Akbar’s Hospital

"Excuse me". I heard the words and stopped walking. I turned around and
found myself vis a vis a 60'ish year old man. He was just doing his job.
He was after all a Security Guard, and his vocation dictated that men
wandering through the Emergency Department of Toronto East General
Hospital at 1:15 am should be questioned.


Now, a few hours later, I am a bit embarassed, and ashamed of myself. I
wasn't my usual arrogant self, I did not go out of my way to establish
superiority. I should have; however; demonstrated a bit less defiance
and my attitude was, in fact, pretty shameful.


"Where are you going, Sir?" Now, once again, looking at it in the right
frame of mind, he was absolutely correct.


"Sixth Floor, G Wing" I replied. The words did come out with just the
right amount of menace, something akin to meaning, "what the hell
business is it of yours". I knew at that point, that the desired results
of my nocturnal trip to the hospital could have been achieved in a much
kinder and gentler manner. However, I am a man, and the testosterone
coursing through my body, (similar to the manner in which Karachi taxi
drivers think their cabs are extensions of their penises) would not
allow myself to succumb gently to his questioning.
It is my God given right to be where I want to be and to do what I want
to do, when I want to do it. (Sometimes, I can be such a prat.)
It really wasn't as bad as all that. Honestly!


I told him that I wanted to visit my wife who happened to be spending
the night under his ever watchful, and vigilant eyes. I now realize that
he probably had not encountered during his watch, a madman who has
this inexplicable desire to ensure his wife is still breathing and to
watch her sleep. I needed that, and that is what I had decided to do. In
all fairness to me, I acquiesed to his request to "please come to the
Security Office". Once there, he put on his officious demeanor and spoke
into his Walkie-Talkie.


"T1 to T2, over."


T2 responded with "Yes, Akbar, what is it?" T2 obviously did not feel
like following proper wireless communication protocol as evidenced by
the absence of the word "over".


Old Akbar, he was probably Pakistani or Indian. In his previous life in
Pindi or Delhi, he would have been an Accounting Clerk, or lower
Management in a large national company. He had followed the exodus out
of his country in search of the fabled streets paved with gold and
silver. What has the poor guy found? A new life in Toronto, where his
Diploma from Karachi University is not recognized nor his accounting
clerk skills required. He is probably caught up in the Canadian Catch 22, more so
than Yossarrian: "Sorry, you must have Canadian Experience". What???
Did the bloody Canucks invent accounting? I digress.


Akbar asked the omnipotent T2 for the phone number of the "Sixth Floor
Nursing Station". As T2 went foraging for the necessary number, I
reached into my back pocket and pulled out a crumpled card with the
needed phone number.


"Here it is, Sir." I said with a bit of humility. He called up to the
Sixth Floor and got the nurse on duty.


"Do you have a Mrs. Minwalla under your care?" Now, in truth, his accent
was very heavy, and the nurse upstairs obviously couldn't understand the
query.


"Talk to her" said Akbar, as he thrust the phone in my direction. I held
the phone to my ear, and the lovely sing-song of Jamaica, in a really
caring voice came through the earpiece.


"Mr. Minwalla, you were here 4 hours ago. Do you know what time it is,
honey?"


Now, this was no Akbar I was messing with. This was a Jamaican nurse who
could eat me for breakfast. So, discretion being the better part of
valour, and I, a closet coward, decided that you get more flies with
honey than with dung.


"Sorry, Teresa, I just couldn't sleep, can I just come up for a few
minutes?" I asked this in my nicest apiarist voice.


"Just for a few minutes, and God help you if you wake her!"


In like Flynn! I knew I had her just where I wanted her. I left Akbar
and T2 discussing something I had no interest in being part of, and
waltzed off down the hallways of the hospital to the elevator I knew
would get me to my destination.


Teresa met me as I stepped off the elevator.


"Honey, she is ok. I just checked on her a few minutes ago."


"I know, I just need to see her. Please."


She gave me that look. The look that says, "you are totally mad".


We walked past the open room doors with muted lights, and the occasional
beep of a heart monitor. She took me to the door of my wife's room,
patted my shoulder, and said, "5 minutes and don't wake her."


I went into Sarver's room and sat at the foot of her bed. I watched the
sheet covering her slowly move with rhythmic breathing, watched her face
in sleep, saw a grimace of pain flash over her visage, my heart melted a
little. She opened her eyes, couldn't quite figure out if it was a
dream. Looked at me, smiled, shut her eyes again. I watched the sheet
covering her slowly move with rhythmic breathing, watched her face in
sleep, and felt good.


I leaned over the bed, kissed her on the forehead, and left the room.


Teresa was filling out Mar sheets. "Thanks" I said.


She gave me the look again. This one was a little different, it had a
hint of a smile. "Take care, Honey."


"Thanks. You take care of my Honey."


"You know I will." I know she will.


I came down the same elevator and the milk of human kindness was flowing
through my veins. I went to thank Akbar. I could't find him.
He was probably doing "chowki" somewhere else in his hospital.


Tomorrow, I think I shall visit Akbar with a bottle of jam; Sarver made
a batch earlier this year. I think he will enjoy it.