We had the nicest, kindest people take care of us at the hospital. No one could have done more for a dearly beloved relative than they did to help us feel as little discomfort as possible under the circumstances. So I don’t want anybody to think that the story I’m about to share is a criticism of them. That would be the nastiest kind of ingratitude. This was simply one of those moments that give momentary relief from pain because of their sheer weirdness.
Before the C-section, we were placed in a waiting room where I was gradually attached to all kinds of devices and monitors. An endless stream of people was coming in to ask questions, get our signatures, offer hugs and kisses, etc. This was helpful because this is not the time when you want to sit alone in silence.
“Are you allergic to any medications?”
“Have you had any major surgeries before?”
“Do you suffer from heart disease?”
“Are you on anti-depressants? Have you ever been?”
“Are you Muslim?”
The last question put us all into a stupor.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Well, we don’t want to pry, but if you are Muslim, you can just tell us,” the nurse whispered.
“No, we are not Muslim,” I said.
“Oh, OK. It’s just that when you asked the Chaplain to come by later we wondered if you are Muslim.”
So now we have a new definition of Muslims: they are people who are not eager to see a Chaplain immediately and prefer for him to come back later.
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