Nizam M. Meah, M.D

Prognosis: Excellent

8 Comments / alcohol, book blog, book publishing, cancer, cirrhosis, doctor, healing and storytelling, healing through storytelling, hospital, liver, liver cancer, novel, patient, publish, short stories, short story, writer's blog / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

She is a 53 year old female. I am a 55 year old gastroenterologist. I was consulted because she had suspicious tumors in her liver on a CAT scan. She has been feeling increasing distress in her upper belly and has not been able to keep anything down in her stomach for last two weeks. The pain was not the severe pain that curls you up, but it is gnawing, that eats you from inside, it is the pesty visitor who visits you at the most uninviting of the moments, it is the conversation that one has to carry on in the most importunate of the situations. I reviewed her labs and scans carefully before I enter her room. I take a pause and a deep breath and tell myself: “Hey you, cheer up, have a smile on face, and make sure your patient does not see you gloomy or anxious”. Having obeyed my own advice, I apply several soft knocks on the door. “Come in” I hear from outside and I enter the room. Laying flat on the bed was a thin lady, ashen looking, covered in white freshly cleaned hospital blanket and the protuberant abdomen sticking out like a sore thumb from under the sheet betrayed her frail physique. Next to her sitting on the rocking chair was her male companion wearing a red bandanna on his head; his white long unkempt beard and cigarette stained handle bar mustache giving out an impression that he would be better fit to the next Duck Dynasty episode casted outdoors in the midst of nature than belonging to this claustrophobic beige colored hospital room with its fours walls closing in on the small space all the times. I have always found hospital rooms to be very interesting. Some rooms seems to be bright, others dim and dark although when I counted they exactly have the same number of flood light fitted on the ceiling and on the sidewalls. The healthcare architects are great in consistency and meticulous in attention. Master of their trade, from faucet to air conditioning vent to a small emergency switches, all of them in exactly placed in the right position, they have an uncanny skill and attention to details, nothing seems to distract them, nothing seems to make them forget even the smallest of the things in pursuit of their job of designing and planning a hospital. I never had much luck in picking their fault as far as hospital patient rooms are concerned. When I cannot explain by science, I always resort to my inner superstition: I concocted the same about the hospital rooms, since architecturally and physically they are all the same and immaculate. I came to believe, the rooms that are bright, or at least appears to be so in my eyes, patients tend to do well and the rooms that are dim and melancholic, they take their occupants into the abyss of dooms. Sometimes I wonder how the admission clerk assigns the room to the patients, is it first come first serve? Or is it at her whims? Or may be she has no choice, the computer assigns it randomly like many things now a days. In my own obsessed physician’s moments, when I get carried away with my own physical symptoms and there are times when I felt calling the EMS to take me to the hospital, not as a doctor, but as a patient. Then in my mind, like an well orchestrated Broadway drama, I go through the rehearsal: As soon as the EMS takes me to the hospital I ask the admission clerk, “I want room number……..” She will be surprised and I will look at her with authority and make sure I have the stethoscope on my shoulder, or my physician ID still displayed somewhere visible and insist, “You have heard what room number I wanted Ma’am!”. Then she might say, “But Dr. Meah, that room is taken, there is already a patient in there!” . Well, my imaginary Admission Clerk certainly got me, after all I cannot ask her to expel the existing patient, I am only a doctor, not a savvy apparatchik national figure who can order around. That’s when I feel like I should develop a secret list of good and bad rooms in the hospital, my own top secret, I will share with no one, although unethical, its use is my nuclear option, only to be used when my own life is at stake, and I come to this hospital and I will tell them give me this room number…..! “Taken”, she will answer, “No problem, give me number……” I will say keeping my smile hidden. “Taken”, she might say again. “No problem, then give me number…..” as I pull out another room number from my secret private list, I know something has to work out, US hospitals have always rooms empty since most of them are made to an excess capacity. Thus I have thought about making a secret inventory of hospital rooms, that is good and bad rooms, although, my laziness had not yet come around doing this in actuality. I introduced myself, interviewed her and after obtaining her consent, examined her confirming all the ominous signs that in medical literature we summarize as, “Stigmata of chronic liver disease” with “signs of hepatic decompensation”. She had a large liver, double the size of normal; it was filled with many marble sized tumors and beneath her wasted skin, these felt as firm as the glass marbles that I used to hide away from my younger brother underneath a cotton blanket in my distant childhood. Normal liver feels slippery, soft, gentle and soothing to palpating finger tips of the examiner, unlike these bold and hard knots, there was something aggressive about them. I noticed her feet were swelling too and one area on the right shin had started oozing clear fluid, a sign that her liver was not able to make enough protein to keep her own fluid inside the body. Her chest was full of dreaded “spider

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My Patient’s Story Is My Story

2 Comments / doctor, healing and storytelling, obituary, patient, short story, writer's blog / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

I am a healthcare professional, I treat sick patients everyday, death is not uncommon in the practice of my trade. How do I mourn the death of such a dear friend and a mentor? With great sadness, humility, gratefulness and lots of treasured memories. My dear friend, our dear friend Mr. Donald Correll recently passed away. But my memory still so vivid and alive. I was one of his doctors, I have seen him numerous times and I have enjoyed every time seeing him. He is the kind of patient who becomes a friend and mentor. His story, my patient’s story is my story after all. I still remember: the year was 1995, month was September. A surgeon in the hospital I was working had consulted me on his case. I was then a young medical graduate, a medical cowboy, fresh from GI Fellowship, on the first week of practice determined to make it out all alone in Texas. The surgeon who was rather perplexed wanted my help in managing him: Mr. Donald Correll was in excruciating pain. With his permission I sat down by his bed side, I listened to his story and without ordering any other investigation, I diagnosed and started treating him. The next day in round, he was already walking on the hospital hallway and a broad smiling face greeted me: “You saved my life!” he said, holding on the thin stainless steel shaft of the IV pole, his face alight with the aura of generosity and gratitude as big as Texas. My heart was filled, filled with joy, confidence and gratitude! I had started a brand new practice: it was a tremendous leap of faith, no one was there to watch over my shoulders. Born and raised in Bangladesh, I loved America since my intelligence developed and am a total sucker of American Free Enterprise System. I headed to the hinterlands of Texas all alone with this belief, leaving all my support system at the University Medical Center turning down offer of being a faculty member and other jobs. This was a time of exhilaration, this was a time of fear and apprehension, it was a time of vast potential or total doom. I needed reconfirmation, I needed people to believe in me, I needed people to say: Yes you can. I needed to prove to myself if not anyone else. And Mr. Correll was just the person! I am so grateful, so humbled. People like him and others made me successful, they allowed me to deliver my promise to myself that I would be by the side of common people out in the community, my story will be their story, their story will be mine, my care will be bare, down to humanity, no frills attached. It is the spirit and good will of people like Donald who come to me as patients and friends that enriches the blood flowing in my veins, this is why I went to med school, this is why I spent my time in research and advanced training, this is the direction and lesson my parents had taught me, this is the religion I follow. Donald, a Texas rancher, later became my teacher: teaching me about land, cattle and farming and how to care for them. He is a great teacher. Today, he may not be with us among the mortals, but he is with us in spirit, and in friendship, these never die. So, my friend Donald, prayer comes from heart, it is a mutual feeling of heavenly experience. I will miss you, but you will never be forgotten. Your legacy lives on, you do not know what you have done for me.

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Inner Orchestra

2 Comments / book blog, book publishing, bowel movement, constipation, doctor, healing and storytelling, healing through storytelling, healthy eating, novel, patient, publish, short stories, writer's blog / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

Your whole life you have lived healthy. You have eaten healthy and patronized good habits. Your good health and sense of good well being therefore, is not an accident, rather the result of your diligence and calculated choices of life. You are active, fully functional and enjoy the finer things in life, friends and family. Then comes the sudden betrayal of life. You have the urge; you have the sense of immediacy that you always depended on. Except you sit, first for few minutes thinking just taking time would help, then fifteen minutes goes by and then thirty minutes! You strain, perhaps by now with some feeling of nausea, you have looked at the favorite magazine flipping through all of its pages, or surveyed all the pages of the old newspaper that had been left in restroom in forgotten past, you had re-examined every component of the potpourri you had stacked away on the vanity table of the rest room, you even had the second and the third look at the little painting of the flower you had hung on the wall of your intimate restroom only now discovering the little imperfections all the while sitting patiently on the commode sit. But it won’t come. Not that it doesn’t want to come out, but you have the feeling that something is blocking it, something is not letting it out in the open. Your colon betrays your wish, your body’s wish, defying the signals of your brain and the spinal cord. You come out of the experience frustrated, sweaty, and fearful; but hope for the best and hope that it would solve itself next time around. You redouble your good diet, increasing fiber, and then you visit your neighborhood’s friendly pharmacy buying some remedies, a probiotic perhaps in addition to laxaitives. But next day is the same and more of the same is the following day. You wonder what’s happening and why is it you? The very thought not only makes you scared but even angry. You have all the terrible thoughts: “Do I have colon cancer?” “What did I do wrong” or “Perhaps I am not still eating right”! You second guess, begin to doubt yourself and your mind goes crazy. This is exactly what happened to my patient Mrs. X. She grew up in Boston. Following New English Irish tradition her early education was completed in Catholic Schools. She grew up in a single parent home and lived in government housing for a time. Those are the days in Boston’s Catholic bastion, children of single matriarchal family were frowned upon, not that anyone told anything openly, but the unexpressed “there’s something wrong with your family or mother” was evident in their expression and refined New England accent. When I saw her in the office her complaint was constipation. But not the “normal” constipation that people suffer from! It is the constipation that has urgency of bowel movement but as if her colon is betraying her by not relaxing, an act that is essential for a successful and satisfying bowel movement. In her interview, I could realize right away that she was a born artist; she was born to sing as she claims. Her sentences with New England accent were rich in inflections, her eyebrows and facial muscles danced together like a performing singer on a stage. Her face bore the aura of a Prima Donna, her lips and eyes moved in an inner drama of conflict reminiscent of Tchaikovsky’s Tatiana. In her adult life she had moved from bustling metropolis of Boston to an obscure Texas town in the somnolent shores of the Gulf of Mexico never singing, never been in stage and thus never fulfilling her dream. I know her for years. She considers herself a failed artist. Her heart wanted to be an artist and mind wanted to sing. But realities of life had never fulfilled her dream. Instead, her heart and mind became the ground of an internecine warfare, a war that is eternal, and a war that has no ceasefire. Quite a few years ago, she visited my office for the first time with a nagging pain on the right upper side of her abdomen, which was worse with eating and at times radiating to the upper back. Extensive investigations including CT scans and MRIs showed a swollen bile duct, but no stone in the gallbladder or no tumor or cancer in liver or pancreas. I finally diagnosed her to be having dysfunction of her bile duct sphincter or guarding valve of the bile duct, known medically as Sphincter of Oddi dysfunction. In this condition the valve of the bile duct fails to open or relax in response to a meal when our food content reaches the upper part of small intestine. Bile carries important enzymes for digestion of fat and protein, so the action had to be very rhythmic, precise and timely, like that of a well functioning orchestra. It is a fine sophisticated action, accomplished by interaction of nerve signals, hormone signals and the influence of the food itself. To give her a relief, I treated her by cutting the valve of bile duct medically known as ERCP with Sphincterotomy which resolved the problem. Few years had gone by and she again presented to me with the problem of intractable constipation. Upon careful history taking she was the example of good life and good habits. Her physical examination was naturally quite normal. She is the picture of health, externally. Having ruled out any other new problem by ultrasound and having ruled out Colon cancer by Colonoscopy, my diagnosis was Pelvic dyssynergia. This is another condition where the complex coordination of our brain, spinal cord and action of muscles of colon, rectum and pelvis fails. This results in failure of relaxation of the muscles and therefore the feces or stool cannot come out. Human colon is a tube made up of specialized muscles and with a length of four to six feet, it is easily the second

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Father’s Day 2016: Imperfect Father, Imperfect Son

book blog, book publishing, broken family relation, Father's Day, Father's Day 2016, Father's Day story, healing and storytelling, healing through storytelling, Imperfect Father, Imperfect son, love father's day, short stories, short story, writer's blog / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

Father’s Day 2016: Imperfect Father, Imperfect Son A roaring father lion in the plains of Serengeti whose cub only dares to play from a distance, a father distant, a father reluctant to play silly games with the boy, but a father whose two sharp eyes were ever watchful for his son’s well being, a father who protected and a father who injected the everlasting values of wisdom, and encouraged a tireless journey towards excelling in life; such was the relation of my father and I. Such is my memory about him. My father was a busy man with a temper as volatile as high octane gasoline, a man who at times could not separate problems of his work from that of his family life. Yet a man of principle he never learned to bow down to any one, a man uncompromising to the bone of his back. My father was a handsomely featured man, a sharp Aryan nose, reminiscent of the Conquistadors of ancient India pasted right at the exact proper place of his symmetrical face, a deep investigative gaze exuded from his relatively small eyeballs. As a child, I grew up with fear of my father and my relationship with him was schizophrenic at the best. He left for work early in the morning before we were awoke, coming back from work deep into the evenings, sipping his tea he would be drowned in the newspaper of the day in the easy-chair at the porch. He was exceptionally calm most of the times yet, from time to time, he would burst into violent fits of spousal abuse, hitting my mother with his hands and feet. These rages were though not long in time, they were long in agonizing fear and all of us would scream out for help but nothing would stop him, he would hit anything, living or dead that came in between him and my mother. He was a lion with a killer instinct, once he focused his sight on the prey, he was transformed into a different deity: he was the Shiva, the Pasupati, Lord of the Beasts for that time! I was always afraid that one of these days he would not know when to stop and he would certainly kill my mother. Growing up in the sixties and seventies, as a child, I grew up with mortal fear of two things: Nuclear war between the Soviet Union and USA and my father’s rage, not knowing which one would kill us first. I was not sure which one was more dangerous. After each of such violent rages of my father, after our helpless screaming and crying, came the calm after the storm when I flew in my own world of imagination, into the land of idealism and Superheroes. I imagined myself of building nuclear shelters to save the humanity, I imagined myself to be grown up so strong that one hit of mine would knock my father unconscious; I imagined to be the Samson, to tear the lion apart into pieces. I had fallen asleep, many times flying with the wings of imagination in the distant lands of Scheherazade and 1001 nights. Back in real life at other times, my father’s care and gestures were so visible, palpable and kind. At times he was so prescient that, it left me totally confused, even with a hint of guilt for wishing bad upon him. I remember, as a little child in the days of elementary school, like many children in Bangladesh I was fond of Hilsa fish, considered a delicacy, caviar of the Bengalese. The Hilsa fish season was short lasting in those days, with no provision for cold storage yet available in the country for year round supply. And needless to say that the fish was and still is very expensive. In one season while eating a deliciously cooked Hilsa I cried out to my mother, “Mom, I want to eat the Daddy Hilsa, not just the baby ones!” meaning the biggest of the Hilsa fish, which my father had overheard. Within few days, he bought the largest Hilsa available. Carrying it on his shoulder, a porter brought this to our house for cooking. It was about a mile journey on foot and crowd gathered around it admiring that “Headmaster”, as my father was known by his position in a local High School, had bought the largest Hisla fish for his son. Then in 1971, when I was ten years old, suddenly one day my father evacuated us from the hometown with just few hours of notice, much at the consternation of my mother. This was long before anyone else in our town thought of doing so. A prescient action like this protected us from being witness to all the destruction, rampage and killings that would later become a daily event of life as the war broke out between independence seeking Bengalese and the Pakistan army. “A grave curse is coming down to this nation and this country”, my father predicted at that time to calm my mother down as she was worried about leaving everything behind and logistics of evacuating a large family with just few hours in hand. His prediction came out to be true to the letters on that same day of our hurried journey to escape, as we for the first time came across dead bodies floating in the rivers. His timely action meant that we were totally unscathed by the ravages of war and famine that accompanied each other shortly. During this time of war, my father was fiercely critical of the killings and atrocities committed by both sides of the conflict. Years later, by now I was in the Eighth Grade, a young teenager, crossing from one milestone to another of my life. Few of my class mates and I had to represent our school in a state examination for scholarship that was held in a town six hours journey from home. The school, which was different than the one

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Muhammad Ali And Bangladesh: Story of Love

6 Comments / Bangladesh, book blog, book publishing, Chittagong, Love Bangladesh, Love of Muhammad Ali, Muhammad Ali, publish, short story / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

The year was 1978. In the month of February, still a mild chill persisted in the sunny mornings. This is the time Muhammad Ali visited Bangladesh. I was in the 12th grade at that time, that will be local 2nd year of Junior College. I remember Muhammad Ali to be a great healer of souls if not permanent but a temporary one. Bangladesh was liberated in December of 1971. The country’s adored son Sheikh Mujib who was “Father of the nation” lead the nation till his assassination in August of 1975. In the last years of his rule, he had declared a one party state, assuming all powers in his hand and the country was left with only four daily newspapers, all of which were government owned. In the hills of halted economic activities, 1974 saw a famine where scores of people had died of hunger and malnutrition. With the killing of Mujib in 1975, the country witnessed a series of military coups and counter coups. Then army General Zia came to power in April of 1977 through a backdoor coup. Whole Bangladesh and its institutions were shaken by BKSAL, the one and the only legal political party, the military coups and the counter coups that followed each other. The country and its people were all wounded and scarred internally if not externally. Muhammad Ali’s visit to Bangladesh in such a time was timely and soothing to the nation, a nation in need for such consolation and redemption so badly. I remember Muhammad Ali going from town to town and wherever he and his wife Belinda went, a huge crowd waited for them singing and chanting. For days the radio played Ali songs, “Muhammad, Muhammad Ali, He is a black mountain, He says to all I am A-l-i…..” One such morning of his visit we got to know in the college that he will be visiting port city of Chittagong. He was supposed to take the road near our college. Several of my friends and I immediately left the college campus abandoning the classes and joining the crowd. After few hours of waiting and chanting finally we saw the motorcade of the champion coming down the winding road. Muhammad Ali and his family were in the second car just after the lead car and they kept their windows rolled down and waving at all the people crazy for them alternately looking right and left. The motorcade was slow and my plan worked out perfectly: I had an old English book on Islam and Prophet Muhammad, quoting and analyzing extensively on the various comments and opinions of Western intellectuals on Islam and Prophet Muhammad. I had written up a letter addressing Muhammad Ali and one letter addressing his son inviting him to be my pen pal. As the motorcade moved slowly, I slipped in the book with the letters inside and noticed it falling on the floor of the moving car. Whether they picked it up or not or even looked at it or not were not known to me. But I returned to the college dorm with a satisfied mind that I had delivered what I wanted to in whatever way I could. With the glimpse that I had on Muhammad Ali and his family and the way they traveled keeping the window rolled down in a dusty pot-holed road of a poor third world country, I realized the love we Bangladeshis had was not just one sided, Ali loved us back immensely in return. This is the day I realized Muhammad Ali was not just the ferocious fighter he was, he was just not the dramatic emotional exploiter of boxing; he was a great lover too. He was lover of the poor, the downtrodden, and the destitute. Our country and people whose souls were shredded into pieces by this time with the poor governance, nepotism, dictatorship, famine, coups, counter coups and the legacy of blood that haunted us since the independence were in great need for such an unconditional love. We needed the love; our souls were crying for it. Muhammad Ali did this for us. Ali was great in deed.

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Story on the Road: If You’re Rude, I Will Kill You with Kindness

2 Comments / book blog, book publishing, healing and storytelling, healing through storytelling, publish, short stories, short story, taxi driver's story, writer's blog / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

Story on the Road: I just got back from a brief visit to Pennsylvania to bring my son home from his college. My flight was at 6 AM, so we got on the taxi cab at 4:30 AM. Cory was waiting right on the front door of hotel with his taxi cab at the exact time. He is a tall, medium built, in his 30s with scruffy beard and the baseball cap he wore readily declared his loyalty to the Pittsburgh Pirates. A kind and active man he was, helping my family and I with the luggage. Once on the road and he started driving through the early morning desolate mountain roads half blanketed in a thin layer of fog we start chatting. He was actually a machinist got hurt in a motor vehicle accident that injured his back. With multiple surgeries, and protracted pain he had a long rehab time. During this time he refused to take any narcotic drugs except in the period immediately after the surgeries. His youth, determination and strength of mind got him healed physically sooner than many other people but little did he knew that his main struggle of life would just about to begin. After the back injury, no one would hire him as a machinist any more. By now he had a wife and a newborn son. He badly needed a job which will keep his family afloat and also pay for the recently mortgaged house payments. A friend of him encouraged him to drive taxi and this was his start. He drives taxi seven nights a week and rapidly rose to be one of the highest paid cab drivers in his area. He maintains a tight schedule with his regulars and keeps them happy. Some of them tried Uber thinking this would be cheaper, but quickly came back to him. There is no alternative to good service. Within one year of starting on taxi, he also found a three day a week job as a machinist to make screws for eye glasses and as quality control officer. When I asked him why he works so hard, his answer was straight, spontaneous and very American, “Now I have another son and I need to take care of my family. Besides if you’re lazy, you’re broke!” he proclaimed smilingly, a smile that shined through his scruffy beard. With his hard work he now has acquired another home enjoying the rental income from it. He had opened education accounts for his children. I asked him besides the constant risk of traffic accident what other work hazards he comes across regularly in his night time taxi driving. “Sometimes it is the rudeness of people that is more hazardous than chance of traffic accidents” he answered. “What do you do if people are rude?” I asked him. “I generally kill them with my kindness, it is rare that I have to ask them to get out” he put forward again with a broad reassuring smile keeping his eyes on the rear view mirror of the moving vehicle. He grew up with eight other brothers in a Pennsylvania Catholic family. Few years ago, his grandfather died in a head on collision with a drunk driver. Since then seven of the nine brothers promised themselves not to drink and only remaining two brothers of him drink alcohol. By this time the short drive of the airport came to an end. Cory helped again with the unloading and after taking the money he disappeared in the light early morning traffic of the airport. He already had another client waiting to be picked up. Magic Bullhorn Moment: 1. If You are Lazy, You are Broke! 2. Kill Rudeness by Kindness! Doctor’s Commentary: I love to interview common people of our beautiful country and enjoy exploring treasured story every human hides within himself. So refreshing and inspiring they are! It reminds me of the blessed country we live in and our people are the best assets we have. We have the most hardworking people of the whole world and their work ethics are second to none. This is why America is second to none. I had learned and gained knowledge on something by talking to this young man that I never knew. By the time the ride was finished, I was reassured of the indomitable entrepreneurial spirit of common men and women in our country. God Bless America.

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An Orphan’s Mother’s Day

11 Comments / book blog, book publishing, celebrate dead mother, dead mother, doctor, healing and storytelling, healing through storytelling, how do orphans celebrate mother's day, memory of mother, Mother died long ago, Mother's Day, Mother's Day for dead mother, novel, orphan's mother's day, publish, short stories, short story, writer's blog / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

An Orphan’s Mother’s Day, that is my Mother’s Day with my mother is silent, somnolent, serene and solemn. I never take her out to dinner, not even to lunch. Bouquet of fresh flower? Even that’s out of question! May be a physician son like me would like to buy something expensive, something exotic for my mother! Well dead wrong again! Then what do I do for my mother on a Mother’s Day? Nothing, and nothing, and yes, nothing. Plain and simple. Paraphrasing Mark Twain, there are only two kinds of people in the world: the ones who have mother and the ones who don’t, I mean a mother who is living in flesh and blood. I belong to the latter kind. We are Orphans. For us, Mother’s Day is not a celebration in traditional means, for us it is a mixed emotion; a strange state of mind where celebration and mourning happen together. Have you ever known people without mother or people who lost their mother early in life? If you didn’t yet or if you had not have the occasion of conversation with one of them on this then let me let you know that we walk, talk, laugh and live our life with a strange subconscious burden every day, but as the Mother’s Day rolls around, that burden becomes heavier, more conscious, more real. I know exactly when the Mother’s Day is coming: the UPS guy in the neighborhood gets busier delivering packages form Amazon, malls and restaurants are busier; when I open my browser, blinding colorful Pop Ups announce: Send Your Mother Something Memorable; beautifully animated flashy announcement from 1-800-Flowers: Send Your Mother Flowers, let her know you love her. Oh! Yes, let your mother know you love her. My mother is far beyond this flower or dinner business, beyond the reaches of UPS or FedEx, beyond the blinding internet Pop-Ups. I still remember the day: it was a sunny Midwestern day in Detroit, September 17th, 1989 to be exact. I was in first year of my internship; this was post–call day for me. Although tired, sleeping is not for me, I ate breakfast and showered and got on new pair of hospital scrubs, which were my usual 24 hour attires at that time, and I was trying to get some studies done in internal medicine. A friend called and wanted to visit, I sensed something wrong, but kept the feeling inside and welcomed him with his wife. “How’s the family back at home?” they asked, “Fine, okay I think”, I answered, investigating their facial reaction and knowing subconsciously that it was not the real question or answer they were interested in. “How’s your mom?” the friend’s wife asked as her second sentence. “She’s always weak, she works so hard…..” my heart stopped for a moment as I caught myself talking and my words dropped off, “Wait a second are you saying that something is wrong with my mother? Are you saying that? Are you saying that? “, I became frantic and couldn’t help screaming. I just picked up the phone right in the living room, in a reflexive response and started dialing the phone line. 1989! This was not yet the time of cell phone and internet! Back in the old country, the town of Chittagong, 8000 miles away from Detroit, Michigan, my family did not even have a phone, I mean land phone. If you could bribe the government owned telephone monopoly, you could get one in 10 years and if you didn’t have the money or means to bribe, the wait could be forever. So I used to dial a neighbor’s house and they were always gracious to call my family to talk to me and this used to be the way to communicate. As I kept on frantically dialing, the only message I got from AT&T was, “All international lines are busy in the country you are dialing, please call later”. I frantically called the AT&T operator, call could not go through even with her help; no one could help. This was the state of communication in those days in the poor 3rd world countries. Even emergencies had to wait! I did the only thing I could do, sob and kept on trying, finally reaching one time after five hours of trial! Just think about it: getting phone line after five hours of continuous dialing. Strangely, in the worst of grief and loneliness, the human benevolence takes over: I only wanted to know how my mother died, what she said as her last words and my main worry was my family, especially my younger siblings, how helpless they were feeling without a mother, how they will be taken care of. I totally forgot of myself. By the time I could make arrangement calling the med school and airplane ticketing and other formalities, and then finally reached the old hometown after 3 days of grueling journey, my mother’s body was only represented by a freshly turned pile of red dirt lying in her ancestral graveyard on a hilltop next to a 16th century mosque that was founded by a revered Saint of Chittagong, my ancestral home town. There is always a strange silence in the graveyards, even in an overpopulated country. After the eight thousand miles journey that was my first stop over, I fell on my knees, I cried but my eyes were dry from the dehydration of three days of journey over the oceans, mountain ranges and continents. As I prayed, I felt my mother would come alive at any moment, a strange, lunatic sense of denial conquered me over, I prayed and prayed but the miracle never happened, my mother never rose up, she never talked to me, I never saw her in flesh and blood, never again. Who knew that two years ago on my way to the United States, when I said goodbye to my mother in the dusty Second World War era airport of Chittagong that was going to

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I Love You Son!: A Kid in the Candy Store

4 Comments / book blog, book publishing, broken family relation, healing and storytelling, healing through storytelling, novel, publish, short stories, short story, writer's blog / Nizam M. Meah, M.D

“I just cannot wait to hear from my Dad every Sunday, we talk for hours and hours and the surprising thing is that I always wait to hear from him a sentence with four words, he tells me always at the end of our conversation “Son I love you!”. I love to hear this, every time, all the time, this is for me a little boy in a candy store moment”, his face glowing and his eyes popping as he told me his story in my office. This was a well-built, tall handsome man in his early 50s whom I am seeing for the first time in my office because he needed a screening colonoscopy for prevention only, he is otherwise healthy. “But our relation was not always healthy like this, in fact for a period of ten years we had cut off our relationship with each other, oblivious to each other’s plight, I did not know where my father was!”, Jim told me. Jim grew up in a beautiful East Coast town of USA, the area was draped with sunshine, beaches and green tree lines. Jim was in his early teenage years when his parents got divorced. He wanted to stay with his dad in the East Coast while his mother had decided to move across the country to the West Coast with her two children. But Jim wanted to stay with his dad. He pleaded with him but his dad was a distant dad, who never heeded the crying heart of his son. Feeling the hurt from dejection, Jim always wondered why his father never cared for him. After six months of trying to stay with his father, and getting no reciprocity, he eventually gave up, accepting in mind that as much as it seems unreal, his dad had quit on him. So he moved with his mother and took on the challenge of forming a new life in the West Coast.

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