Tuesday, 29 May 2012

The day the radiologists left...by Naomi Elana Zener

Thanks to McGuinty, Matthews and the CMA,
For diagnoses Ontarians must now dearly pay.
Instead of the radiologists trained on the taxpayers dime,
Scans and images sent to Bangalor to be read on Indian Eastern Time.
Deep in the bowels of a call center factory,
An abdominal ultrasound is read for a blocked artery.
You dial a 1-800 number, the call is toll free,
Anxiously on hold for the diagnosis awaiting thee.
"Hello you've reached tele-radiology India," an automated voice chimes,
Presented with a panoply of numeric choices like kids' nursery rhymes.
"Press 1 for CT scans, 2 for MRI,"
"3 for PET imaging, 4 for scans without contrast dye."
Selection once made links to a seasoned phone operator,
Deja vu hits, is this who you called to fix your refrigerator?
Once sorted and your scan retrieved by the man behind the curtain,
He tells you quickly you have serious problems, of this he is certain.
"Oh no!" you gasp fearing the hand of the grim reaper,
"Your hard drive has crashed," he advises, "but the problem runs deeper.."
"I called about my abdominal ultrasound," you say quite vexed,
"Oh sorry, this is Apple help desk," IT man replies perplexed.
He patches you through to his groggy medical phone neighbour,
On call for five days straight paid ten cents an hour for his labour.
"Is this an actual doctor to whom I'm speaking?"
You manage to gasp between sobs as you're weeping.
"I am board certified radiology doctor" you are told with passion,
As you listen your facial expression has now turned ashen.
For the voice in your ear is closer than you first realised,
It hails from your cab driver, on his blackberry he's capitalized.
As a new immigrant to Canada with a medical degree,
With no hospital jobs available, he must drive a taxi.
"Oh yes I will help you fear not my sick patient!"
Without realizing to him you are almost adjacent.
Hanging up quickly, throwing change at the driver and jumping from the car,
You run quickly in search of liquor at the closest bar.
En route you stop for a slurpy at the nearest 7-11,
Parched from thirst and certain you're en route to heaven.
"You are such a mess," advises the cheery quicky-mart employee,
With a voice reminiscent of the one from whom you just had to flee.
He says condescendingly: "your drink gives you slushy of the liver!"
To which you reply "Deb Matthews I hope that you drown in a river!"
Fed up with your tax dollars so unwisely spent,
A medical system broken and unhelpful left to lament.
Tax evasion not an option for orange is not your colour,
You exchange your Canadian currency for the US dollar.
Escape to the United States for medical help is your only option left,
For Ontario's "universal health care" is a misnomer that has left you bereft.

© 2012. Naomi Elana Zener. All rights reserved.

When We Arrived in Toronto by Naomi Elana Zener

My life was borne into a legacy of adversity, fractured psyches and tormented parentage. Emerging from the womb to be welcomed by the overjoyed residents of a displaced persons' camp two years after my parents were released from the shackles of the Holocaust, was a transcendent moment. Having bore witness to so much death for so many years and enslaved in a gated community of barbaric horrors not knowing when death would beckon, my new little life reinvigorated both my parents’ and the camp's residents' shared belief that good could exist in the world. When we parted ways with our newly cobbled together transient family four years later to start over in the New World, hearts ached, but they were also filled with hope at the prospect of a renaissance for my family.

Immigrating to Canada created a huge sigh of relief and the weight of the past was lifted from our beleaguered shoulders. Only speaking a smattering of Polish and Yiddish, we were excited at the prospect of learning English and becoming ensconced in our new identities as Canadians. While the war was over, my parents past lives were not quite lost, as the memories of their pre-war existences lingered and reminded them daily who they had been, and commanded them to remember where they came from.

We arrived in Toronto as a family of five, my aunt and uncle and my parents and I. We moved into a small house in a working class community inhabited by immigrants at Dufferin and St. Clair. To supplement our meager financial worth, my parents took in borders. Thus, we lived cramped in two rooms on the top floor of the house.

Despite the cruel beginnings we were very happy as immigrants generally are in a land of opportunity. As days passed and we became more Canadian, our lives were lifted with the humour of being aliens treading water in our new homeland. Colourful is one way to describe a family. Comical is the word to encapsulate mine. Acclimatizing to Canadian life provided much needed comic relief from the daily doldrums of being poor immigrants. My parents attempted to mold us into being a perfect ‘Canadian’ family predicated upon the wealthy families they heard about on the radio. Determined that I be a well-mannered child who only spoke when spoken to, my mother, who worked as a housekeeper for a Rosedale family, was driven to teach me how to act based on her observations at her employer’s home. Much was lost in translation.

"Today you learn to answer phone," my mother instructed. "Now we pretend I call you. What you say when you answer?"

"Yellow, this is our house. Want to talk to me?" I replied.

“Goodt mienne kint!” my mother exclaimed.

“In the English,” I reminded her.

“Good, good,” she said.

My presence at school was always a welcome distraction for the other students. If my two cherished hand-sewn patchwork dresses, which made me resemble Raggedy Ann, did not set me apart sufficiently from the other girls in their pleated skirts and sweaters, my breakfast surely did.

“What is that smell?” one boy asked.

“Is herring,” I replied.

“What is herring?” a girl asked.

“Fish. What you eat for breakfast?” I asked.

“White toast with butter and milk,” the chorus of children replied.

“Is there alcohol in here?” the teacher asked me sniffing around my breakfast. “Your breakfast reeks! Did you bring alcohol to school?”

“No alcohol!” I exclaimed.

“What is that liquid around your herring?” the teacher asked hesitantly pointing at my fish.

“Vodka!” I said.

Of course my teacher did not realize that vodka was a staple in my clan’s cooking, nor could she understand that it was more readily available in our homeland than clean water. That day I was sent home with a note from my teacher instructing my parents never to send me to school with drunk fish for breakfast. Needless to say, the teacher’s witticism was lost on my parents who continually repeated to me that they never sent me to school drunk. From then on, when grocery shopping with my mother, I would always make sure we bought a package of white Wonder Bread and I took that to school, throwing out the inebriated herring en route.

Like all doting parents who wish to improve their child’s lot in life by providing them with the best education possible, my mother and father took an active role in assisting me with my homework. Their favourite pastime was ‘helping’ to ready me to conquer my weekly spelling bee, as they were ardent believers that through me they would speak English as well as they spoke Yiddish.

“Will you please spell the word ‘liquid’,” the teacher instructed me.

“L, I, K, W, O, O, D,” I replied. The class roared with laughter.

“Did you hear me correctly?” the teacher asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Please spell that one more time,” the teacher requested.

“L, I, K, W, O, O, D,” I replied.

The teacher simply sat there dumbfounded. After class, she told me that I would have extra tutoring sessions with her until my spelling improved. I was sent home with another teacher’s note suggesting that my parents enroll in ESL classes and dispense with assisting me with my homework. While my English improved slowly as I attended school, my parents’, aunt’s and uncle’s mastery of it was frozen in time like that of a Neanderthal cryogenically preserved in Arctic ice.

The food and spelling foibles illustrated how my family and I stuck out like drunk fish out of our former eastern European waters. Although we were different from our Canadian counterparts, we slowly realized that we shared a similar migratory experience with other ethnic families. Our cultural and religious differences aside, everyone shared the same desire to provide their families with greater opportunities than the non-existent ones afforded to them in their former homelands. My other immigrant peers would understand that my spelling of these new foreign English words made sense and while they did not eat vodka infused fish at home, their traditional dishes were equally normal to them and bizarre to the other children in our class. At least I was able to laugh with my classmates about my alcoholic fish rather than be laughed at for eating “moose-caca” like my Greek friends.

Being of limited means, everything we owned was precious, from our underwear to our food, water and our electricity. Nothing was to be lost, wasted or overused. Only when I was a grown woman did I understand that material items could be replaced and that apart from art and one’s health, not everything was priceless. With our home being old and operated as a rooming house, the plumbing suffered from its own unique arthritic condition, disabling us from flushing the toilets more than twice in an hour. I recall one dinner in particular where the kugel and brisket were plentiful and the Stolichnya was free-flowing when suddenly my aunt had to run to the washroom to relieve her poor stomach from the effects of imbibing one shot of vodka too many.

“Oy vey kill me now!” my aunt shrieked at the top of her lungs.

“What is the matter?” my uncle yelled running to the bathroom still grasping the vodka bottle with my mother and father in tow.

“Gone! I’ve lost them,” my aunt replied looking up at my uncle with a toothless mouth.

“What is gone?” my mother asked.

“My TEETH!” she screamed.

“Where did they go?” my father asked.

“In there,” my aunt cried pointing at her dentures submerged in a toilet layered with an hour’s worth of bowel excretions and my aunt’s vomit.

“Oh shit!” my uncle yelled. “No one flush!”

“Get them out of there!” my aunt cried.

“Who left shit in toilet and did not flush?” my father inquired rhetorically.

I watched as my parents, aunt and uncle devised a search and rescue plan to retrieve the dentures bogged down in the floating swamp. Armed with rubber gloves and a spatula, the dentures were excavated without the benefit of modern-day GPS. To celebrate the victory of unearthing these priceless teeth, everyone partook in a shot of vodka, myself included.

“Give me the bottle,” my aunt commanded.

“You want a drink?” my uncle asked.

“No! To pour on teeth to clean them,” she replied.

“I’m not wasting good vodka on your teeth,” my uncle stated stumbling back towards the kitchen. “Rinse them in the sink!”

Not one to take direction from any man, my aunt grabbed the bottle from my uncle’s hand and emptied its precious contents over her dentures. I stood in awe, watching my aunt place her dentures back into her mouth unsure if I should throw up, or confess that I was the one who had forgotten to flush the toilet before my aunt inadvertently sent her teeth on a marshy cruise.

Notwithstanding the broken ‘Yid-lish’ my family spoke or their imbibing vodka like water, they believed that nothing would make them more Canadian than obtaining a driver’s licence. Green horns like them knew nothing of cars, as roads in the Old Country were built for walking, whether by human foot or horse hoof. Licences in hand, their collective jubilation over being somewhat emancipated from their √©migr√© past, motivated them to never ride the bus again. Scrimping and saving allowed the four of them to cobble enough savings to buy the oldest, most worn out car. Had it been a horse it would have been shot to put it out of its misery. Like a newborn baby, this car was more precious than anything else in their lives. Whenever anyone took it out for a spin, my father demanded a detailed oral report on the distance traveled, weather conditions during the duration of the excursion, number of passengers in the car and tire pressure, including confirmation that both hands were on the wheel at all times in ‘clockwise’ position. The fear of god was struck into the hearts of my mother, aunt and uncle that should anything untoward happen to this car, hell would have no fury like that of my Partisan father scorned. Although an adolescent, I was not allowed to drive. I sat on the sidelines entertained by the spectacle that this car created on a weekly basis.

“I did bad thing with car,” my mother sobbed to my aunt and I in a whisper.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The car goes to jail now!” she cried.

“What you mean jail?” my aunt asked.

“I parked car in front of grocery store yesterday. When I come back, it has yellow ticket and polizia said it has to go to ‘court.’ What means this ‘court’?” she inquired.

“You go there before jail,” my aunt replied.

“Oy vey! Now car is going to jail and your father kill me!” she wailed.

“No one is going to jail,” I said grabbing the ticket from my mother’s clutches. “This is a parking ticket. You either pay a fine or go to court to fight it.”

Conspiring to hide this ticket from my father, my mother’s and aunt’s Holocaust mentality spurred their resolve to fight, not to mention the fact that the fine was equivalent to the price of making borscht. I was tasked with being their lawyer. Nervously awaiting our court date, my mother prepared by repeating her explanation for the judge as to why she should not have to pay the ticket. Then the fateful day arrived when the time for rehearsals expired.

“Next case, number 505-11. Would counsel for Mrs. Wyzo…Wzso… um...Ethel come forward?” the clerk asked stumbling to pronounce our last name.

“If they can no say my name, maybe we leave, they don’t even know it is me?” my mother suggested in a whisper as she sat anxiously holding my aunt’s hand.

“I am here for my mother,” I replied as I hoisted up my cowardly mother.

“On August 22nd, did you get a parking ticket?” the judge asked my mother.

“Not guilty!” she said defiantly.

“I did not ask you how do you plead. I asked if you got a parking ticket,” the judge said.

“Not guilty,” my mother repeated.

“Could you please instruct your mother to answer the question,” the judge ordered me.

“Ma, he is not asking if you are guilty. He just wants to know if you were given a parking ticket. Yes or no is how you answer,” I explained.

“Not guilty,” my mother exclaimed.

“Ma’am, did you park in front of a hydrant?” the judge asked.

“Not guilty!” she cried.

“Your honour, I am prepared to call the parking enforcement officer to testify that he gave her the ticket. Can we proceed past this?” the Crown attorney queried.

“I am from Holocaust! I was in a camp and made guns for Nazis for three years! My husband bombed Nazi trains. I not afraid of polizia!” my mother screamed at the Crown attorney. “NOT GUILTY!”

“Given that this parking ticket carries a fine of two dollars, I am going to exercise my judicial discretion and dismiss it,” the judge ordered.

“Thank you your honour,” I said as I ushered my victorious mother beaming with pride out of the courtroom.

When we returned home, my mother’s and aunt’s elation was too great to contain. Despite the fact that my mother’s survivor instincts for weeks enabled her to ferret away any specter of evidence of the parking ticket from my father, her triumph over the judicial system gave way to her revealing her coveted secret in order to regale my father and uncle with my brilliance and future career as a lawyer.

Coming to Canada equipped with nothing and striving to acquire everything opened my eyes to see to what lofty heights I could soar in a way that my Canadian-born friends and eventually siblings with their rose-coloured glasses could not. Never could any of my non-immigrant friends or siblings comprehend why we ate herring for breakfast or why my aunt simply did not have new dentures made when hers went diving in fecal shark infested waters. Despite this lack of understanding, my settler childhood was idyllic for being an immigrant did not set me apart in a shameful way, but rather uniquely prepared me to appreciate what I had and what I would eventually achieve. The immigrant experience enriched my life with a unique patchwork tapestry of experiences tightly woven together molding me into a true Canadian.
© 2012. Naomi Elana Zener. All rights reserved.