Nowrouz

It was a little red ball, not bigger than the tip of my pinky finger, with a metal hook in the top so it could attach to my green wooden Christmas tree from Austria. I’d bought it on a trip I’d made to visit my cousin in 2017—a cousin I hadn’t seen in years. He and his family graciously welcomed me into their home and we enjoyed a few days together. His wife took me in to see Vienna for the day, with the unexpected pleasure of getting to visit Sissi’s real life castle that had now been converted into a museum. On another day, I took public transportation by myself, missing the train connection and calling an Uber with just enough time to check my coat and be ushered to my seat in the Vienna Golden Hall for an exquisite concert by the Philharmonic Orchestra.

The second half of my trip was spent in Salzburg where I’d booked a small room in a quaint guesthouse with long corridors, bright windows, and a delicious continental breakfast each morning. I wandered about the town and did the requisite Sound of Music tour with a guide who couldn’t carry a note and fellow travelers who were equally as shy as I to sing out loud. I took the trolley to the top of Fortress Hohensalzburg where I ordered a pumpkin strudel and sniffled through a miserable cold as I marveled at the splendid view below.

Then there was the day tour. After having done one in Ireland with my best friend several years earlier, I was now a huge fan of doing day tours as, while they were pricey, it was worth it to see gems I would never have explored otherwise. Halfway through the tour, they dropped us off in a tiny town for some shopping. The little shops lining cobbled streets beckoned me inside. I spent most of my time perusing the handcrafted wooden and lace gifts, trying to decide which to get for family and how much money I wanted to spend. I found a wooden man hunched over, wearing a black top hat and holding a carved Christmas decoration. He was intended to be an incense holder and was out of my budget but I couldn’t leave him behind. I left the store without him, but returned moments later to hand over €12.99 for him in his carton box. In the last shop, I found a shelf full of painted cowbells. When I’d asked my mom what I should buy as a memento, she’d said “buy a cowbell!” so I dutifully picked out a red and white one to add to my purchases.

Then there was the Christmas tree. To be honest, I don’t remember now in which shop I bought it, or even how much I paid for it. I don’t know what prompted me to pick up the flat box it lay in, two pieces that interlocked to create an X shape and on whose tree branch corners little ornaments hung. There were cutouts inside each lower branch for more ornaments to decorate the tree, a spinning tree holder, and a yellow star with tiny red ribbon for the top of the tree. Colored balls, miniature snowmen, toy soldiers and angels were tucked into little pockets in the plastic casing surrounding the tree.

That tree became a staple of my mismatched Christmas decorations that included a red bicycle with plastic holly spilling out of the red metal bucket on its seat and the bronze Christmas tree I’d bought on a road trip somewhere on the way to Montana. Each Christmas I set it up, carefully arranging the ornaments to hang just right. The last two years my sister-in-law had delightedly put it together, oohing and aahing over how cute it looked. This year, she was lying motionless in a hospital bed in her mother’s living room, a sheet covering her skeletal body, tracheotomy tube coming out of her neck, and I was setting up the tree alone.

Which perhaps was why I was so upset when, after our Iranian Nowrouz celebration, I checked the tree to find 2 ornaments missing. I’d been in a hurry to clear the coffee table that afternoon so we could pile it with desserts, seeds, and tea and the tree was in the way. I’d taken it and carefully put it on the shelf under the coffee table, tipping it slightly sideways so I could make it fit under the table’s edge, then straightening it again. Later, I’d grabbed wet wipes from under the coffee table to swipe some of the dirty spots on the kitchen floor, and had shoved the packet back under, not realizing that by doing so, I’d tipped the tree on its side. Midway through the evening’s festivities, I’d realized the tree was down so I’d picked it up and carefully put it on my bedroom dresser, something I should probably have done earlier. I found an ornament on the floor behind one of the chairs and put it on the tree.

After everyone left, I checked the tree. When I noticed the two empty hooks, I hurried back to the lounge to check for them. I soon found a small snowman under the radiator, but the last ornament proved hard to find. I laid flat down on the cold tile floor and peered under the large brown sofa chair, coffee table, and blue sofa sections. Other than dust bunnies, nothing else peered back at me. I went back to check the tree to see what was missing and immediately knew—it was the red ball.

I looked on the shelf, carefully taking each item out and inspecting it closely. I did a second floor search, but still nothing. By now I was starting to panic somewhat. I didn’t want to vacuum it up accidentally. I'd had a feeling it wasn’t lost forever, that it would turn up somehow, but now that feeling was fast fading. I’d searched everywhere and no little red ball was to be found.

Eventually, I gave up. Just another thing I’ve lost in life, I muttered to myself. I shouldn’t be surprised by now. I tried to accept my tree would never be whole but each time I passed it on my dresser, the empty hook stood out. It wasn’t a simple thing to replace; I couldn’t drive to my corner store and pick up another part like one could do for a broken light bulb or drinking glass. I would never return to that tiny town in Salzburg; one whose name I couldn’t even remember. If, by some miracle I did, it was very likely they were not selling those trees anymore.

I’d broken things before: the green ceramic turtle whose leg was glued back on after I dropped him, the Korean couple sitting on a log who had lost an ear, and the stumpy brown giraffe who was chipped on its side. I’d lost things too: the fox and egg game on the flight from Mauritius when I was 9, my only winter jacket, a purple compact umbrella. Loss was not new but this time, I didn’t want to resign myself to moving on, knowing I would never find what I’d lost. It wasn’t as if the red ball cost a lot or even made a huge difference in the aesthetic of the tree, yet it symbolized a memory I’d created and now that memory was shattered. Just like the rest of my life. 

Excuse me, you seem to be missing a kid

I hate flowers. Now don't get me wrong. I love fluffy dandelions, fragrant roses, happy daises, and bright bougainvillea. But it's the occasion-flowers that I hate. Specifically, flowers for Mother's Day.

My husband came home today carrying a purple potted plant. Nestled in the tips of its green spears were three perfectly shaped magenta tulip flowers. Happy Woman's Day! he proudly declared as he dumped the pot down in my reluctant hands. But it's not Women's Day today, Women's Day was 10 days ago, I replied, somewhat confused and annoyed. 

They were giving them out in church, he clarified as he went off to find a plastic plate to put underneath the pot. I sat on the sofa, the pot growing heavier by the second, as he rummaged about in the kitchen cabinets. No plastic plate was to be found so he checked the window sill in the living room where a couple of empty potting pots were sitting on discarded plates. He grabbed the better looking one and set it on the coffee table, then plunked the tulip plant on top. 

After lunch, I opened up the family chat to look at the pictures he had shared with my mom, brother and sister. The whole church lobby had been decorated with flower pots, picture frames of children with their mothers, a huge banner announcing Global Children's Day, and an elaborate photo booth resplendent with oversized paper flowers, more potted plants, a low gray stool to sit on, and Happy Mother's Day spelled out in purple and blue cursive letters. 

It wasn't Women's Day, it was Mother's Day! I exclaimed to my husband. Yes, I know, but they were celebrating mothers, grandmothers, every woman. They said take a flower for every woman; there were plenty of extra left over.

He meant well, thinking of me, but he didn't know how it would make me feel. How could he, when the emotions that welled up inside were only understood by another woman? When I messaged my sister to express my frustration, she replied immediately. I would feel the same way. 

Sympathy flowers. When someone dies, we descend upon their family in hordes, carrying awkwardly a pot of varying sizes, and shove aforesaid pot into their hands along with some mumbled words of condolences. If we cannot make it to the memorial or funeral, we ring up a franchise flower shop and place an order for some huge appropriate bouquet, usually with white flowers sprinkled in, include a few words of remembrance for the card or banner, and shortly thereafter the flowers are delivered. Whether in person or by proxy, the flowers are meant to communicate acknowledgement of a significant loss in that person's life. A trite way to attempt to assuage the plumbs of grief that are only known by someone who has experienced such emotion themselves. 

When I opened up the photo and realized it was Mother's Day, I immediately knew they were sympathy flowers. And sympathy flowers I did not want. I preferred to forget that I would never be a mother than to have it be rubbed in my face with a purple potted plant, albeit of my favourite flowers. 

As a married woman without children, I sit in the church pew on Mother's Day with mixed emotions. I am happy the church is recognizing the mothers for the thankless work they do, day in and day out, with little times for themselves. I smile as I see them with their little ones or teenagers sitting next to them, and I take a moment to remember my own mother who is now thousands of miles away. There is a bittersweet moment as I remember one of my good friend whose twin baby boys I helped look after until they were 2 and the close bond we shared, almost as if I was a second mother to them. A small tear forms in my eye as a pang of sadness sneaks into my heart, knowing I will never proudly hold my own little one in my arms and feel like our little family is now complete. All these emotions go through me but I don't speak up or say anything. I sit with my feelings as I know they will soon pass. 

Until the elder, or women's ministries' leader, or pastor up front starts to speak. After their speech thanking all the mothers in the congregation, they continue. We would also like to acknowledge all the other women in our congregation today. Even if you may not be a mother yourself, you are still a mother to our children and we want to thank you for your kind and loving influence in their lives. At the close of the service, we would like to invite every woman to take a flower pot home with her to remember how beautiful the love of a mother is.

A moment meant to recognize a group of people in the church for a specific role they have to play has now turned into a very uncomfortable, painful experience as everyone in the church turns around to search for the women they know are not mothers and give them what they think are understanding smiles. I pray for the service to finish so I can slip out with the crowd but as I finish shaking the pastor's hand and head for the door, a loud woman's voice calls out my name. Oh Maria, don't forget your flower! They shove a pot into my hand, then push me in the direction of the dreaded photo booth. I perch gingerly on the bench, fake smile stretching the corners of my mouth just wide enough to look pleasant, and pray for the moment to pass. The photographer happily informs me that my photo will be on the church's Facebook page sometime in the coming week. 

Then I walk out the door, pot in hand, as the sensitive grief starts to well up like a dormant volcano coming back to life. How can I grieve something that never happened? Who would understand the sadness I cannot put into words when I see a mother with toddler clutching her skirts or with a newborn in her arms? How can I celebrate a day specifically set aside for a role I will never fulfil, through no choice of my own?

Unfortunately, in a well-meaning yet ignorant attempt to make all women feel included, those of us who are not mothers end up being hurt rather than honored when the church fails to be sensitive to our experience. I'm not saying don't buy extra flower pots for the Mother's Day celebration. There may be a woman who is a mother to her niece, a woman who lost her only child through miscarriage, or a woman who is about to adopt for the first time who would like to take a pot home. But don't highlight or focus on those of us who are not able to be the traditional mother. Let us grieve in our own way. Without sympathy flowers. 

Walking Off a Collapsed Bridge

I don't go to church anymore. Kinda ironic, since I married a guy who is about to enter the pastoral ministry. 

I stopped going several weeks ago. I woke up one day and told my husband, I won't be going to church for a while. I'm not sure how long. I just wanted to let you know. I think, after years of pretending and being a cliche, I had decided enough was enough. I refused to be my mother: sitting in the pew, tight smile across her weary face as her lying pastor of a husband preached to the congregation. I had to be genuine to myself and my feelings and right now, I wasn't feeling church. 

I was fed up with the liturgy; fed up with the fake shallow greetings from people who didn't give two hoots about you; fed up with the canned sermons, show off special musics, and endless announcements from people who loved to hear the sound of their own voice. I was fed up of living in a strait-jacket spiritual world where we were called Beloved of God (the very title made me cringe) while at the same time treated as if we were below them. I could no longer go to church because when I went there, I couldn't find God. His soft whisper was drowned out by the hubbub of the moneychangers. 

I had a vision in my mind of what church really was. A large room, places to sit, a reverent feeling, singing, a prayer or two, a Scripture reading, then testimonies or a reflection on the reading. No piano, no parade onto the platform, no announcements, no special musics, no bobbing up and down multiple times for songs and prayers, and no extra activities (health ministries, colporteur ministries, Pathfinders, personal ministries). Just a simple opening of the heart to God's Word, sharing the power of His Spirit in our lives, and to close, a meal together. 

Now, my husband went to church alone. I knew how lonely that felt; I'd done it for two and a half years before we started dating. I knew people were talking, wondering where I was, gossiping about whether we were having marital problems, or, most likely, not even noticing. I didn't care. I had reached my limit of what I could handle and church provided no outlet for my feelings of being overwhelmed in life—it only added to it. 

I'm not sure I can go to heaven without attending church. Apparently we are saved by faith but judged by works so I guess believing in Jesus is not enough. And maybe what little belief I have in Jesus is not enough either since I struggle to trust in a God Who stands by while the innocent suffer. My mom said God in His mercy does not let the wicked go to heaven because they wouldn't be happy there; maybe she was right. Maybe if I cannot get my answers here on earth; I would be equally as unhappy living in a heaven where I cannot understand why. Supposedly the millennium is intended to answer those questions but I don't think a thousand years will be enough. Because the tears of a million children are drowning me and their cries are echoing in my ears. 

Maybe I don't believe in God anymore. Or maybe I don't believe in the Seventh-day Adventist Church. I'm not sure if it's possible to separate the two; though I still have enough of a fight in me to want to do so. I've grown up with so much screwed up theology as a result of people in that church that I fight daily against what I perceive as wrong. And then I wonder if I am the one who is wrong and I won't be in heaven because I didn't go to church every Sabbath, pay offerings, wear a long skirt, or only eat a vegan diet. But I don't want to be in that kind of heaven anyhow. The heaven my father told me I would not be able to go to because I was taking communion with a rebellious heart that refused to reunite him and my mother. 

Maybe all I can manage today is a prayer. God, help me. I can't breathe. 

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.