To all women afraid of blood,

You won’t be allowed into Doctors Hospital’s operating theatre in Lahore. In fact, no women will be allowed in, afraid of blood or not. And that’s mostly thanks to my mom. 

It all started when she asked me to grab her phone from the room across the lounge during an ad break of my favourite TV show: Tom and Jerry. Ads then barely lasted 30 seconds, so I knew I had to sprint to avoid missing a scene because everything in that show was extremely vital to the plot. I ran,  full speed ahead, through the dining hall and lounge into the guest bed across, found her phone lying carelessly on a chair, as it often is, and sprinted back. Except, while dashing back, a pedestal fan had the nerve to get in my way and trip me over. The motives behind its wicked act are still unclear to me. 

My fall was more of a bam than a plop, and I think the dining chair was in kahoots with the fan because it tilted just enough for its edge to slam into my head and crack it open (just a tiny bit, I’m exaggerating). Unfazed, I got up and returned to Tom and Jerry, hurriedly passing my mom the phone. 

“Something here hurts,” I told Mama, pointing to my head, my eyes still glued to the television screen.

I gestured for her to come closer to see because I was NOT missing another scene. Mama parted my hair to look closely, let out a little gasp, and dragged me to the shower. 

“There’s blood coming out of your head,” she said firmly, in response to my whining and winging.

That’s when I knew it was serious. She tilted my head over the side of the bathtub to rinse off the tiny bit of blood collecting there and told me to hold a piece of cloth to the area while she went to call Dad. Soon, all three of us were on our way to the hospital. The doctor was quick to see us and immediately let us know I would be needing 6 stitches to close the gash. We were told to head into the operation theatre. 

I got comfortable on the bed, and mama baba stood at its foot, but I wouldn’t let the doctors start working on me until Mamoo (mom’s brother) showed up. I didn’t trust doctors, but Mamoo was one in the family, and he loved me to bits, so if he kept watch, I would feel much more at ease. They numbed the affected area and went to work with Mamoo keeping a close watch. 

I don’t remember much of the surgery, except that I didn’t feel much and, as scared as I was, it was smooth, painless, and quick. I remember laughing through it and the doctor telling Mamoo to stop making jokes. I also remember noticing that Mama had started feeling queasy and, before I knew it, had fainted. 

That became its own medical emergency. Baba and Mamoo told me they’d be right back and took Mama outside to look after her. Before leaving, Mamoo assured me that everything was going well; he had spoken with the doctors and given them comprehensive instructions. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized Mamoo was a completely different kind of doctor and he had just said that to put me at ease. How gullible of me.

I was out of the operating theatre before I knew it. It was upon coming out that I saw a scene I couldn’t forget. I, with 6 new stitches and a big bandage wrapped all around my head, was walking out all jolly and fine to a woman in a wheelchair sipping from a box of juice as if it was her who was operated on instead. That woman, of course, was my mom.

I was not at all pleased that no one had offered me any juice, and especially not pleased to see that she was getting more attention than I. Noticing a tantrum building, Baba took my hand and said: “Let’s go thank the doctors and pay our bills.”

As we walked past the operating theatre, I noticed a new sign being put up that wasn’t there before. Curious, I went closer to see that it said, in all caps, “NO WOMEN ALLOWED INSIDE”. Whether they were able to enforce this rule is a mystery in itself. 

With sincere apologies for the inconvenience,
A child with the most loving mother.

* This story may or may not be factually correct