Empowerment. Engagement. Authenticity.
Message from the Void - In the Hands of Faith
Clive’s voice mail to Dr. Ashraf Rafiq was frantic.
‘Heading to St. Clair’s. Daughter very ill. Please help.’
Yes, a private nursing home instead of the general hospital, Clive
thought, speeding along empty streets in the wee hours of Mother’s Day
in 1988. Not only was Dr. Rafiq the best neurosurgeon in Trinidad but He
was a grapevine cousin. That would give them priority, right?
Ten minutes after Clive checked his daughter into St. Clair’s, a nurse
gave him a hand-written note. Dr. Rafiq’s reply was curt.
‘It’s Ramadan. Will come in after I eat and pray at 4:30. Nurses know
what to do.’
His daughter was dying and this excuse for a doctor wanted brownie
points with Allah? The fingers crumpling the message wished for Rafiq’s
neck bones. Rage and then helplessness had Clive’s vision wavering as he
stared at the hands of the wall clock.
It was 1:00 AM.
“Find another doctor,” Clive ground out.
“We’re sorry, sir.” The nurse took a few cautious steps back. “No one
else is available.”
What God would punish a doctor for breaking his fast to save a young
girl’s life? Clive wondered. What God would punish a young girl in the
name of religion?
He looked down at his daughter. In the hospital bed – she’d been in too
many of them in the past three weeks, damn it – she lay slack-jawed,
soiled and spasming. Her guttural groans had ceased but the headache and
the onslaught of vomiting and diarrhea had her head lolling from side to
side in semi-delirium. The curls not shorn away by two previous brain
surgeries stuck out like frayed wires from the gauze covering her head.
Clive agonized. Could she hold on another three hours? God, if she were
only stable enough to travel to Canada. His fingers clenched on the
bedrail. It was Canada that had botched the replacement of the shunt
channeling fluid from her brain…twice now. The last time – barely a week
ago – the faulty tubing used had collapsed the day before their return
to Trinidad.
“Mr. Kassie?”
Clive turned to face the nurse, who still maintained her distance.
“What?”
“We’ll drain the fluid to temporarily relieve the pressure in her
brain.” The nurse moistened her dry lips. “That – that will keep her
stable until we can operate.”
“And when will that be?” Clive demanded. “Oh, let me guess…God knows.”
(c) Kristy Kassie, 2017
Message from the Void
Distressing information delivered in the form of
one-way messages like voice mails or hand-written notes can set the
scene for a gripping story.
