The Green Bath

How is it that water can come UP out of the drain hole?  Generally, in Australia anyway, it goes down.  The Romanians clearly do it differently.

However, these were not my calm thoughts as I walked into the kitchen and spied water spilling from the kitchen sink up and over the brown 60’s bench tops and onto the slightly lighter-brown tiled floor, complete with chunks of gunk floating dangerously close to the wonderful white tiles with painted orange farm scenes on the built-in dining setting.  No, it was more like some very loud yelling starting with the letter after E.

Yet again I find myself on the phone to the landlord with a problem.  “Ah yes, well it is probably that de people below have deir washing machine on or sometind, it put the pressure up to your apartamente.”  Of course, had I not panicked I would have known this, obviously.

Nevertheless, as many times as I had had to call Stefan the landlord, equally as many times he had come to the rescue, 1813-tool kit in hand, to fix the problema.  He was a tall, strong man in his early 70s, triple by-pass near his top left pocket which meant he could have “only a little coffee – but don’t tell Mioawra” (his wife), great English for which he alone was responsible, and as heart as big as any I’ve known – he looked after us like a father does his firstborn when we lived there. This time, out of the 1813-tool kit, came a good old fashioned black rubber plunger.  And at the end of the job, a very sweaty Stefan. 

“I will stay close by in case it happen again”.  Hmm, confidence building.

 Another time the 1813 came out to play was when the hot water decided to stop working, in the middle of winter, in the middle of a shower, whilst gazing out the window at the ladies hand-shovelling at a metre of snow of the roads. 

This time, the magic 1813 produced a cream coloured box which had gone brown around the edges and cracked at the seams a little, with what I think my husband would call “live” wires protruding out at various points.  It was installed directly under the shower head. 

“Please please PLEASE make de box on before de water ok?”  I assume this was OH&S standards for the apartment I was following. I quickly worked out that I couldn’t whack something in the oven and have a quick shower while it cooked because the box would blow the fuse related to the kitchen every time.  This wasn’t a problem as I generally didn’t mix my cooking and bathing, however, somehow, in the intricate world of Stefan wiring, the lighting was in the mix too, which meant I all of a sudden was showering in complete and utter darkness.

This was an ongoing problem we had the whole time we were there, and the cause was road works.  I repeatedly translated the workmen’s conversations just to torture myself a little more: “Don’t worry mate, just keep digging till you hit the water pipe, that’s about the level we need to get to”.

One particular Friday, after my husband had been working horrendous hours on a horrendous job and had to begin everyday with a frozen shower, I thought I’d try and spoil him and relax him into the weekend.  I braved the F8 SuperTrolley (the supermarket) and picked out a few things to make us a nice meal.  I even managed to work out the Romanian word for Lavender and got a little pot to burn and make the house smell nice when he walked in.  I dropped in to see Grandma Floria and grumbled some bargaining with her, amidst scary shouting as she rounded up her Gypsy children and grandchildren running about the streets,  for some bright yellow Gerberas to greet him as he stepped in the door.

The dinner was underway, so I decided not to risk the magic cream box of live wires and just boiled some pots of water on the stove and ran the cold water to make a big full bath.  I placed candles around and turned off the lights in case the floor to ceiling lolly-pink tiles with matching toilet, bide and sink were too much for a sensitive head at the end of the working week.  One thing I’d forgotten – some bubble bath or salts.  Oh well.

He loved it.   I could see him instantly relax.  And he went straight to the bath while it was hot.  A second later he was shouting out from the bathroom as he got undressed “That looks nice babes, what did you put in the bath to make it green?”

I raced in:  Green it was.  “Romanian water Yumm, pure as it comes, just for you.”

Coke Baby

"I HAVE REPORTED YOU. YOU CANNOT GIVE A BABY FIZZY DRINKS IN A BOTTLE."
And out he thunders, scrubs adrift.
And in float the nurses to explain, ease, guide the situation.
"...Babies should not have carbonated drinks, only water or milk.... He's right, Coke after an operation will make your baby sick...." drifts through the 80s flowered-spangled curtain walls into our bedroom.
The nurses leave:  Let's say they less than float out, and rather they stiffly, clenchingly bump out, between the 15 or so family members trying to squeeze into the equivalent space of a large sink.  From my side of the curtain it looks like an extended family of cats wrestling under a vertical sheet. Until someone bursts through my curtain riding on the wheeled armchair straight into my baby's cot.
My husband is right to ask if I still have any friends in the ward the next morning. "PLEASE BE QUIET, YOU HAVE JUST WOKEN MY BABY" I copy, directly from the reporting doctor's tone.
I sit there in my plastic chair, or my bed, whichever way you want to look at the peeling blue pvc creeky semi padded upright thing I've lived on for the past week or so.  I think about different cultures and how Coke is nutritious in some. The buzz goes on and on, louder, softer, til the baby cries so much the nurse explains to the buzzers that it's time to let him sleep, after his major surgery, not play with his older sister.
Peace for a while.
More crying.  And some curtain fussing.  "What has he had to eat Mum?"
"...Some chips...Curry - how much?  Maybe ten spoons - no, this big spoon.... Just a little more fizzy drink, only a little... He is constipated, that is the problem, please give him something."
VOMIT.
With his crushed pelvis and upper legs in a cast it is very hard, not only to strain for extraction, then vomit out of nausea, but also to have a nappy changed.  More curtain fussing - pretty vigorous this time. Plus much huffing and whining.
Peace.
"Mum, we're preparing the bottles for the night feeds - what does he have, cow's milk or formula?"
"Chocolate milk."
"Noo, cows milk or formula?"
"Strawberry milk."
"COWS. MILK. OR. FORMULA?"
"What is this cow's milk?"

Saving Miss Molly

The first man told me he could see nothing wrong. “But bring her back in four hours and we’ll have another look.”

The next woman said it was usually nothing but we’ll do the standard blood tests and xray.

The next man, an hour’s drive away, said we’re going to operate. Now.

They said to sing to my limp six month-old baby as she fell off the precipice of consciousness and into emergency surgery.

The next man said we’ve cleaned her up, and now she’ll have medicine in her jugular for a month.

That man got out of his bed at 1am in the dead of winter, a year ago next week, to save our baby’s life. He came to visit the next morning. He looked like he could cry when he said to me “you’ve had a bad night hey? Is she not doing that well?”

At later bad news he did suggest a tear in my presence. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hide my worry…” I said I wouldn’t get through this with a doctor who didn’t show he cares.

We were "part of the furniture" they said, we were there that long. Women and men crowded around us like a pair of arms, carrying us, caring for us, showing us love while we were isolated from those who loved us. My baby floated upon their compassion, up and down, through needles, tubes, oxygen and isolation. They  dragged me when I stopped, heavy on the outskirts of their responsibility, crying, sleepless, insane and unsure.

‘Nurse’ and ‘doctor’ are silly words. These people have God in them. They save lives. They saved mine: Our baby survived.