What are the ingredients of my curry?

This particular blog entry has been on my mind for the past couple of days, compelling me to write for reasons unbeknownst to me – so here I am. I have lately been practicing the art of meditation as I hold a very strong belief that it will have progress my physical (and spiritual) well being. In the course of my practice I have felt a very strong, surreal connection to my parental grandfather, dada, who passed away a little over 2 and half years ago. I’m not sure why, but it has just happened. This is a humble attempt for me to sow the seed of my thoughts to a fully germinated blog entry.

I did not cry when dada passed away. Maybe part of me thought that he did not really pass on, that he went on another vacation or trip, and that he will be back soon - so I did not accept it. Because I did not know where exactly did he go after he died?

It still seems like yesterday when I was 4-5 years and he would wake me in the middle of my sleep (much to the annoyance of my mother who painstakingly put me to sleep!) to show me the brilliance of the moon. That would my and dada’s special time together. He would wake up and go to work before me and would come home long past my “first” bed time. And as sleepy and cranky as I was, I had an inkling that it was a special moment and I should pay attention. Those were the times he told me stories about mythical Indian princes, princesses, gods and the crocodile. Yes, every other story from dada had a crocodile in it. It amazed me that when his sense of imagination took flight, it would always be anchored in a crocodile. I think he did it for my benefit sometimes because I once visited a crocodile farm and was fascinated by the creature. It was his way of telling me that no matter what the story or the morale, there was always wiggle room for a bit of imagination, humor and fun. I used to wait for the grand entrance of the crocodile in all his stories!

In dada’s final years as his health took a turn for the worst, dada was frenzied about dividing his assets amongst his children and grandchildren. Dada was a practical man, and just as he did in his load-bearing years he believed that after him no account should be left unsettled or book unbalanced. I would always wonder – What would dada give me? A diamond ring? His coveted prayer books? His size 10 slippers? *lol* What would I inherit from my dada? It took me 2 years to realize what I did inherit from my grandfather.

Other than my bony hands and feet (double-jointed with amazing dexterity!) and a forehead the size of Maharashtra, I inherited dada’s spirit. I realized now how many similarities him and I have that have nudged us along similar paths. He too embarked for Singapore all by himself in his teenage years, starry eyed, in hopes of earning money to send back to his family. He bravely faced a new culture, language and work ethic to survive. I inherited his resilience to live apart for his family and make the best of his situation.

I too have his uncanny sense of direction. This is a famous story in my family – when I was barely 6, dada and I went on one eventful Sunday to the temple. Somehow, we were separated from each other and I (being a smart cookie) went back to the entrance of the temple to sit by his size 10 Indian slippers (dada’s trademark). As you can imagine, waiting is very hard for a child and even mere minutes seem like hours. So this is what I did. I put on my own slippers and walked home (2-3kms away) all by myself. My mother was HORRIFIED when she saw me all alone. She asked me where dada was and I said “He got lost!” in Sindhi. It never occurred to me that I was the one who was lost! This is another thing I inherited from my dada – fearlessness. I don’t remember the last time I was afraid.

So, I’ve been teary eyes lately, grateful for all these gifts bestowed upon me by my grandfather throughout my life. A friend told me “If you are thinking about your grandfather so much then why don’t you visit his grave or his urn with flowers?” The thing about Hindu last rites is that there is no evidence of the physical body once the person has moved on. A Hindu body is cremated and the ashes are sprinkled in the river which is considered sacred and holy to our culture. Where could I go? This is where my meditation practice has come in. Over the last couple of days I have realized that where my dada lives now is with me. He is in me in everything I do, say, experience. I may wear size 9 slippers, but I still dream of princes, princesses, gods and the crocodiles. I have lived and survived in my new home; my new country Canada, with the same fearlessness displayed by my dada when he came to Singapore to make it his home. Adapting to the Canadian winters, accents, sushi with Shiraz – my resilience comes genetically in my DNA from dada. My keen sense of adventure at exploring new countries, be it Hawaii, Mexico, Hong Kong, Thailand armed with just a map or a GPS – now I know where I got that from.

So this blog is my ode, my tribute to my dada. Whether his soul resides in the moon that captured both his heart and mine, in the sacred river where his ashes are or at KFC (where he and I both loved eating mashed potatoes with gravy), I wanted to say: Dada, thank you for the journey and the special moments we had to steal to be together. Thank you for the beautiful inheritance you have entrusted upon me. And thank you for showing me that one can still live on after one has passed.

And also dada, thank you for sparing me size 10 shoes. Size 9 are big enough! :)

p.s. Long live the crocodile!

Hospital Chronicals

Well, I know it has been a while since I last blogged, something came up. I was diagnosed with a disc protrusion problem in my spine which caused left-sided sciatica. I needed the disc matter removed from my spine so that it did not block a nerve that ran down my left leg (causing unprecedented amounts of pain and lack of mobility). I had my surgery on May 14th at Vancouver General Hospital and am pleased to let you know that I am on the road to recovery. Regardless, it will still be a long time before I can watch an abdominal exercise commercial without cringing or tearing up!

I thought of blogging all my experiences, mostly so that I won't forget and many, many years from now, I can look at them and laugh. As all of you know, my blogs are purposefully funny and entertaining and I have done my best to make the most of even the bleakest situations so the next series of my blog entries is dedicated to my condition and recovery. My sincerest hope is that you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed observing and writing about my experiences.

And as a tie-in to my previous weight-loss blogs, I hope that the brand new Sonia Nanwani (or "Gimpy" as I am so affectionately called given my reliance on my walking stick :) with some less L5-S1 disc matter post-surgery would be a couple of pounds lighter. Hee hee!

Darn, who am I kidding....I got rid of some light disc matter not an entire butt cheek! *lol*

Where Can A Girl Get Some Veggie Food?

As everyone who knows me know I am a vegetarian. (People who know me better know that I’m not too fond of vegetables, but I digress!) So, one of the most pertinent things pre-surgery was to ensure that I was booked for vegetarian meals during my hospital stay at VGH. When my appointment was booked with my surgeon’s assistant two weeks prior to the surgery date, I asked her if she could reserve a vegetarian meal for me. She politely said that it would be the actually staff of VGH who would be able to help.

Four days prior to my surgery, I was “interviewed” over the phone with pre-surgery questions (regarding my allergies, health history, etc) and I asked the interviewer if I could request my special meal with her. She said I needed to speak to someone on the day of my surgery.

On the day of my surgery, I was asked to report to the Admitting Department at the Jim Pattison South Pavilion. Upon arrival and submitting all my information, the staff member asked me “What religion do you belong to?” I beamed. Finally. He is going to take down my meal preference. I proudly said “Hindu”. It felt like checking in at ticketing counter at the airport and I was stating my meal and seat preference. The tag around my arm with my name and care card information felt like my personal boarding pass. Nice!

So, fast-forward to post-surgery. I’m starving and thirsty because I’ve not eaten anything since the night before. I await my meal. It finally arrives and lo behold, I am served fish. I’m like “Dude, I’m Hindu and vegetarian”. The meal server (for lack of a better word) shrugs and says, “All I have is fish!” I then turned to a friend and asked, “Why did they ask me upfront if I was Hindu if they didn’t translate it to my meal choice? The reply was not one I expected.

She said “They ask you your religion so that they know who to call in the event that they need to perform your final rites”.

Gulp.

Thank god I didn’t clue into this pre-surgery. Well, I guess it’s good to know that even though VGH cannot get the meal information right, they will be able to get the final rites down pat. But then again, what good does it to me anyways? I still would be hungry either way!?!?

Don't Poke Me with Your Big Needle!

So, in addition to everything else I suffer from intense needle phobia. Good for my parents, I will never consider being a drug addict :) But in all seriousness, I regress to a 2 year old when it comes to being poked and prodded. I cry, kick and scream, create a fuss, bargain, sometimes threaten...very un-Sonia-like. But I guess that is what fear does to one. So, in my pre-surgery interview I mentioned that I had needle-phobia and the nurse noted it down on my chart. On the day of my surgery, I was admitted to the pre-operative department where I was “set up” for my surgery: IV with saline and a series of blood tests was performed on me.

I don’t know about you, but blood testing really scares me. And the nurse who was given the royal task was not helpful at all. I was already upset with the IV in my left arm when she came by. She looked at my chart and started assembling the vials that will need to be filled up. These vials are colour-coded (each probably bearing a different test). And I was alarmed when the nurse picked two blue vials, two yellow, two pink, one green....and I looked away at that point. I was like “Dude, are you drawing blood for testing or shopping on rollback pricing at Walmart?” Was she the Princess of Darkness taking my blood for another series of shooters on the movie set of True Blood. I’m usually really good at sucking it up, but I was distraught.

Then I timidly asked her, will it hurt? I think she laughed and there was a lightening flash followed by several claps of thunder. I think she was wearing a black cape too. She put a “butterfly” (or something like that) so that she could use the same line to fill the millions of vials she had instead of poking me over and over again. I closed my eyes. Do it quickly. Do it quickly. Do it quickly. The butterfly was hurting. Then the Duchess of Doom decides, let us verify my name and other information. I was so tempted to say “Yo, Queen of Things that Go Bump in the Night, can you do this AFTER drawing out my blood? You’re not guzzling gas or sucking Pepsi through a straw where you can take your time! This really hurts!!!”

After what seems like an eternity, the butterfly is out and she walks away satisfied. I guess I did my part for the cast of Twilight. I’m pretty darn sure ALL that blood did not go towards “testing”. :(

Time to Sleep!

So, after being prepped in the pre-operative department of VGH, I was wheeled into to operation theatre and met team of 3 nurses, 3 surgeons and 1 anaesthesiologist. They were extremely pleasant and introduced themselves to me. You wouldn’t think I was getting operated on but attending someone’s dinner party. That is because I saw them UNWRAP THE SILVERWARE in front of me! I was like “Dude, I find this whole meet and greet process charming, but I really think you forgot to put me to sleep or something. Should I be seeing all this?” Oliver, my anaesthesiologist smiles and says, “Ooops a daisy! Ms. Nanwani, I am about to administer something that will make you sleep and forget the entire procedure”.

Much better. So much better.

Oh yea, I told him. Before I forget, I’m in here for plastic surgery job. I’m supposed to look like Angelia Jolie. He laughs and I think the last words he said were“You wish”.

Hey, a girl can try *lol*

Hey, I Remember You!

So, I wake up post surgery and am greeted by the team of surgeons who worked on me. Unfortunately, I still look like me and not Angelina :) Anyways, one of the surgeons asks me how I am feeling and if I can remember what day it is.

I turned to him and said “I feel great and this is the best day of my life!” Then I continued “And hey, I remember you...before I blanked out in there, I remember you and the chainsaw in your hands!” *lol* I thought I would make him laugh. But there was no inkling of a smile on his face. In fact, he said “Ms. Nanwani, that observation was incorrect. As per the hospital procedures, a chainsaw is not considered an instrument of medicine. And given that we performed a discectomy on you, there is no instrument even resembling a chain saw that was used during your surgery”.

What do you say to a response like that? Of course there was a chainsaw, but I think it was up your......

I think I have watched too many medical drams with cute doctors with a great sense of humour: ER, Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs, etc. Sorry gals, not all doctors are like McDreamy or McSteamy...*sigh*

What Is This? Air India?

So...I think I mentioned that I likened my whole hospital experience akin to checking in at the airport to catch a flight. Meals, Seats/Rooms, ID Tags/Boarding Passes.....so why should the luggage situation be any different? At the pre-operative room, I was given the option of leaving my luggage in my “cubical with a curtain” and it was promised to be transported directly to my room post-surgery.

Post Surgery – I’m in a shared-room sans luggage. It was a lot of effort to speak given my throat was sore after the breathing tube was removed. But I tried to ask for my luggage and was told that it was “temporarily unavailable”. What does that mean? How does a hospital lose luggage?
Thankfully I had my best friend to do the legwork for me to find the luggage. He looked in the pre-operative room, and all the other floors and wards where neurosurgery patients were taken till he finally found it. I was so ecstatic to see my purple Lululemon podium bag with the most precious of all contents – toilet paper. The stuff that is in the ward’s bathroom is NOT toilet paper. It’s made out of sandpaper for people who enjoy exfoliating their bottoms! And real toilet paper is like a precious commodity in a hospital. Kinda like cigarettes are in prison. They can be bartered for food, protection and drugs. So I made sure I packed lots and asked all visitors to give me toilet paper in lieu of flowers, chocolates and other gifts :)

It can get annoying sometimes though – especially when you are resting and someone sidles by your bed begging for “the good stuff” in exchange for anything. Dude, where were you when the Bride of Dracula was pumping my blood like cheap gas from the US?