Musings of an Aunty on an Unforgettable Day in San Francisco

In 1995, my youngest was still with us in Kobe, and so, by default, she moved with us to Bangalore. She graduated there and wanted to pursue psychology at York University in Toronto.

Bangalore was then an unknown, enigmatic dot on the southern tip of India. Our cottage-like, non-AC airport was near a swamp and, by early evening, swarming with bee-sized mosquitoes. A podium doubled as an immigration counter behind which stood inexperienced and confused officers checking the passengers of the few local flights both in and out.

Our projected route to Toronto was a small, dingy aircraft to Bombay (not Mumbai yet); a few hours in transit, then on to Taiwan; again, several hours' stopover; followed by the long, connecting flight to San Francisco, with a lengthy layover scheduled. Then prepare oneself for the many more hours of shared cabin space and breathing air before making it to Vancouver.

There, with Thai passports, we'd inevitably be interrogated as to the who, why, and what of our desired entry into Canada. Then, we would board the small local aircraft to finally reach Toronto.

The underlying problem here is I am not good with confined spaces, never have been, never will be; and to be shut in/shut out for such extended hours was beyond me. But she was our baby, and dropping her at the threshold of her new life was indisputable; that's what parents do (or are supposed to do).

Subsequently, we bequeathed upon ourselves a two-day extended stopover at San Francisco as a bonus of touring a new city. A safe and sound plan, but "man proposes and God disposes" isn't just a cliché; it's His way of saying, "I HAVE THE FINAL WORD."

So, on that balmy, sunny morning in San Francisco, we got out of the cab and, as we were getting onto the rather high sidewalk... I tripped! I flew like a wingless eagle and landed splat on my chest with the specs digging into my face. I was very woozy, and there wasn't a choice but to head to the nearest E.R.

Please do keep in mind I was arriving at an emergency ward in San Francisco and not the Bumrungrad Hospital E.R. There was nobody to smile and say sawasdee or wheel me in; hubby dear and daughter physically hauled me in.

Then I was plonked onto one of the very many narrow beds scattered helter-skelter in a chaotic and hyper-active emergency ward.

I don't recall anyone coming to look me over and, unaccustomed to taking charge of the situation, hubby dear and daughter hovered over me nervously and helplessly. So, despite the stupor, I had hubby dear pop me pills from the ever-present, emergency homeopathy kit, which eventually swept away the fogginess of the brain violently jostled from the fall.

It's more than 25 years hence and I'm none the worse, but for the dent over my brows from the smashed specs and a warped ring I wore on the hand that helped break my fall. They are reminders of those brief hours that I lay in a stupor, in a foreign country, alongside perfect strangers, with no distinction of color, religion, or status, but as part of a collective human suffering.

I couldn't open my eyes or focus, and though in a haze, I could hear, and what I heard was beyond overwhelming and heartrending. I listened to an addict's incessant, nonsensical blabber and the incoherent shouting of the blonde, tall man in the orange jumpsuit and the clanging of his handcuffs against the bed's metal railing.

I heard the moans and groans of gashed people and many more lying bloodied and dazed. Street brawls and violence? Victims or perpetrators? I was aware of a young Black girl hobbling in on one leg, the other dangling loose; the refrigerator fell on her.

But more and above, my heart goes out to the strength and courage I witnessed of the nurses and doctors working with frenzied urgency under extreme duress; scurrying to be everywhere and with everybody; with more emergencies pouring in by the minute and yet maintaining the calm necessary to do things correctly.