Strawberry Cake for Breakfast

By Erin L.C. Lowe

I awoke to the sound of steady, high-pitched beeps coming from a heart monitor. The sounds chirped in unison to the rhythm of a dripping IV, both of which are attached to my left arm.   Beads of sweat roll down my forehead and settle in the corner of my eyes.  The salt in my sweat stings my eyes closed again.  A nurse calls out while wiping my brow and brushing my long, matted, almost blue black hair sticking to my forehead, “Doctor! She’s awake!” I can hear footsteps in the distance running down the hall.  Each step gets louder as they approach my room.  The young Pakistani doctor is a smartly dressed man in a starched, long white coat, and silver-wired glasses.  His name, “Dr. Ahsan” is embroidered in blue over his heart.  Dr. Ahsan opens my eyes and shines a bright light into each pupil.  He turns and checks the electrocardiogram (ECG) that has been monitoring my heart for three weeks since I was admitted to Shifa International Hospital in Islamabad with a viral infection.  The ECG shows a steady pattern of peaks and valleys and Dr. Ahsan smiles in the realization that my heart is now beating on it’s own.

“Summon her family!” Dr. Ahsan calls out to the bedside nurse in perfect British English.

“Right away sir!” replied the nurse, as she quickly exits the room.  I overheard the nurse on the phone speaking Arabic and I knew she must be calling my mother, Fatma.

Opening my eyes once more, I looked around the sterile room.  Butted against the center of a pale wall is a white metal twin bed flanked by machines, none of which I know their function.  The smells of rubbing alcohol and bleach evaporate in the air.  Warm sunlight filters through a cloudy window and makes the room balmy.  I guessed it to be mid-afternoon.

“Where am I?” I asked Dr. Ahsan as he continued to take my vitals.

“You are at Shifa International Hospital in Islamabad.  Do you remember how you got here?”

I did remember the hospital, but it wasn’t because I was sick.  I was sent there as a Red Cross volunteer, to distribute food and supplies to victims of the Rwalpindi earthquake that rattled the city three months prior.  The flight to Pakistan from Vancouver, Canada was a long one.  My mother and father, Fatma and Adesh as well as my older brother, Bairaj, accompanied me on my first volunteer mission after graduating from The University of British Columbia.  Like my father, I aspired to be an accountant.

Upon graduating, I felt a strong urge, a calling really, to volunteer in that part of the world where my ancestors hailed.  I consider myself Canadian however I was born in Tanzania and have never visited India or the Middle East.  My family immigrated to British Columbia just before my first birthday.  It was in Vancouver where I was raised in North American tradition.  It was at the Ismaili Drake Jamatkhana Centre in Vancouver where I was educated in Ismaili faith and my own family’s culture and traditions.

The rapid cadence of my father’s unmistakable gait could be heard outside of my room and I knew my dad was on his way.   Dr. Ahsan greeted my family outside of my room.  I could hear my mother repeatedly say, “Ya ilahi! Ya ilahi!, Oh my God!” in Arabic as Dr. Ahsan delivered the good news.  Her voice was broken and scratchy.

“Your daughter has awoken from her coma.  We are running tests now to determine what affect the Acute Disseminated Encephalomyelitis (ADEM) may have had to her spinal cord and brain. In all outward appearances, Munira seems to have recovered but we’ll know more later on tonight.”

“Yes, of course doctor,” replied Adesh.  “May we see her now?”

“Please be quick.  We don’t want added stress on her while she’s still fighting an infection.”

“Muna?” my mom spoke softly as to not disturb the angels she believed were watching over me.  My eyes opened at the same time my mom took my hand.  “Muna?” she said again, sweeping the wisp of hair from my brow.

“Hi Mama,” I replied in a scratchy and almost inaudible voice.  “How are you and Papa and Bairaj?”

“We are all doing fine dear,” replied mama who was trying to remain composed though she looked deliriously happy that I was awake and speaking.  Knowing my mother, she likely wanted to leap off the bed at that moment, thanking Allah for all that He’d done for me.  Just three weeks earlier, my parents admitted me to the very hospital I was assigned to volunteer in.  On the plane flight from Vancouver, I had developed a sore throat and high fever.  Once arriving in Islamabad, I sought medical treatment where I told I was tested for everything from mumps and measles to Dengue fever.  The tests revealed nothing and I went back to my hotel to rest, awakening the next day paralyzed from the waist down.

“It is you who we are worried about,” replied papa, walking over and taking my other hand, also containing his relief, I’m sure, that I seemed to be recovering.  Bairaj, walked over and kissed my forehead and then sat down on a folding chair that was set up across the room and began updating family members by text.

I looked at my mother and noticed the gray roots coming from the part on her scalp and thought her black hair looked like soot covering snow in the wintertime.  Deep parallel ravines ran temple to temple across my dad’s forehead from his brow to a white hairline, which was also noticeably thinner.  I wondered how long I’d been in a coma.

“Excuse me ma’am, sir,” a nurse said as she entered my room with a stainless steel tray carrying several sharp instruments.  My parents joined my brother sitting in folding chairs across the room.

A chill ran up my spine as I felt a draft come over me from up under the sheets as the nurse un-tucked them, revealing my feet and legs.

“Do you feel this?” the nurse asked as she ran an unfolded paper clip down the center of my left and then right foot.

“Yes,” I replied.  My parents’ eyes met with a hopeful smile.

“How about now?” again the nurse asked running a feather and then a straw along the bottoms of my feet.

“Yes, ma’am.  I feel that too,” I said as my foot twitched and jerked out of the nurse’s hand.

“That is good news! I’ll call the doctor to see if we can’t remove your foley!”

With each passing day, I grew stronger.  With no residual paralysis or infection, it was thought that one of the vaccinations I received in Vancouver to prepare me for my trip to Pakistan caused the infection that led to the brain and spinal cord lesions.  If not for my father’s constant watchful eye and speedy medical care, I was told I may have received irreparable brain and spinal cord damage, permanently paralyzing me or even causing my death.

“Good morning doctor,” mama said cheerfully as Dr. Ahsan entered my room one week later.

“Good morning Mrs. Pawar,” replied Dr. Ahsan.  “How is my favorite patient doing?” Dr. Ahsan had taken to calling me that because of my excellent prognosis.

“Doctor, I’m hungry,” I groaned as I sat up in my bed on my own strength.  “When am I going to be able to be able to eat real food?” I continued as my empty belly growled like two cats during a late night standoff.

“I can do you one better than that, Munira,” smiled the doctor.  “How about we get you out of here and back home?”  Hearing this news overjoyed mama and she hugged me tenderly.  We were heading home, back to Canada.

As the plane ascended, I watched the Pakistani landscape grow smaller and smaller until its eventual disappearance beneath the clouds.  The rugged green mountains were laid out in sharp in contrast to the man-made gray buildings and cement streets.  A web of television, phone and electrical wires crisscrossed over every major city, tying one to another and then another.  This was to be my last memory of Pakistan, a country I visited yet hardly knew.

The plane flight back to Vancouver from Pakistan was a painful one.  I had high expectations of my time there in Pakistan volunteering and now I was on my way home, not fulfilling my commitment to the Red Cross or my promise to myself.   I felt a lot of people were depending on me and I felt as though I had let them down.

“What’s on your mind, Muna?” asked my father while I sat gazing out the plane window trying to remember as much as I could about the past six weeks.

“Papa, what am I going to do now?  I have no plans or job for the rest of year,” I replied.

“Remember, Muna, the doctor said you’re still recovering.  You must take it easy and not be too hasty in returning to your everyday life.  It will take some time, but we’ll work it out.”

I smiled and gripped my dad’s hand tightly.  He had always been there for me, both of my parents had.   Even though I was eager to return to Canada and start living my life again, I knew my dad was right.

Not even a month went by before I was driving everyone in my household crazy.  I quickly recovered and was anxious about getting out of the house and getting a job.  My parents were pleased about my progress but reluctant to let me jump back into the life I had before leaving for Pakistan.

“Adesh, what about taking Muna with you to work tomorrow?  Let her do some things at your office.  Teach her a little bit about accounting in the real world,” prodded mama.

My dad smiled, “of course I will, azezatee, my darling.  Fine idea.  I’ll wake her early, 6:00am, after we return from early morning prayer and greeting at the Jamatkhana and take her to my office.  She will get out of the house and provide me some assistance during tax season!”

I was elated to accompany my father to work.   I was happy to ride along side with him for the forty-five minute commute to and from his office to break up the monotony that had become my life.  During every morning and evening commute, my father and I discussed life and family.  He taught me lessons of the accounting business beyond number crunching and tax preparation.  He showed me how to help his clients manage their assets, plan for their retirement and conduct internal reviews such as financial compliance.  And, it was by my father’s gentle urging that I use the time at his office to take a Canadian Securities Course and earn my tock broker’s certificate.  It wasn’t long before the disappointment of not completing my volunteer work in Pakistan had given way to a rekindled love, respect and friendship with my dad.  A strong bond had always been there between us however the relationship had grown dormant over the years through high school track meets, dances and part-time summer jobs that kept me busy and away from home.  A renewed relationship and bond was forged through mutual interests and a mutual respect, which both pleased and surprised us.

During one early morning commute, my dad and I were discussing my lifelong passion and decision to volunteer in Pakistan and my illness there.  He choked back tears as he described my lifeless and limp body.  As I lied there in that hospital bed, he watched me.  My body was motionless save for the respirator that pumped air into my lungs and kept me alive.  He visited me night after night pleading with Allah to let his beloved daughter come back to him.  Desperate for some sign that his daughter would once again open her doe like brown eyes, he would sit next to me, holding my hand and praying.  I watched the torment on my dad’s face as he detailed the weeks I was in a coma.  Twinges of remorse and sorrow settled in the craw of my stomach.  Reassuringly I held on to my father’s hand.  I noticed that the size of my hand nearly matched that of my dad’s.

The grasp of my dad’s loving, strong and soft hands made me feel safe and secure.  I knew that life for my parents hadn’t been easy, especially their life together living as Ismaili’s in their native Tanzania.  I was grateful my parents made the decision to leave Africa and raise their young family in Canada.  When they came to Vancouver, they were penniless and struggled to keep food on the table and the heat on during the bitter Canadian nights.  It was through long hours of hard work and the commitment my dad had for his family that kept us together.  In that moment, it was not only the nurturing and love my dad had for my brother and I but also the love and admiration he had for our mother that revealed what dedicated, undying and unconditional love really was.  I was hopeful to someday find a man to love me the way my father loved our mother.  I held his hand longer than I usually did and I felt warm tears form in the canals of my eyes, flow softly down my cheeks and drip off my chin.

The following morning at 4:30am, my parents made their way back from Drake Jamatkhana where they greeted others Ismailis for early morning prayer.  The mild August air was rich with the smell of freshly baked bread and cinnamon.  Bakers busily put out baked breads, cookies and muffins into the display case.  A strawberry cake, my favorite, caught my dad’s eye and impulsively he decided to buy it for our morning breakfast.

Attempting to open the bakery door, my dad heard, “I’m sorry sir, we don’t open until 5:00am.  Please come back then,” through the glass doors.

“Please sir, I’m on my way home and would like to buy that strawberry cake for my daughter.  Today is her birthday.”

The baker handed the boxed up strawberry cake to my dad and said, “Happy birthday to your daughter, sir. ”

“Thank you, sir, thank you so much!” replied my dad as he gathered the box in one arm and my mom’s arm in the other and they headed home.

At 5:30 that morning, my dad crept into my room.  For a time he watched me, breathing slowly and steadily as I slept peacefully.  I wonder if he thought how beautiful and serene I was, as he’d told me so many times before.  I bet he could hardly believe his little girl was 23.

“Muna, Muna, come downstairs Muna.  It’s your birthday.  I have a surprise for you!” he whispered in my ear attempting to rouse me.

“I’m tired papa. Please, let me sleep for five more minutes,” I replied sleepily with my eyes still closed.

“I have strawberry cake for you for your breakfast!” he said coaxingly.

“Papa, we can’t eat cake for breakfast!” I replied surprised, wondering if I’d heard him right.  I rolled over once more and attempted to drift back to sleep.

“Come on Muna! Come enjoy a slice of fresh strawberry cake.  The baker gave it to me just this morning for your birthday!”

“No papa.  I’m so sleepy.  Let me sleep,” I replied once more.

My father walked downstairs and greeted mama.

“It seems our daughter is not in the mood for strawberry cake this morning for breakfast.”

“Let her sleep in, Adesh!  It’s her birthday!  We’ll eat the cake later on,” replied mama.

I awoke to the smell of cardamom coming from the kitchen and realized I overslept.   I grabbed a quick bite of toast and Elaichi tea and ran out the door to the car where my dad was waiting for me.

“Good morning dear and happy birthday!” my dad said before kissing my caramel colored cheek.

“Thanks Dad,” I replied, and we were off.

On the way to work, I received a phone call from one of my friends inviting me out to happy hour after work in celebration of my birthday.  I eagerly accepted the invitation and told my dad I would not need a ride home that evening after work.

“Fine, fine,” said my dad.  “Remember we are all meeting at uncle Al’s for dinner.  Please meet us there after your date with your friends.”  I assured my dad I would.

After work, my friends came by the accounting office and picked me up.  My dad started off by himself on the commute home to collect mama and head over to my uncle Al’s house.

The affluence of our family was evident in the Mercedes, Lexuses and BMW’s that adorned my uncle’s driveway.  Members of my mother’s family were walking in and out of the house and children were running everywhere.

“Good evening Khal, good evening Khalah,” the children called out to my parents, their uncle and aunt, in Arabic as they walked through the door.”

The air was fragrant with the smells of a Middle Eastern barbeque.

“Mmmm…beef ribs,” my father said as he walked outside to the backyard barbeque.  My parents joined the family in the backyard.

“So, Adesh, where is your birthday girl?” asked my uncle.

“She’ll be around soon, Al.  She’s enjoying her birthday with her friends,” replied my dad hopeful I would walk through the door at that moment.

My family feasted on barbequed beef ribs, lemon and oregano lamb kebabs, herbed couscous and fresh summer melons.  It was the end of August and the hot summer days were nearly behind us.  My dad looked out onto the lawn and saw his lovely Fatma, my mother, sitting on a blanket talking and laughing with her sisters and thought she looked regal sitting there.  Fatma’s oldest sister, my aunt Madiha, and her family were visiting from Toronto.  My father was pleased they made the trip out west to see them.

My father crossed the patio, his belly full from the evening’s repast.  He could see splashes of blue, green, yellow and red in the sky from the children’s kites as they ran in sheer merriment in the vacant lot next to Al’s.  Time slowed for a moment.  I imagine my father looked at his watch, a gold Rolex we had given him that year for his fiftieth birthday.

“She’ll be here soon, Adesh,” said mama, knowing he was worried about how late I was.  “Here, lay down, habibi, my dear, mama said in Arabic patting her lap.

My father crouched down in front of mama, turned around and laid back upon her lap.  She lovingly stroked his hair while laughing and joking with her sisters.  My dad looked up at my beautiful mother.  In his eyes, she hadn’t changed a bit in the 26 years they’d been married.  My dad’s thoughts turned once more to me, as we shared the same elegance and grace and the same delicate soft brown eyes, like dark cocoa.  With one thoughtful glance, my father thought we could envelope anyone within sight in warmth like that of pure cashmere.   My dad closed his eyes.  He could still hear the children’s playful banter.  His eyes rolled back into his head before finally closing once more, and he was gone.

As I drove down the street to my uncle’s house, I could see the red flashing lights of an ambulance up ahead but I never dreamed it would be coming from Al’s house.  I parked on the street and ran up the drive.  The wails of my aunts, uncles and cousins gave way to the blaring sound of the ambulance’s siren.  I didn’t even know it was my father in the back of that ambulance until I was met at the front door by my brother Bairaj.

“Something is wrong with papa,” yelled Bairaj.  “The paramedics tried to resuscitate him but he didn’t respond.  We must go quickly to the hospital and meet the ambulance there.  Mama is with him in the ambulance.”

My brother and I jumped into his white, convertible sports car and we sped off to Lion’s Gate Hospital in West Vancouver where the ambulance had taken our parents.  When we arrived at the hospital, we were shuttled into a private room where our mother was meeting with a social worker and a member of our congregation.  Our mother’s eyes were glistening and puffy from crying and she looked distraught and frail sitting in a padded green desk chair with a coffee stain on the seat going over funeral arrangements.  At the age of 50, my mother’s beloved husband, our father’s, heart had simply stopped, without warning and without provocation.

We could not believe that in less than twelve hours, our father had silently passed away and had already been laid to rest.  My heart exploded with grief.  Tears streamed down my face and cascaded like tiny rivers.  I oscillated between moments of shock to anguishing sorrow.   My aunts, brother and I tried to console mama but she was exhausted from crying and didn’t have it in her to be strong.  I yearned for the touch of my father’s comforting hand on my shoulder and the sound of his melodious voice telling me that everything would be all right.  I collapsed in mama’s lap, trembling.   The guttural sounds of my sobs surprised me.  I tried in vain to focus on the last memory I had of my dad as I feared that memory would silently fade away just as my dad did that very evening.  Pangs of guilt and regret ravaged my body for not sharing that final commute home with him that afternoon as I had done nearly every day for the past year.

Upon entering our house, my body seemed to float behind my desperate eyes as they frantically searched for any sign of papa.  I followed their gaze through the entrance, past the staircase and into the kitchen where I imagined my father would be stirring a pot of tea on the stove.   Sitting on the counter of the kitchen was the strawberry cake my dad had so lovingly brought home for my birthday the day before.

It seems a cruel joke that my father was taken from me on the very day God gave me to him twenty-three years earlier.  Memories of my dad will always remain with me.  I honor those memories every year on my birthday with a slice of strawberry cake for breakfast.