Beautiful Life!

“How many sugars would you like for your coffee? One?”

I shook my head. “God, no.Three, please.”

Mila and Maria looked at each other. It would be an understatement if I were to describe their facial expression as surprised. They looked quite shocked, to be honest.

Mila recovered quite swiftly, though. “Oh, you need so many sugars for your energy, don’t you?”

I smiled, wrily. Let’s just say, I was thinking more about the taste buds on my tongue rather than my metabolism when I had chosen three teaspoon of sugars. But as Mila was so ready to supply me with a nice excuse for my over-indulgence in everything sweet, I just nodded my head.

“Usually, I took four. But as you can see, I am cutting down.” I winked.

Mila and Maria snorted. ” Cutting down? You should only take two at most. But, that’s all right. Since you are still young, you can afford to indulge.”

In restrospect, it was the topic of sugar that had broken the ice between us, and before I knew it, we were friends.

 

The receptionist

Mila and Maria are the receptionists at the GP where I had my attachment throughout my regional rotation. Mila is approaching her 60s (but she looked like 50 at most) and Maria is nearly 50.

Mila hailed from Filippina and Maria from New Zealand. And I am from Malaysia, of course. Since all of us were exotic, unique foreigners (don’t throw up),we exchanged many stories and cultural values. As I always brought my own lunch, I would hang out with them at the kitchen during lunch time.

“Oh, you are the first student who brings her own lunch. Other students go out for lunch. It was a shame. We never get to sit like this and get to know them.”

We talked about how we came to adjust to life in Australia. There were heaps to talk about. By the end of our first shared lunchtime, I knew the name of all Mila’s daughters. 

The second time I met Maria, she told me that her sister is a Muslim by marriage. Surprise, surprise. “We are careful not to have pork when she comes to visit. I am sorry but today I am having bacon for my lunch. I hope you don’t mind.”

I laughed her worries away.

“Of course not. Just because I can’t eat pork doesn’t mean everyone else can’t. That would be very un-democratic of me. Please, do not trouble yourself on my account.” I said, biting on my fish-finger sandwich.

Sometimes, Patricia (another receptionist) would join us at lunch. She loved my blue hijab and she got absolutely excited looking at my white, embroidered hijab. She thought my long skirt was positively elegant. She said, I have splendid taste in clothing. Huhuhu. If only I could blush prettily when people give me compliments, I would be spared from stammering my thank-yous. As it was, I just shrugged my shoulder and talked about how all my clothing are ‘imported’ from Malaysia. Huhuhu.

After lunch, I wanted to perform my Zuhur prayer. I anxiously asked Mila whether or not there was any suitable place for me to pray. I was prepared to pray in the kitchen, I did not expect them to give me a room.

“Just go to Dr. Miller’s room. He isn’t working today. You can close the door. And we would not disturb you.”

To be honest, I don’t feel too good about performing my prayer in someone’s room whose permission I have not sought.

Feeling anxious, I said, “Would Dr. Miller’s  mind, though? I can pray in the kitchen. It is not a requirement for me to pray in a room. Yes, it’s ideal to have some privacy. But it is not, really, it’s not a requirement at all. I had even prayed under a tree on a park, once.”

But Mila absolutely insisted that I prayed in Dr. Miller’s room. She said, she would want me to have every privacy possible. She knew that prayers are important to Muslims and she would do everything she could to help me perform it. Frankly, I was touched.

Within the seven weeks, Mila, Maria, Patricia and Carol (the practice nurse) has become my good friends. Every week, I was looking forward to go to my GP placement just for the pleasure of talking to them. Even though my afternoon GP session only started at 2, I always arrive an hour earlier and would have lunch with them. Mila, especially, would supply me with sweet biscuits and carrot cakes and Lindt chocolates.

“I know you like sweet things. So, I am saving you this carrot cake. And after you have finished with the cake, I have a box of chocolates that I could open for you.” Mila’s smile was radiant as she saw me beaming with pleasure at her thoughtfulness. Sometimes, I felt like a spoiled child, being indulged by a loving grandmother.

Mila sometimes liked to scold me for being so forgetful of my stuff, especially my watch. Since I had to take my ablution for prayer, I always took off my watch and left it on the kitchen table and then promptly forgot all about it. Sometimes I forgot to take my bottled water and Mila had to remind me to take it before I went out to wait for the bus home.

One time, I had a bad day at the hospital…because Martin Veysey was being so sarcastic with me. But the disagreeable feelings were all gone as soon as I stepped into the GP building, greeted by Anzac biscuits and chocolate and sweet coffee. The feeling was a bit like this; you did not cry when you were scolded by your parents but as soon as your parents came to console you, you burst into tears. I always wondered at the phenomena. Basically, that was how I felt. I did not feel like crying when Martin Veysey directed his cynical jokes at me earlier in the day, but I felt like crying when I arrived at my GP to be greeted by their warm welcome of me.

Holding back tears, I gave an honest-to-God exclamation, “It feels sooooo good to be here, Mila. Sooo good.”

The GP

I am, I admit, quite guilty of prejudice.

When I first knew that I got an asian for a GP, my mind was in absolute chaos (huhu, am I not a drama queen?). My one time bad experience with an asian GP when I was in first year made me loathe asian GP. To say that I quaked with fear would, of course, be an exaggeration. However, I could not say I was thrilled either.

But Dr. Simon Chang was an angel! He always took the time to teach me many stuff. He was at pains to ensure that I would not feel neglected as he was talking to his patients. He let me do intramuscular injections, he made sure I would be able to get as many clinical experiece as possible; PAP smear, breast lump examination, acupuncture treatment.

But promptly, at four, no matter how enchanting listening to his advice and jokes with patients was, I would ask to be excused for my Asar prayer. He was at first puzzled, since he knew I already performed my prayer after lunch. So, I told him that Muslims have several prayers to perform.

Since then, it was he who would remind me about my prayer. “It’s four already. Would you like to do your prayer now?” There was no more any need for me to ask to be excused.

All in all, it would be greatly remiss of me if I do not put into record how kind they have been to me. I had a great time there. It was something to look forward to after a hectic schedule in the hospital. They formed part of my regional rotation experience, and a great experience it had been too. Quite frankly, now that I am back in NC, I miss them terribly.

Last Friday was the last day of my GP session. At the risk of missing my bus, I whispered into Mila’s ears that I would love a photo of them if they could take the time away from the reception to take a picture with me in the kitchen, the place where we form our friendship.

Patricia instantly exclaimed, “But you have to wait. I have to to put some make-up on. I need to brush my hair, first.”

Patricia, though grandmotherly, is image-conscious.

We took pictures againts the wall of the small, cosy kitchen. We were hugging and holding hands for what I thought would be one last time.

As I was ready to go out of the building, Mila jokingly said, “I hope you have not forgotten anything today.”

“No, of course not.”

But as I was running to wait for the bus (because I had been later than usual for taking the time to take photo), Mila had to scream for me to stop. I looked back across my shoulder and I saw Mila running down the stairs, frantically, “Afiza, you forgot your ID tag. You can’t get into the hospital without this.”

I smiled, ruefully. “So sorry, Mila. I don’t know why I am always leaving my stuff in the GP.”

Mila shook her head at me. And then she hugged me. One last time.

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