Help, I can't breathe

Earthquake! my husband suddenly shouted as he jumped up from the sofa and headed to the nearest doorway. Minutes earlier, I'd finished folding the day's laundry and was busily storing everything in the bedroom. It was a bit chilly so I grabbed my pink fleece blanket from the bed along with a couple of pillows and headed back to the living room. I'd just thrown the blanket onto the sofa when my husband startled me with his announcement.

No, it's not an earthquake, I quickly replied. I can't feel anything. Then I turned and looked to my right. Our standing fan was shaking vigorously. I hurried to the other doorway and stood there, looking at 3 liter narrow-necked olive oil bottles that held our water. The water inside was swaying from side to side like a drunken sailor. 

My husband crouched in the doorway next to me and held his laptop in one hand as he continued his Bible study with the person on the other end of the line. I watched the water's pendulous sway until finally, it stopped. 

For the next couple of hours, my eyes kept straying to the water bottles, wondering if my tense muscles were another aftershock, wondering if the fan was moving again or it was just my imagination. That morning my left hand had been shaking with a quick Google search attributing it to stress and anxiety. I couldn't handle another disaster on top of the multitudinous life challenges I was already facing on a daily basis. 

Then there was the guilt factor. People in adjacent countries were experiencing much, much worse. There was a call for assistance on the campus WhatsApp group but as I'd gone through our house, I'd only managed to come up with a small bag of essentials such as toothbrushes and sanitary pads. We didn't have a lot and what we did have, we were planning to take with us when we relocated in a few months. Most things were well used and not fit to be given away. 

It was a very unsettling sleep that night and, once again, I dreamt about water. This time my friends and I were going to their new house up in some gorgeous natural part of the earth. We'd hiked up some road among breathtaking mountains but it had been raining and had flooded the last part of what looked like a barn area that we had to cross before we reached their home. We stepped into the thigh-high water and that was when I woke up. I don't know if we reached the other side. 

Several nights earlier, I'd dreamt about putting a newborn into an airtight container so they could be safe when a tsunami wave hit. Weeks before that I'd dreamt about a tsunami wave hitting the building I was in but I was watching it from up high. In another dream, I was on rocks watching the tsunami wave come in. In both of those dreams, a large killer whale was inside the wave. In yet another dream I was running from the wave and then I went inside a beach house and the wave swept through but I was safe. There have been others but I don't remember those as vividly.

My sister told me these dreams are my subconscious telling me I feel overwhelmed. She's probably right. After more than three years of crisis, I'm not able to manage anything anymore. Banks are closed again, grocery stores doubled the price of bread if I go early enough in the morning and are lucky enough to find it, gas stations periodically open and close and the price of gas doubled in a month even though the exchange rate did not. Shops no longer put prices on their items as the price is obsolete within hours so every time I go shopping I have to constantly bring my items to a self-scanner. Inflation has gone so high, the largest bill is valued at $1.20 so I have to carry wads of cash with me everywhere I go. My weekly grocery bill has soared from around 50,000 LBP to 4,000,000 signifying the 99% devaluation of the local currency. Calculating everything in the millions, then converting it to dollars to see whether it's worth buying, is a tiring task. 

Today, they told us only essential staff need to go to work. I'm not sure if that means we have the day off or we should work from home. I hate vague things like that. I hate worrying every single day about how long we should turn on the hot water heater so we have enough hot water for a shower and to wash a few dishes but don't get a bill for hundreds of dollars for utilities. I hate getting our salaries late every month and, when we do get it, getting an email from administration admonishing us to "be thankful we met payroll this month." I hate having to cook everything from scratch because pre-made items are either not available or expensive as hell and I can't justify buying them. I hate standing in the grocery store every freaking Friday, calculating and recalculating which brand is the cheapest, while also being the healthiest. I hate knowing every time I step outside my door someone will be trying to grab as much cash from me as they can, greedy in the knowledge that I am a foreigner and even if they make more money than I do, they are certain I should be supporting them financially in any means possible. I hate the dog that terrorizes me every time I go in and out of my house as it growls menacingly. I hate trying to do the budget every month and it never balancing in the dual currencies I must work with. I hate living in crisis mode, uncertain day by day what will hit next. Will it be a problem with the car? Will banks close again, causing protests on the streets with random shooting? Is it safe to go buy groceries this week or should we try to make do with 1 carrot, 3 tomatoes, and 4 potatoes? Should I buy half a pound of almonds for $3 or try to find a better price? 

I listen a lot to podcasts these days. I struggle with insomnia because I leave on a freaking campus where everyone expects me to be available 24/7 to answer emails and reply to messages in WhatsApp. I don't get paid to work outside office hours but nobody cares because they are all workaholics without a life "serving the Lord" while equally neglecting their family. So when I can't go to sleep because I've seen notifications on my phone, or I wake up at 5 am with allergies and I have to take my medication so the incessant sneezing and infuriating itching will calm down, or I wake up wheezing or whistling or rattling so I have to sleep upright on the sofa for the rest of the night, I listen to a podcast. And for a moment, in the comfort of my wireless headset, I can escape this lousy life I live and hopefully fall asleep once again. 

To dream of tsunamis and earthquakes. 

Help Me to Breathe. Just a Little Longer.

6:05 am. The electricity has just turned off and back on again. My laptop connected to the internet before my phone, funnily enough. I sit on the sofa, bleary-eyed and sleepy, as the anxiety tenses behind me, waiting to overwhelm. I'm uncertain if I will let it take over or try to fight it this time. 

I woke up a few minutes earlier to a fresh dot of a mosquito bite, small and not too itchy at first. After straining to hear its whine, through the tinnitus I got after a Boyz II Men concert 15+ years ago, I give up and head for the bathroom where 2 giant mosquitoes greet me. I smash one on the wall with my palm, then shut the other one in as I hurry back to the bedroom for the mosquito bat. In a moment, the second one has been zapped and a pleasant burn smell fills the air. I study my left forearm again. The mosquito prick has expanded to a convex reddish blotch but thankfully the level of itchiness hasn't matched its expansion. 

I head back to the bedroom and gather up my quilt, eye mask, and stuffed dog. After dropping them on the couch, I realize I forgot my pillow. And your fuzzy blanket, don't forget your fuzzy blanket, my mind insists. I sigh. I know I have to get the blanket or I won't be able to sleep. It's one of the ways I've found to self-soothe to manage the life I've been left in. 

I keep replaying a text message a colleague sent me the day before. His young son, just barely a toddler, is developing asthma. It's normal for this age, he tells me. My heart aches that such a small child has to endure this horrible disease. And then I think about how I woke up, after the mosquito's bite, to a rattling in my chest each time I breathed in deep. Now it's a wheeze. I will sleep the last couple of hours before my alarm goes off, sitting upright on the sofa. At least I don't feel panicky today, like I cannot get enough air into my lungs, and I don't have to do steaming to open them up. I've put off going to the doctor for two or three years. I know what they will tell me. And I cannot add yet another disease to my growing list of things I struggle with. 

9 months left. 

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.