  

The confusion at the insane hike in prices mingled with my worries to bring on the ever-present tears that hid behind a very fragile curtain. I gave up fighting to keep them in and let the fear settle on me as I whispered, God, this isn't a good day. But then again, there hadn't been many of those lately. 

I thought about the checkup I had planned with my OB to check the ache I had on my right side. About the dental cleaning and fillings I was sure I needed. There was a crown that had been bothering me the last couple of days. I remembered how the business manager had emphasized the stringent times we were living in and felt that submitting huge medical bills wouldn't be looked on too kindly. 

Keys rattled in the hallway. I pressed the tissue to my eyes and wiped away the last drops. Nobody else needed to know what was worrying me; everyone else had their own worries to deal with. I fastened a smile on my face and prepared to face the day. After all, days would pass and one day we would leave this hellhole so for now, I just had to do my best to hold it together until that day came. 

Meltdown on Aisle 23

It's 44,000 I insisted, pointing at the receipt. 

She shook her head firmly and repeated 45,000 as she pointed at the different prices on the thin plastic bags. 

I tried to reason with her, that 47 minus 3 was 44, but she adamantly refused to budge. 

Can you please add it up again? I asked, but she didn't understand. So I opened up my phone calculator, even though she had a huge handheld calculator right in front of her, and started to put the prices of each bag of produce in. She held up bag by bag and I patiently typed in the numbers, ensuring she saw each one and approved. 

When she saw the total, she shook her head in disbelief. 

Are you going shopping anytime soon? I asked my flatmate but she isn't going til Friday, M had messaged me earlier that day. I'd gone a couple days ago, but it had been a rush trip and I was up for a quick jaunt to the Aoun at the bottom of the hill. We set a time, I hurried home to eat reheated leftovers for dinner, and then I messaged her that I was ready to go. 

About 10 minutes later, I had maneuvered my car around 2 unyielding drivers, found a parking spot, and we had grabbed our bright orange handcarts with long slide-in black handles in preparation for the evening's shop. 

Let's go to the fruits and vegetables first? M suggested and I agreed. I needed to get some fruit. We pulled our little carts behind us and once we reached the other section of the store, I headed for the outside to check on any good deals. I found apples, mostly bruised but a few still in fairly good condition, for 7,500 a kilo. After carefully picking through, putting miniature rosy-cheeked apples into my plastic bag, I decided I had enough to make dehydrated apples and possibly a bit of applesauce too. 

Inside, I put 3 clusters of tan grapes, 5 nectarines, 8 plums, and 6 carrots into separate bags. Then I went to weigh everything. The man rang up the apples wrong, insisting they were correct. I sighed heavily, deciding to wait until he had finished ringing everything else up so I wouldn't lose my place in line and could go check the price on the little cardboard sign again. He noticed my frustration and called out to someone, asking what price the apples were. They confirmed the apples were 7,500 so he printed out a new sticker. 

After verifying all the prices, I took my bags over to the cashier. The lady scanned the first bag, scanned the second bag, put the third bag through, and scanned the second bag again. I stood there, a little confused by her system. After she finished scanning all the bags, I did a quick mental count of the total showing on the screen and said, Something is wrong. Can you please show me the receipt?

She printed out the receipt and I immediately saw the same item showing up twice. I pointed it out to her, but she didn't understand. After checking the receipt a couple of times, she went through line by line and understood that she had rung up one item twice and another had been missed. 

The difference was 3,000 or the equivalent of 10 cents. She agreed she would refund me the difference, then, looking at the original receipt she had printed out which displayed a total of 47,000 she informed me that I had to pay 45,000.

I looked at her incredulously. No, I have to pay 44,000. 47 minus 3 is 44, I said, even though I knew she didn't understand much English. 

She shook her head. For some reason, 45,000 made sense to her and was stuck in her mind. Here we were, debating the total of 3 cents but I couldn't just pay the difference and let it go. I was sick and tired of the system cheating me and I was not going to leave until I paid the correct amount. 

After much going back and forth, with my calculations only confirming what I had originally said, she shook her head again in amazement, as if it was my fault, and begrudgingly gave me my change. I thanked her, swept up my bags, and hurried around the corner. A little old man clad in a security jacket and beige pants sat on a chair in the hallway. To my left was a booth of sorts, next to the door that led shoppers back into the main store, and between the booth and the security guard was a corner of employee lockers. 

In a moment, I felt panic overtake me. I hurried to the corner, faced the beige metal doors, and began to cry. My whole body started shaking as the sobs overtook me, silent but strong. I instinctively knew to let the panic come and pass through, rather than try to repress it. For about 30 seconds, my body shook with convulsive tears, until I told myself, It's enough for now. I checked my purse; no tissues. I wiped my eyes with a quick back swipe of my hand, straightened up, and turned to the door. 

For several minutes, I wandered around the store, past the coffee and teas aisle, past the cereals, into the olive oil aisle, stopping to look at the price of pesto. Tears still rolled down my cheeks and I wiped them away, passing people who didn't give me a second look. As if it was normal to be crying in the pasta aisle. As I put bags of white and brown bread into my cart, I whispered beneath my mask, God, please help me, I can't do this anymore. 

Somehow, that helped. In that moment, God's strength lifted me up and the thought came to mind, Find something nice to enjoy. I spotted my favourite bubbly non-alcoholic drink and decided to buy one for M to celebrate her first year of full-time teaching. I got one for myself also and headed to the checkout to ring up my final purchases. There, the cashier was quick and professional, her long manicured nails tapping out the bar code prices of the bread bags. My favourite bagger appeared when he saw me and cheerily carried my bags out to the car, asking where Mr. (my husband) was. I turned on the a/c, a luxury in these times, and M and I sat in the car enjoying a toast with the bubbly as we chatted about life and its challenges. 

By the time I'd reached home, I was okay. At the same time, I knew I was not really okay. Life was abnormal and things were reaching a critical mass. It was more than culture shock mixed with a dash of jetlag. It was me telling myself that I'd reached the limit of my endurance. A limit no amount of prayer or encouragement could move. The feeling of being out of control of something as small as a simple grocery shop would only compound and one day, I knew, I would finally say, I've had it, and that would be it. 

Flashback

To the man who tailgated me for more than 20 miles on the highway as I drove in the center lane, slowing down when I slowed down and speeding up when I sped up, refusing to pass me though lanes were empty for miles on either side, with high beams blaring so bright I had to flip the rearview mirror, and when I finally got over into the fast lane, sped past me like a speeding bullet. Why, oh why, was it that hard for you to overtake me by passing? Oh. Wait. Because you could not be bothered to overtake in the fast lane; your right of way was more important and therefore I should move. Even if I was already doing 70 in a 65-mph zone. 

To the man who flew up behind me and flashed me with your high beams indicating I should get over when a huge semi was in the lane to my right. Did you really expect me to move over when I was parallel with the semi's cab? Why could you not have waited 3 seconds for me to pass the cab, see if I was getting over politely, and then carried on your merry way? Oh. Wait. Because you own the road and everyone must get out of your way immediately, as you have no time to wait. 

To both of you uncaring oafs, I have a word or two to say. I was in the car in front of you. The car you tailgated; the car you flashed your high beams at. I was gripping onto that steering wheel for dear life—anxiety levels through the roof—as I talked myself through the road trip, knowing I had to complete it successfully so that the anxiety monster would not take over my life. I had been reminding myself to "look at the road" and "focus" and "you have no choice, you have to keep going, keep driving, merge when you have to" for the past hour and a half. And then you came along. As if driving, at night, with severe anxiety wasn't enough, you sat on my bumper, insisting on your rights even though they were not yours to begin with. Typical.

I thought of giving you the finger. I wished I could honk and startle you into sense. I wondered how in the world, God could punish you for your insensitive deeds when the wicked only thrived and, anyhow, they didn't want to go to heaven. So you would each speed off into the inky black night, never to be seen again, with nary a concern, while I, I would be left gripping that steering wheel, willing myself to "keep driving, just a few more miles," until I stumbled into the driveway. Free at last from the threat of another idiot on the roads but never free from the voices inside my head.

Because anxiety. . .it never leaves you. 

Breathe in Deep

It's June 14! my student exclaimed. It doesn't rain in winter; how does it rain now?

He stood by the narrow French window that opened sideways, peering out at the midsummer downpour. 

Can you smell the ground when it rains, Miss?

I smiled. Yes, it smells good.

He was worried the rain would last through lunchtime and they wouldn't be able to walk home after class. I reassured him that it would soon pass; I could see patches of blue off in the distance over the city's skyline. After a couple more moments of gazing at the rain, he returned to his seat to finish typing his cause-effect essay. 

I leaned against the wooden desk and breathed in deeply. This time, the falling rain didn't hint at African summer. Instead, I was transported to a misty Netherlands, looking out the bay window in my uncle's rijtjeshuis, as the crisp air filled my lungs. It smelled clean. 

I missed the Netherlands. I really really missed the Netherlands. Going back and forth for so many years, there for summers, holidays, I didn't understand the strong bond we were building until I went there with a boy. We signed civil papers in front of my two sets of aunts and uncles, danced a Kurdish dance with my 95-year old Oma, ate Dutch apple pie with whipped cream, and whisked through 5 countries in 10 days on our Airbnb honeymoon. 

It was only then that I realized. The Netherlands was my home. 

Will I end up resenting it when I go there? I wondered. I'd returned to Lebanon after so many years, only to find that I could not live here. Would I feel the same if I went to the Netherlands? 

I couldn't know for sure. I just knew that I ached to be there, walking the cobbled stone uneven sidewalks, pedalling with the week's groceries in saddlebags on each side, boiling potatoes and green beans to serve with gravy and applesauce for supper, and breathing in the crisp cold fall air. 

But we still had 7 years to go. Seven long long years. I'd made it through 6 here but the last 18 months had felt impossible. Could I manage another 7?

A glimpse of a life I had not yet lived flashed by. It had been a long time since I'd updated my bucket list. Maybe now it was time. Maybe this time, it would only include a few simple things. A small girl, a miniature bicycle leaning against potted plants in the window display, a smiling content husband. And lots of clean fresh air. 

 

Green Eggs and Spam

Grocery stores are out of bread again. On the way to do the weekly shopping, I pause at a bakery we'd stopped at the week before. They bake bread fresh every hour so I grab a couple of bags, add a few more new items to try, and head to the checkout. 

A little more than 120,000 lighter, I am about to head out when I remember they sell manaeesh here. I turned around and head to the back of the bakery where, behind a counter, little rows of savoury pastries beckon. An older man with a cane hobbles ahead of me to the cashier, there to pick up the order he'd called in before. I wait patiently. 

The cashier goes behind the counter to retrieve the paper bags of treats, stapled shut to keep the warmth inside. He starts to ring up the older man's order when I notice a man with his young daughter off to the side. They've just arrived and, before the older man's order is finished, the father starts giving his order to the cashier. I stare at him, surprised that he would so easily step around me and start ordering. Does he not see me standing there? 

I continue to stare at the man. He looks back, meeting my gaze, with a blank look. I know he knows he's done wrong but he refuses to acknowledge it. I stand there for 10 seconds more, then something inside me snaps. 

I don't have to put up with this, I realize. 

So I don't. 

I turn on my heel instantly and march out of the store. I've been out of the house for less than an hour and already I've reached my limit for the day. 

But it's not over yet. 

At the grocery store, I scan my receipt after checking out and realize the 25% cash back is not showing up. I hand the bagger a 5,000 tip and wheel my unwieldy cart over to the customer service center. There aren't many people there so I move into line behind a young man and wait patiently for my turn. 

Then suddenly, things are happening very quickly. The small area fills up with a rush of customers, there to buy a pack of cigarettes, a couple of Cadbury creme eggs, to redeem points for a yellow Lipton mug. And they are all pushing past me, each one eager to be next as soon as a customer service rep is available. 

Amidst the maelstrom of pushing, shoving people, I realize I must collect myself and move forward. Or I will stay there all day. I reposition myself, this time behind a lady who is nearly done with her request. I take a step forward but a young man with his mother are half a step ahead of me. I turn and firmly say, Excuse me, but I was here first. They step back, surprised someone would interrupt their forward momentum. 

After waiting for what seems like an eternity, a representative arrives from the frozen foods section. He takes one look at my receipt, spits out It must be a computer problem, the only thing we can do is refund you and hurries off again. I stand there, wondering why it must be so difficult to deliver on the promise they had plastered all over their vegan products section, in bold black letters, proclaiming 25% Cash back on Vegan Deli. I decide it must be because either 1) they didn't specify clearly which vegan deli items qualified and it must have been only the more expensive ones, or 2) they are lazy and can't be bothered. Most likely it's the second. 

Now I must wait again for the customer service rep who first helped me as she has decided to multi task and help the next person in life. Finally, she rings up the refund as I turn to see a couple of teenagers standing next to my cart, one of them leaning casually on the handle as if it belongs to him. Excuse me, I say as I glare at him and maneuver my cart away from him and closer to me. I mumble to myself, This is not your cart. 

Finally, I have my refund and I can go to my car and head for home. It's been just another day of madness in this Dr. Seuss world that I cannot find my way out of. 

1, 2 Buckle My Shoe

What he said, my student grinned as I waited for him to give an example of an effect of people quitting their job. It was summertime and my students and I were stuck inside a classroom for 2 hours a day 5 days a week doing our best to get through the Advanced Writing curriculum. I was at my wits end to figure out how to challenge and focus 3 teenage boys, two of whom insisted on giggling or trading barbs a good part of the time. Every time I asked F a question, he would grin lazily, appear to be thinking for a moment, then reply, What's your answer? or look at his counterpart giggler B, who was always first to answer, and say, What B said. 

I always started a semester with a more lenient attitude as I got to know my students and figured out how best to teach to their learning and personality styles. This time, however, it was not the best of ideas. Once they realized I would let them chatter away, they started to take advantage of it. By the second week, my patience was thinner than a tightrope walker's lifeline. 

Then the rope snapped. 

F was turning on the a/c and somehow it struck him as funny so the two started giggling again. S was trying to give his answer and I couldn't even hear him over their laughing. Suddenly, I got very serious and my tone of voice changed. 

Guys, this is enough. I need you to focus. S is speaking and I cannot hear him. I feel like I am in kindergarten. You are giggling all the time. 

But Miss, Miss, F said, interrupting me as he tried to reason why they were giggling so much. 

I am speaking now, you do not need to speak at the time as I am speaking. You need to be quiet and you need to listen. I spoke firmly and clearly. We just have 2 hours every day. You can get up and walk around; go to the bathroom, get a drink of water. I know life is difficult outside but for just these two hours you need to be in the classroom and you need to be present and focus. Even if you don't want to be here, you have to sit in the classroom for these next 5 weeks, I'm trying to give you as much information as I can to prepare you for your academic classes. 

I looked at them and solemnly declared, I've reached my limit. 

S sat quietly in the front, an embarrassed smile playing in the corners of his mouth. He knew he wasn't to blame. F and B were shocked into silence; surprised that their easygoing teacher had suddenly switched into a strict one. 

Luckily, it was breaktime, so I informed them that they had a 10 minute break, not 13 minutes like they had dragged out the day before, I grabbed a granola bar, and I left the classroom. Usually I would stay inside as it was cooler and I would check my phone or catch up on some emails. This time, though, I headed through the parking lot to the volleyball court. There I marched about the court, munching furiously on my granola bar as I sent a long voice message to my supervisor. Just the day before, she'd been telling me my students loved my class but I was frustrated and I needed to know if it was only me.

My supervisor was quick to answer and by the end of the break I understood that it wasn't only me who had faced this challenge with F and B and that being firm was the only way to go. I headed back to the classroom where three quiet subdued boys worked studiously on finishing up their reaction-response essay for the rest of the class period. 

The next day, though, while the giggling had disappeared and the taunts had been reduced to a manageable minimum, the decided effort not to participate became even clearer. I prided myself on being the type of teacher that went the extra mile but in this case, the extra mile was being scoffed at. I showed them a 5-minute video of a flash flood in Papua to illustrate cause and effect, the next type of essay we were going to learn. When it came time to discuss, F, who was sitting in the back of the classroom, yawned and said, I wasn't really focusing. I gave up. 

At the end of class, I handed out a worksheet with small illustrations under which they had to circle "cause" or "effect" and then list 3 of them that corresponded to the photo. F started laughing. Where is Seder? he blurted out, referring to the toddler who often accompanied his father who worked in maintaining the campus lawns. B started to whine. Why can't we watch a video?

Because we watched a video at the beginning of class and now it's time to do the worksheet. After a couple of minutes, they finally settled down and started to work on writing in their answers. 

Over lunch that day, I told my husband, That's it. I'm done. I'm done trying to make the class interesting. From now on, I'm just going to teach the book. No more videos; no more worksheets; no more Jeopardy vocab games. If they feel bored or want to make fun of what I'm giving them, let them see. I will challenge them; let's see how they really do. 

They were intelligent; I knew that. The problem was that they thought they knew more than they really did, they didn't want to be in class, and they had a pretty good idea of how they would teach the class which they were constantly telling me. It was wearying. Tiring to put in effort to make the class interesting, tiring to keep bringing them back into focus, and tiring to keep asserting my place as teacher and authority both in the classroom and on the subject of writing. 

Until now, as a teacher, I'd been learning curriculum instruction, integration of spiritual with the academic, content, and organization. Now, I was learning the very valuable yet perhaps most difficult lesson of all—classroom management. I was having to shift very quickly from being the likeable teacher to the firm one and it was not a fun feeling to have. But I knew that if we were going to make it to the end of the summer session, it was essential that some form of order was established, so I accepted the challenge. It was time to learn. 

In Only a Moment

Crash, crunch echoed through our small living room as I watched the ornate burgundy saucer shatter into 4 large pieces and a thousand splinters more. 

What is wrong with me? I sat down helplessly on the gray blue sofa, tears immediately appearing. Two days ago I broke the glass charcoal bottle and now this. I wasn't usually this clumsy. Was it because I was under a lot of stress lately? I'm so sorry, I'm really so sorry. 

My husband reassured me that he could fix the saucer and not to worry about it. His mother had sent us a set of 6 the year before when his sister had gone home for the summer. I'd carefully placed them in a place of honour in the cupboard and brought them out each time we had a cup of tea or hot chocolate. They had survived tea around the bonfire and countless trips from the kitchen to the living room, and now this. 

I was reaching for the bag of nuts to refill my bowl when it happened. It was movie time and we were having our usual snack of the evening, this time it was mixed nuts a friend had so kindly given us when they dropped by to visit and pray for my sister-in-law who was still in the hospital. After our first round, I wanted a few more nuts but the bag was on the other side of the coffee table. As I grabbed it, the bag swung out, pushing the small saucer right off the table and onto the cream tile floor. It never had a chance. 

Just like she never had a chance.  

Two days later, my husband sat down at the kitchen table, heavy duty glue in one hand and the broken saucer in the other. We'd retrieved the large pieces and found a couple more fragments and he set about to try to patch them together. I remembered the story of the mended teapot my friend who'd lived in Pakistan wrote about. The teapot that was purposely broken, then fit back together with metal staples that was then sold as a thing of beauty. Would the glue do the trick?

Ten minutes later, after rearranging and holding the pieces together, my husband stared at his attempt to fix it. There was a nicked edge whose piece we could not find though we had searched under the sofa, coffee table, and bookshelf. The saucer was so delicate that the glue ended up pushing the pieces apart instead of holding them tightly together. Finally, he admitted defeat. It won't work, he said. Let's throw it away and buy another one. 

I sat with that saucer in my mind. Like the saucer, my sister-in-law had shattered in large pieces with fragments scattered about. She was missing a piece of her that, like the sauce, wasn't essential to holding her together but now marred her internal appearance. Here was where the resemblance ended, however. 

Though the saucer could not be repaired, she could. I held on to the promise of Matthew 8:2 when a man with a serious disease came to Jesus and asked to be healed. If You are willing. . .he had pleaded with the only Healer he had hope in. 

Jesus' response? 

He reached out with His hand, touched the man, and said I am willing. And in that moment, instantly, the man was healed. 

My husband could not wave a magic wand and instantly restore the broken saucer to its original perfection. Similarly, doctors could not perform a few surgeries, administer some medications, and my sister-in-law would be walking and talking and breathing like before. 

But there is a promise. And there is hope. Whether this promise will be realized in this life, we as yet do not know. But we can hold on to the knowledge that Jesus is willing for her to be healed. And one day, in a moment, in a twinkling of an eye, He will reach forth and then, then she will be restored. To perfection. Forever.