My Great Quadricep Adventure

Twas the night before last Eid...not a sound in the house, not from man, not from mouse. Outside, the snow had gently fallen most of the day and there was a winter wonderland of snow-covered trees, roofs, ground. The snow was unseasonably early this year for this part of north america. My thoughts turned to shovelling the driveway.

Fifteen years olds, I have discovered, consider it an honor to be doing things like cutting grass...and shovelling the snow. Always on the lookout for win-win situations, I handed the shovel to my fifteen year old, like a king handing over his sword. I stepped into the garage to show where the salt was, and next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with the worst pain I have ever felt in my right leg. It appears I had missed a step at exactly the right angle needed to tear the quadricep tendon (that is the big tendon that joins the thigh muscle to the knee). But I did not know that then. All I knew was this big black car tire I was staring at and the great urge I had in my pain to chew the damn thing into pieces. Some good sense stopped me from attempting that, and then my mind switched to the shoe next to my nose, and again I had this urge to dig my teeth into it. I lay there for an eternity (15 minutes), moaning and groaning and advising my loved ones that I did not need an ambulance and would be up in no time. I had to ultimately crawl back up stairs out of the garage and into the kitchen.

At the emergency ward later that day, I was advised by a cheerful, sickingly fit looking young chap that my right knee was mush and in all certainty I would need an operation, unless I preferred to limp for the rest of my life of course. He reassured me by explaining that Mr. Clinton had exactly the same problem a few years back, had the same operation, and did not limp at all anymore. I made suitable noises of the great honor of sharing the same problem as a US president.

I checked into the operation ward a few days later. It was multi-ethnic america at its finest. The sikh nurse assured me in panjabi that the surgeon was the best in the business. The chinese nurse at the station seemed severe and unfriendly to me. The tall blond anesthesiologist seemed right out of a soap opera. He assured me I would revive after the operation, had me sign some papers just in case I did not, and the last thing I knew put a plastic breathing mask on my face and I was gone...I briefly woke to see myself in the operation theater, then a couple of nurses seemed to walk up to me, and then I was really gone... I woke to see my wife stepping in.

That is when I found myself. Having benefitted from the same mind affecting substance as the hippies of the 1960’s, I discovered the meaning of life (I’ll come to that in a minute). Just like the hippies. I said things while still in a trance-like state, somehow feeling light and joyful. I never wanted to wake up. When I finally did, some hours later, my wife was laughing and told me what I had been saying: I had been flirting with every nurse, and with my wife. I assured the sikh nurse that I was Raja Inder surrounded by my women. I assured the American nurse that she had fine dimples on her cheeks. I asked the nurses if they had seen anyone as pretty as my wife...not once, but so many times that finally the chinese nurse asked if I could spare some compliments for the nurses as well. I assured the Chinese nurse that there I had not yet run out of compliments. How could I have thought of this cute Chinese nurse as being made of ice just a couple of hours ago?
I had found the meaning of life. Love every moment of consciousness. Love and appreciate those around you, including strangers. Since love and appreciations is all you have before you slip back into the great darkness that envelops this brief time of existence that is allotted to us.