I am fairly certain that this is my last entry on this blog. After all, I have been living back in the USA for nearly two months, and can no longer live up to the title!
To back up and start where Pocahontas syndrome left off (mid-July), my husband very sweetly decided to accompany me back to America after I left the hospital with my undiagnosed sickness. Truth be told, I’m fairly certain he thought I wouldn’t make it on my own. And he would have been right. He even insisted that I use a wheelchair, correctly believing that I couldn’t walk the long distances between airport terminals. Considering how long it took me to pack (it required frequent breaks where I just collapsed onto the nearest surface), it was a wise decision, no matter how mortifying the wheelchair had been at the time.
We arrived quite early at the airport, which was wise because it took them nearly an hour to find us seats together on our flight. I sat back, out of the way, head down, ignoring everyone who stared curiously at the young woman in a wheelchair and let my husband deal with the ticketing agents.
Our flight route was Mumbai-Delhi-Chicago, and the first leg was delayed. It was delayed long enough that we arrived at our gate in Delhi only a half hour before the flight was scheduled to take off. The transfer process had been quite unusual; at one point, I was required to sign the back of what was obviously a piece of scrap paper. We chalked it up to the wheelchair, but as we went through the ‘board the plane’ security line, I was pulled away and told I had to visit a security room on account of my suspicious baggage. Suddenly the odd behavior made sense; they were checking my identity.
A few months before, while at Elephanta Island, I had purchased a pair of lighters in the shape of guns. They were a gift for my dad. Fortunately, a friend had already warned me that they would set off the baggage security, and I thus knew immediately why I was being called to the security room. I was wheeled to an obscure elevator that led to a small room. My blue suitcase sitting front and center on a desk. Interesting that the Delhi airport caught wind of the guns but Mumbai let them through….
I fumbled around for the suitcase key, and then spent a panicked minute trying to figure out where the guns had been packed. Eventually I produced them, they checked them (oops, one had a TINY bit of lighter fluid still in it), we all had a good laugh, and my suitcase was zipped back up and I was wheeled back to the gate.
By this point, there were only a few minutes before the flight was scheduled to take-off and I was worried both that we wouldn’t be allowed to board and that there was no way on earth my suitcase would make the flight. But we were allowed on the plane, and, to my great surprise, my suitcase was ready to greet us in Chicago!
The flight itself wasn’t too bad because I actually managed to sleep. Usually I stay awake the entire flight, restless, thirsty, and twitchy. But I guess the weariness of my sickness was enough to help me sleep and the flight quickly ended.
We landed (early) and were told that customs/immigrations (whatever you have to go through to get back into the country) was closed and we’d have to wait for a few minutes/hour. Eventually we were able to deplane, and the line for the people in wheelchairs was much, much slower than the normal line. It was probably a full hour before I was wheeled to my poor worried mom.
We took a shuttle to her airport hotel (it was still only 6 am or so), napped, breakfasted, watched TV (I think my husband even worked out if I remember correctly) and then headed downtown for my doctor’s appointment.
The doctor visit was fun because my brother-in-law is a doctor, too, so he showed up to the appointment. It was just like how I should have arrived to the hospital in India- loaded down with family. Everyone else in the waiting room was alone, like I had been at my Mumbai check-in. So much better to be with people who care about you!
The appointment went fine; he drew more blood, looked over my paperwork, and told me I could stop taking the extremely strong antibiotics I had been on (they gave me horrible stomach and nausea issues). Of course, he didn’t know what was wrong with me, either, but hazarded a guess of viral meningitis. So that is what I am sticking with. The symptoms fit, and though I’ll never know exactly what I had, it is good to have at least a best guess.
The downside of meningitis, the doctor told me, is that it can take up to a full year to regain my energy levels. Think of it as a temporary chronic fatigue syndrome. So that isn’t fun. It has now been nearly two months since my sickness, and though I am not as pathetically weak as before, I still require about ten hours of sleep a day and cannot walk a mile without heavy panting and exhaustion.
As for the blood work, it is mostly fine. My white blood cell count is oddly elevated (but not to a scary cancer level or anything). Apparently it is the ‘total count’ that is high, not one individual type of blood cell (there are five types). And it is only elevated by 10%. Nonetheless, I am being sent to a special infectious disease doctor to make sure everything really is okay.
Anyhow, we had flown in early on the 12th, and my husband had to return to India on the afternoon of the 13th. Mom and I would drive him to the airport, and then head back home to Michigan. The morning of the 13th was awkward. I was awaken by my husband, who told me that Mumbai, the city we had been living in for the past six months, had just been bombed in three different places.
It was an odd feeling; I do believe my first feeling was sadness, but then very closely followed by relief for us and our friends and family that we weren’t there at the time. Imagine that. The ONE day my husband wasn’t in India was the day it was bombed. Of course, today, the day I am writing this entry (well, the first draft of it, at least), the Delhi High Court was bombed, too. So I guess it is just becoming a normal part of living in India.
We were all slightly incredulous that my husband decided to get back on that plane a few hours later, but he did. Mom and I, on the other hand, headed back to a wonderful home surrounded by lush green trees.
I’ve spent the past two months in America, living at home with my parents, and I am so incredibly happy. It is like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I think, after all those months in India, I had completely forgotten how it feels to just be normal and happy without being so darn irascible!
Sure, India had some benefits- my skin was never dry and my fingernails were nice and strong, but it also requires two showers a day, permanent greasy hair, and acne that sprouts up everywhere. As I’ve never been one to enjoy painting my nails and showers, Michigan and Chicago definitely win on the weather-changing-your-skin category!
I can drive my own car, thank goodness. No more driver in terrifying (or stopped) traffic.
I came home and bought short skirts. I bought tops that showed a bit of cleavage. It is amazing how much happier a person can be, simply by wearing clothes they deem as ‘normal for summer’. No more jeans in 90°F weather for me!
I’ve learned to smile again, and look people in the eyes. I spent so much time hiding from the freaky creepy men who stare at you that I forgot to just be my normal, smiley self. No one has followed me since I’ve been back home in America! It used to be a normal part of life in India.
So what did I learn in India?
As a child, my favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz. After all of her adventures, Dorothy still just wants to go home. Yes, she made great new friends, gets to hang out in Technicolor rather than black and white, and have fun in the city of Oz, but still, at the end, she knows that “if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with.”
I can’t change who I am. I am an American and Michigander and I learned that no matter where you take me, I will always have America and Michigan nearest and dearest in my heart.
There’s no place like home.
