There’s a lot lost in translation between the surgeon and myself. He is kind, and clearly trying his best to be clear. I’m not interested in stiffness, he says, I want to know if you are in pain. That depends what you mean by pain, I want to say but don’t. Can you still do what you usually do? he continues, you know, like go shopping, see friends and have a nice time? We laugh about it outside, he eating his sandwich and me my apples. The surgeon’s vision of what women do all day is evidently based on what his Muslim culture has shown him. And he misunderstood my hesitation about the operation. We will teach you to climb the stairs, he says. Yeh, but, I should’ve said, what about all the things that I do, need to do, to keep my life and his life in order. But I didn’t. He was a powerful presence and I was over-awed, so much so that I seem to have agreed to further tests.
