It is busy at the day hospital. A hundred and sixty of us are waiting in a stuffy room, waiting for our names to be called. If they call you, it is into a little room where they first ascertain that life is still found in you. Machinery is plumbed into you by abrupt F-types, almost like automotive technicians doing diagnostics tests on the supposed black boxes of modern cars. Some are blunt, but a sheep dip isn’t an overtly emotional heaven.
She caught my eye, a little girl. Maybe eleven or twelve years of age. Wearing a Burkah. I don’t see her mom. Did she find a new way to bunk from school, then waste her day of liberty in an unpleasant environment where she knows nobody will even come looking for her?
I notice many old ladies smelling of saffron and cumin or other kitchen spices. Or of incontinence.
The dreary day draws on indefinitely. My name is called and I enter the consulting room. I am invited to sit. Then the little girl across the desk takes out her stethoscope from its hiding place under her Burkah. She is my doctor. A sweet little kid who says that “uncle” may drink coffee again. I contemplate putting her in my shirt pocket. So that she can be on call to defend my constitutional right to coffee, should another fully grown doctor decide otherwise. I almost said “thank you, my child.”
Another of her kind saved my son’s life one night. A few months later, she treats my chronic condition and I get the opportunity to thank her for extending my son’s life. In jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers, she appeared to be about thirteen, or fourteen at most. She could have been an identical twin to my daughter, when the latter was fourteen.
Looks can be deceiving.
Her room is lined with pictures of racing cars, rally cars, pipe cars and a go-kart. She has the best seat at the race track – behind the steering wheel. A plethora of silver cups and colourful medal ribbons testify of her acumen to hold it right. She is a menace, beating the boys at their own game. And reminds me of the quality female soldiers I had served with in the military. Most of the guys were of a still evolving species, homo erectus.
She sits across me, a very neatly packaged specimen and manicured, pedicured or just cured to perfection. A young professional lady that packs a bouquet of talents in a deceptively cute appearance. Here eyes tell me there is much more than meets the, er, eye. The mouth soon confirms this suspicion when she speaks her mind. The eyes are sweet, green I think, but it is the eye of the soul I sit staring at. So young, yet a little nuclear energy plant powering her strong inner drive, a creative visionary aided by a superior intellect. A young executive going places. An uncommon collection of gifts and talents combined with outward beauty. Yet this boardoom diplomat straps wings to herself and run off mountain cliffs. Icarus and Daedalus failed where she is triumphant. And she is only content with being at the top of the world. Which is where she climbs to, literally. Her spiritual wings are set for high altitudes.
Forty years ago, any or all of these would have been constrained to skirts and pianos. It is great to see that we have learned not to inhibit female power. My own wife has an unquenchable thirst for adventure, she is a pioneer in body and spirit. An overcomer and survivor, a true entrepreneur. An unstoppable business success only restrained by an acute lack of start-up capital. Yet she has succeeded greatly in the face of adversity.
My darlingmost wificle has opened my eyes to the tremendous inner power of Homo Sapiens (F). She gave birth to my two children, endured pain that would kill the toughest man in nine seconds flat.
And I love her, and only her, to bits.