Seeing Red

The transfusion room in the hematologist's office was well turned out. Plush, comfortable with overstuffed leather recliners, soft woollen throws, an assortment of drinks to keep your thirst at bay, and a state of the art home theater system with a wide variety of blues, soft jazz, classic rock - whatever rocked your boat that day. I took tentative steps, shuffling softly on socks on the smooth buffed floor. Inching towards the last unoccupied leather chair hooked up to an IV station. It was unusually cold, I thought as they hooked me up to a dark colored liquid (liquid iron, I was told) - that was normal, they said. No, I meant the room was cold - but, never mind. I did not want to create a fuss. The nurse said they would precede the transfusion with Benadryl to counter anaphylactic response. I nodded, taking it to mean that I was going to be sleepy - no party here I was going to miss!

"So, is this your first chemo?" A deep, silky voice interrupted my somnolent state.

Through my half-open eyelids, I discerned a shock of red hair. The fiery crop was beginning to thin at the front of the forehead, but you couldn't see any roots. It was either natural, or dyed regularly. A creamy complexion that goes with that hair type. Bright red lipstick, chunky rings. A Guns n Roses locket on thick black strands around her neck. An interesting array of tattoos on her right arm - the Christian cross, Islamic moon and the Hindu Om emblazoned in three quadrants of the universal peace sign. Blue eyes shining through slits took in everything meticulously.

That body belongs on a Harley somewhere, I thought. And a cigarette. A cigarette's missing.

"Is this your first chemo, darling?"

"Oh! No, I'm just here for an iron transfusion," I blushed in spite of myself.

"Don't get worked up now. You done good. I was just curious." She sighed and started talking into space. My eyes traveled down to her fingers once more, noting the telltale groove on the side of her middle finger, and slightly yellowing fingernails. Smoker, figures.

"You know, I grew up right around the corner from this building and crossed Dr Busch's office on the way to work. My mother used to own a dry cleaning business - but she never bothered to get herself a driver's license and I was her little chauffeur. Patty and I..." her voice trailed off. Lucidity returned to her eyes and she started again. "Patty, my best friend, and I would steal puffs a door down from here. The third door down from this clinic is a Latin bakery - we would buy ourselves those itty-bitty alfajores and spritz some cologne before returning to the shop. Mum never knew." She chuckled and reached out for a glass of lemon water.

"Have you been here all your adult life?" I asked.

"Nein nein, little darling." She made a clicking noise with her tongue. "Born in Texas, raised all over. After helping my mother for a couple of years with her business, I traveled to Boulder with my boyfriend to grow out pot business. That didn't work out so well. Then on to Laramie, Wyoming to work on a ranch, a few months in Santa Fe learning pottery and Sanskrit..."

"Wait, what?" left my lips before I could stop myself.

"Sanskrit, the ancient Indian language, ya know?"

Err, yes I know. I just happen to have been born in that country. But you can't be rude to a cancer patient undergoing chemo. I let it go.

"I wanted to start a yoga studio in Abilene. That town has nothing. Mum's business was the only dry cleaner's in town , and it doubled as an UPS drop-off - the only one in town. So, I shacked up with Patty's sister in Dallas for a year and registered for any yoga teacher training classes I could lay my hands on - Hatha, Vinyasa, Iyengar, Yin - even some Qigong classes. I liked the names of the poses - halasana, bajrasana, navasana - so lyrical. So, I wanted to know more about the language. I signed up for a yoga retreat in Santa Fe, where they teach you Sanskrit. Ya know, for kicks." She winked.

My jaw clenched once more as I felt the bile rise in my throat. I had not yet learnt how to control the Indian impulse to counter every tiny belittlement of every language, mannerism and stereotype associated with the Indian subcontinent. Just let it go. Breathe.

"I had a chance to learn Sanskrit in school," I said. "My brother dissuaded me - it was either Hindi or Sanskrit and he had barely managed to scrape through Sanskrit. I was sure it would drag my grades down. I opted for Hindi, but now I wish I had learnt Sanskrit instead - easier to understand Hindi once you know Sanskrit."

"It wasn't half bad. It's easier to remember the Gayatri mantra when you know what those words mean. They run off your lips effortlessly. Om bhur bhuvah svah tát savitúr várenyam bhárgo devásya dhimahi dhíyo yó nah prachodáyat"

Pretentious, hmph.

"Have yoga and meditation helped you heal? I've heard meditation is a great boon to the terminally ill." I preened.

"Heal? What do ya mean?" Her nurse was now at her side, unhooking the IV station.

I squirmed under her blue gaze, as if transfixed by their intensity. "I thought....?"

She roared with laughter. "I'm here for an iron transfusion too. Wait, you were thinking all this while that I had cancer? Psshh, cancer aint got nothin' on me."

The rumblings of a motorbike outside in the parking lot drowned my thoughts as the effects of Benadryl started wearing off slowly.

Damn it, Red.


PS Inspired by Rezhnikov on OITNB