The Angry Typist

CONTENT WARNING: This blog post contains graphic descriptions of burn injuries, including details about skin damage, blistering, charring, and pain. This may be disturbing or triggering for some individuals. Proceed with caution or refrain from reading if there is sensitivity to this type of content.

Bàbà’s wailing haunted the dimly lit stairwell like a shadow, growing more faint as Māmā carried me down the three flights of white square tiled stairs to the taxi. The night air was still with solemnness. Even the bitter coldness seems to have subsided to make way for us. Haphazardly wrapped in bandages and swaddled in a blanket, we were on our way to the emergency room. The faux leather seats of the cab were cool to the touch and the air inside was filled with an unspoken anxiousness. Māmā held me on her lap and my head took refuge on her thin small shoulder. My arms hung limply on either side of her and my head raised ever so slightly to glance out the rearview window, mesmerized by the amber street lights whisking by, one after another and another. The rhythm created a much-needed bit of tranquility, leaving behind all the pandemonium in the flat.

***

I remember, it was in the middle of a particularly harsh winter’s day in Hong Kong when reports of snow were being forecasted by the local news. Americans run out to stock pile milk and bread whereas islanders stock pile thermal underwear and space heaters. I’m not certain what that reflects of our cultural priorities but there you have it. It would be of course this day that the building’s water heater had elected to go on strike … again. The lack of hot water during the winter months was such a regular occurrence, Māmā had stocked piled a large arsenal of thermoses to transport boiling hot water from the kettle into the bathtub. But Bàbà was tired of making multiple trips with the half dozen small thermoses and was determined that a much larger capacity thermos was in order to get through the winter. 

So, we bundled up in our thermal long underwear, wool turtle necks, sleeveless vest, thick wool winter coats, hats, and mittens. Looking back, we could have probably survived winter in Calgary but for native islanders, mid-20s °F might as well be -50°F. Like many of the local residents of the bustling little island, we didn’t own a car. Instead, we relied heavily on taxis, double decker buses, electric trams, and ferries. We took a taxi and it triple-parked itself right in front of the large discount store. The four of us had to comically scamper out and maneuver through two other rows of illegally parked cars before reaching the sidewalk – a standard urban obstacle course which all locals skillfully negotiate. With an effortless lift, Bàbà carried me in one arm with Māmā and Gēgē close behind.  His near 6’ Mongolian frame, broad shoulders, and square jaw was the ideal perch for me to observe the other shoppers moving in unison like packs of ants huddled on a piece of freshly dropped candy.

The double automatic sliding doors swished open and almost immediately, all the senses were simultaneously assaulted with sounds, fragrances, and bright lights. It was reminiscent of going to Chuck E Cheese on a Saturday full of birthday parties during the night before Christmas at Walmart. There were four-rolls of escalators separated by faux porcelain-white stairs, two on each side in the center of the store. Today, there were no allowances made for riding up and down the escalators for entertainment, because today Bàbà was on a mission! He briskly walked about the cavernous showroom weaving in and out of stagnant groups of people, Māmā and Gēgē struggling to keep pace. The number of shoppers in combination with the heating made it feel as if we were all shopping in a convection oven, just basting in our own sweat. Bàbà slowed down for a brief moment then sped up and marched straight over to a center display of a particularly large thermos at half the cost of others, a fraction of its size. The extra, extra, super-sized thermos was about the size of me, minus the limbs and the head. It was a matte putrid green with a shiny faux-stainless steel cap which doubled as a cup. The thermoses were assembled one on top of the other forming a pyramid shape. On the back of the display, portions were left in boxes for customers to take without disturbing the delicate balance of the extra, extra, super-sized thermos pyramid. Bàbà was delighted with his find and we couldn’t get home fast enough to test out his successful bargain find. 

Riled up from our shopping trip, Gēgē and I ran around the house hollering and carrying on while waiting for the water to boil. I had already stripped down to a single thermal long sleeve shirt and underwear, skipping and singing, waiting for my bath. Māmā had already changed into her house clothes with many layers, topped off with a bed jacket as Hong Kong flats in the 70s seldom had central climate control of any kind. Electric fans stave off the intolerable tropical summers and a space heater fended off seeing one’s own breath in the winter. 

Māmā was very apprehensive of the bargain purchase. She had lost one too many thermoses that winter when the glass vacuum bottle inside the metal shell abruptly ruptured with the sudden introduction of piping hot water. The lid of the kettle began to do its little jig, steam pushed robustly though its puckered spout, and before long the whistling for it to be relieved of its fiery stage grew increasingly louder. Māmā quickly removed the kettle off the stove and cautiously filled the thermos half way, waited with bated breath for any malicious retaliation. She methodically repeated the step until she was fully satisfied that the anticipated danger would not transpire and began her pilgrimage from the kitchen to the bathroom, carrying the extra, extra, super-sized thermos filled to the brim with freshly piping hot boiled water. Māmā slowly passed through the eat-in kitchen surfacing from behind the curtains. I merrily skipped over to meet her. It’s difficult to recall the specific instance but I do not think I had taken more than half a step alongside her before an ear splitting crackle rang out. I instantly froze like a game of red light green light. My mind desperately tried to discern what the sound was. Where did it come from? What had shattered? Then a sudden onslaught of extreme warmth coated my arm to arouse me back into the moment. A split-second of razor-sharp biting pain erupted. Then nothing. Like a light switch, all the feelings in my left arm were gone. I watched helplessly as the small explosion launched projectiles of glass shards and piping hot water wherever gravity willed it.    

Māmā let out an unnerving cry that spurred Bàbà running out of the bathroom, eyes-wide, bathing bubbles dripping down his large hairy arms from washing Gēgē. The dark wood floors were blanketed in glass shards, like diamonds mindlessly tossed to reflect the light. Scorching hot water spread out invasively across the floor and I can remember quietly observing the steam rising against the chilled air in the living room. I marveled its formless beauty dancing, defying gravity. I stood there motionless, stunned, robotically holding out my left arm. 

Without a word, Bàbà rushed over and gently placed me on the lime green leather sofa as if he was setting a fractured egg back into its carton. He busied himself fetching the broom and dustbin from the cupboard and upon his return, was unable to meet my eyes. Bàbà intensely distracted himself by herding all the glass bits into the dustbin – back and forth, back and forth he swept, but it was a fruitless effort as the impact of the explosion rendered some fragments to the consistency of finely milled powder. At first, Bàbà made efforts to hush his sobs, his head hung low, his chin touching his chest, his face shielded away from me. But as he swept, back and forth, back and forth, muffled cries escaped him with every passing stroke of the straw broom, and eventually he howled with open sorrow, and tears fell like rain, splashing down joining the existing puddles. It made me uneasy to witness ordinarily a stoic man, the looming masculine figure in my life, who had surrendered to his emotions so freely and without restraint. His reaction alluded to that this perhaps cannot be simply resolved with a Hello Kitty band aid and a peck on the forehead. 

Māmā’s ritual of layers upon layers of clothing absorbed all the scalding hot water like a shield and spared her from any harm. The carcass stench of boiled human flesh can be best described as an unorthodox merger of fresh game meat and raw fish. But it was neither of those things, it was my left arm which was still being brought to a slow simmer in the sleeve soaked full of blistering hot water. Everything seemed surreal, as if I was watching the documentary of some other very unfortunate little girl’s life. Māmā resurfaced with dry clothing and mindlessly pulled my thermal top off, over my head as she did a thousand times. However, this time layers of well-done skin on my left arm went with it. It just peeled off like the skin of a banana. There was a sudden rush of brittle chill that came over me, causing my teeth to chatter and shiver uncontrollably. The towel she had at the ready fell from her grasp. At last, her faculties failed her and she stood there pasty white, immobile, stricken with fear as human skin was dangling from the inside of my sleeve. I stared down at what skin was left of my arm. It was a misshapen, wrinkled pasty-white mess with a dirty dish water undertone, unapologetically gawking back at me. My eyes glanced back at the skin still dangling from the shirt and I reflected back to the semi-transparent epidermis, and it was only at this moment that the gravity of the situation dawned on me. And it was then that I burst into loud wailing tears.

When we arrived at the hospital the waiting room was vastly empty. They led us to a treatment room right away and I sat on a maroon padded gurney set flush against the wall. The room was dim in an odd quiet serenity, flowing white curtains enclosed the space. A nurse peered out from behind the curtains and handed me a cup of orange liquid. It was in a small clear plastic Dixie-sized cup which fit into my remaining unscathed hand rather comfortably. “Drink it, it’s orange soda” the nurse coaxed with a gentle smile. I hesitated for a moment but quietly complied. I wrinkled my nose to gesture my objection to the ruse but I was too emotionally spent to do much more.  It tasted a lot like watered down Kool aid with not quite enough sugar, mixed with a lemon-sour after taste. The nurse retrieved the cup out of my hand softly and shifted my legs up on the gurney, patting the area to lay my head. She raised the side rails and gestured to Māmā to follow her to the other side of the curtain. I laid down stiffly, on my right side, avoiding any movement to my left. I remember clutching the railings pulling myself close to eavesdrop on the conversation. The nurse disappointedly was quite adept at whispering so I only caught bits and pieces, “… the drink will help alleviate any pain that she may be in and help her sleep. Then we can assess the severity of the burn without causing any further distress …”

‘AH-HA! I knew it wasn’t stinking orange soda!’ I thought triumphantly to myself. All I remembered after that was waking up the next day in the children’s burn ward with my left arm completely bandaged from armpit to just past the knuckles. And for a period of the following two years, I had grown accustomed to being left alone for weeks at a time, fending off homesickness in the hospital. 

I remember the obnoxious smell of antiseptics paired nicely with the large stark white square tiled floors to present a sterile environment. For young children, the two-man room seemed cavernous and filled with much too much emptiness especially when our parents departed at the end of visiting hours. The sun shone brilliantly through the picture framed windows extending from the ceiling to the floor, facing the courtyard below, ricocheting its radiance off the floor, forcing one to squint at the height of the afternoon.

The pediatric burn ward spread over a wing all on its own; segregated from the general pediatric ward. We were reassured time and time again that with our severe burns we were more susceptible to infections and other ailments, therefore it was for our protection to be shielded away from the illnesses freely lingering about the hospital. However, even at five, I was doubtful of the explanation and concluded that we were hidden from the outside world due to our collective physical deformities. The ghastly scars of charred or boiled flesh and skin, wrapped in bandages, a few inhibited from a normal range of motion, would give anyone a fright at first glance – no matter how unobtrusively little we were.

The unusually bitter winter in Hong Kong sparked a flurry of young scalding victims in the burn ward. The insipidus hot water which clung on to my arm like molasses at the North Pole – instantly scorching the tender skin as it allowed gravity to aid its efforts parading downward across my skin, also claimed the tender flesh of many others. The surgeon who tended to me had just returned from America after learning a new technique to help burn victims called skin grafting. Skin was surgically removed from my left outer and inner thigh to replace all the dermis which had been boiled off.

Despite having to endure the procedure twice, I would have gladly endured a third if it meant not being stranded in the hospital for weeks at a time. The hospital sat on top of the hill in the neighboring island of Kowloon and all of the children were assigned rooms on the left-hand side of the hall, overlooking a well-maintained English garden. During lunch hour, it was always fascinating to gawk at the die-hard smokers braving the frigid temperatures to feed their addiction, taking long drags from quivering fingers. A bright red speck at the end of the cigarette followed by a puff of white smoke was a calming rhythm to observe.

The rooms on the right side of the hall overlooked the Kowloon Bay. Unlike our rooms, these rooms were much more intimate. It had a single bed in it which almost overtook the room in its entirety, a hospital white metal nightstand, and along the top of the wall were narrowed rectangular windows. In the evenings, the life and lights of Hong Kong looked like thousands of finely painted stars set against a pitch-black canvas.

Māmā visited every day, always bearing gifts. Either it was my favorite sweets or some new doll or story books, the momentary escape from the bleak reality was given and taken thankfully. By the second week in the hospital I had taught myself how to read an analogue clock so that I knew when visiting hour started and when it ended. Unlike some of the other children, I rarely made a scene when visiting hours came to a close. Rather I always assumed a neutral pleasant demeanor as I sensed that Māmā could not withstand my tears of heartache every time I was left alone amongst strangers in starchy white uniforms. As the second hand closed in on the hour, I found my inside draining all its contents as Māmā reluctantly gathered her things. There’s this indescribable feeling of growing chasm where my heart should be. As if a vacuum of nothingness sprouts from the inside over taking the outside like an evasive mold on a piece of bread. I forced a smile to reassure her that I was brave and that being separated from my family for the first time did not phase me in the least. Whether my little ruse was convincing or not, she seemed to have been thankful for the effort nonetheless.

The minute she exited the heavy double metal doors, I would run to the very first room on the right of the hall. I would extend every centimeter I had to offer to reach the bottom of the window ledge and pull myself up to stand on the long rectangular wall air conditioning unit right above the trim. My pudgy short fingers would clutch with my right hand as the other was immobilized in bandages. Pulling up as straight as I could, on my very tippy toes, I could peer just over the windowsill to see the deep cold blue water surrounding the outline of Hong Kong skyline like a medieval mote. The sun would blanket Hong Kong in such warmth that sometimes it felt it had entirely forgotten Kowloon’s existence just across the bay. When the feeling of hollowness was particularly overwhelming, I would crank my neck to the right and see if I could catch a glimpse of Māmā hailing a cab pack to the ferry. I would watch each and every person come out of the automatic sliding glass doors of the hospital’s main entrance to duck under an overhead taxi harbor waiting for the next cab. In all honesty, from the top of their heads, I could no more distinguish a man from a woman much less identify Māmā out of the crowd. But it was all my five-year-old self could manage in order to fill the sometimes-unbearable void of being a child in the hospital.

I remember the nurses would grant me the courtesy to properly grieve as Māmā crossed the chopping Kowloon Bay waters back to familiar ground. I’d envision her taking the double decker bus back to the other side of Hong Kong and hail a second cab home. Sometimes I would hopelessly lean my head against the window pane until it left an indentation on my narrow forehead. My mind wandered to desperately escape my sterile white prison until either the nurses coaxed me off the air conditioner with shiny Hello Kitty stickers or when my right hand had surrendered all its strength and I just fell off with a low thud as my bottom hit the floor.