Sagi was standing outside the room, talking to a woman in surgical garb. I went into the room with the nurse. I was actually pleased to see that Dyana was hooked up to modern instruments; she had an IV in her arm and she did have a breathing tube. The hospital, overall, seemed like an adequately modern facility, in spite of being in a third-world, somewhat primitive country. Or perhaps I was confusing fundamental religious attitudes with primitive. I can sometimes be parochial like that.
“She is stable, but needs surgery to repair her leg injury, as well as to get any blood loss under control. Then she can heal, and become conscious again,” the nurse told me in understandable English. “If you like, you can join your colleague who has already provided information.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then I walked out of the room and up to where Sagi was standing, talking to the woman, who turned out to be a surgeon.
The surgeon was speaking in Arabic, as I would have expected. I picked up most of what she and Sagi were saying. I was fairly confident she said, “… to her head, causing some modest brain swelling, along with having sustained hard-impact head injuries. We will keep her unconscious, in a coma, until a week or more after the surgery. There is no doubt that she has a concussion. We must watch for other, less-evident head injuries, to make sure a serious condition isn’t hidden at the moment. Thus we err on the side of caution by inducing a coma.
“The cut or wound on her right leg extends up toward her groin. Her genitals are severely bruised and they are uncut. We will treat all her wounds, including damage to her head, leg and intimacies in the prescribed manner according to our best practices. Those are dictated by international standards and treatment criteria written into Egyptian statutes.
“She is here with us and we shall automatically follow all required procedures. As you have her medical power of attorney, we need your permission to treat anything else that arises from her condition. We will keep her in a pentobarbital-coma for her head injuries to heal, and treat her leg and genitals in an accepted manner to minimize her discomfort. Do you agree to the induced coma and treatment?”
He turned to me. “Does this all make sense to you?” He asked.
“Can her treatment wait until she’s transported to Europe or the US?” I didn’t want to offend anyone, but I wanted what was best for Dyana.
“There is immediate need to repair the laceration, and urgency concerning her head injury.”
That made total sense to me, having been there when all of that happened, and seeing Dyana in the room just now.
“I don’t see where we have any choice,” I said to Sagi.
He turned back to the surgeon. “Then of course, whatever you decide is best and must do.”
“You will sign for her the authorization forms.”
She led him to the desk where she went over several forms, asking him to sign each. I was surprised that, before he agreed to sign them, he asked me if I wanted to review them. I decided that I should, in spite of my spoken Arabic being barely adequate, and definitely struggling with the written language. I didn’t want to delay things by asking Sagi to translate them into English for me, but I had no choice. Sagi and I went paragraph-by-paragraph over the three pages of permission hospital-speak. He was very patient in translating. I felt more rushed by the need to get Dyana into surgery. Surprisingly, the doctor didn’t try to rush us at all.
There was a section about this being an Egyptian, Islamic hospital, and its rules and regulations were subject to evolving government dictates. We both asked the doctor about what that meant. She said that the new government had imposed all kinds of controls on them that hadn’t existed in the secular state that had preceded it. That apparently included everything from male doctors not being allowed to treat women without specific permission, to prayer observation times, to diet, and treatment requirements. She said the government dictates were changing all the time.
She offered to show us the file of regulations from the past six months, and allow us to review them before Dyana was treated. I could tell she was concerned about the delay so, after bouncing it off Sagi, we both decided to have him sign so they could get on with treating her.
“We will take her to surgery in five minutes or so. We will treat her carefully, and keep her in recovery to watch for reaction to the induced coma. Expect her back in her room in several hours,” the surgeon told us. Then she left for the surgery suite through double doors that locked behind her.
“Were you able to follow the conversation with the doctor?” Sagi asked me in his perfect, British-accented English.
“Yes, pretty well. Did she say anything else important before I got here?”
“Only that she expected Dyana to make a full recovery, but she was certain it would take a month or six weeks. The only uncertainty is the seriousness of her head injuries. They think they are moderate, not serious, but must wait and see.”
“I know you’re at least somewhat familiar with the medical facilities,” I said to Sagi. “I don’t want to sound elitist or be an ugly American, but should we consider sending her back to America or Western Europe for treatment, as soon as she’s able to travel?”
“I don’t take offense, and I’ve asked myself that same question. I’m not personally familiar with this particular hospital, or all the details of their procedures or improvements or problems from the government’s most recent regulations. It seems a well-run facility and the Alexandria area does have a good reputation for decent health care. As far as the surgery is concerned, it had to be done now and will soon be over, except for recuperation. Regarding the head injuries, I would be concerned with moving her too soon, causing additional trauma. Those were the doctor’s words to me. I believe they are capable of stabilizing her. When she awakens in a week we can decide, unless she worsens suddenly. Does that make sense to you?”
It did, and I had nothing to add. We would not seek to move her to the West, as long as she stabilized and continued to improve here.
While we waited, I had my first intimate, one-on-one talk with Sagi. There was no doubt that he had an ego as big as the Aswan High Dam, but in most ways, he was surprisingly down-to-earth. He had not grown up rich, though he was comfortable. He only used his family connections one time; his uncle, the former Minister of Antiquities, helped him get into Imperial College, London. Otherwise, he was a self-made intellectual in the Western tradition, with a proud, deep Egyptian foundation.
The only thing I thought negative about him after getting to know him a little was that he had a homophobic leaning. Though he could apparently deal with LGBT people professionally without issue, he really didn’t sanction things like the relationship between Dyana and me, which he did recognize for what it was: a sexual liaison between two women. He didn’t understand it at all, and he struggled with it. That said, I have to give him credit for assuming a live and let live attitude about it. He didn’t let it affect the project, or his professional relationship with Dyana or me.
Several hours later, they wheeled a still-unconscious Dyana into her room. Her color had actually improved. She seemed to be resting peacefully, though she was kinda trussed-up. Her legs were spread wide and her left ankle was strapped down. Her right leg was elevated, resting in a sling fastened to an overhead bar that was part of the bed. The nurse asked Sagi, but not me, to step out of the room, then pulled back the sheet covering Dyana. I could see that her right leg was wrapped in surgical dressing from just above her knee all the way up to her groin. Then the bandage went over her pussy to cover it, and up over her hip, around her waist, and back over her groin from the left, and ended around her upper left thigh. She had a catheter protruding through the bandages too.
“She has a catheter, and that’s a lot of wrapping,” I said to the nurse.
“It is more extensive than what is necessary for her wounds, but done this way, it tends to stay in place better for an unconscious patient. We’ll change it every day, and remove the stitches in a week to ten days, at about
the time we awaken her from the induced coma. Without the catheter, she would become uncomfortable in her coma state, and ultimately would pass fluid, which could easily contaminate the sterile dressings and promote bacterial growth. She has an anal catheter behind her, where you cannot see. It allows her to avoid a mess. Yes?”
I nodded that I understood. I thought my lover looked wan and diminished, but I believed she was on the road to recovery. Everything appeared okay – better than I’d feared. Other than allowing time to heal, Dyana was on the road to recovery. In a month or two, I would have her back with me.
“You may stay as long as you like, but she will not know you are here, while she remains in coma.”
Then the nurse covered Dyana with the sheet again and left. I kissed my lover on the lips just before Sagi came back into the room. Her lips were warm, but dry.
We sat with Dyana for a while, talking quietly, but not saying much. Finally, we looked at each other as though to say, “What do we do now?” We decided at the same time to return to the ship. The hospital would call us twice per day to give us updates on her condition. Either Sagi or I, or another team member would visit her every couple days while she remained unconscious. I wanted to be there when she was awakened from the coma.
**********
Dyana’s vitals continued to improve steadily, if not quickly. They kept her comatose for twelve days. I think they were being extra-cautious, which was fine with me, though I was anxious to see her awake and functioning normally. I wanted my lover back with me and, if not completely well, at least far along the road to recovery. I’d missed her in every way.
By day twelve, they were certain that the slight brain swelling had returned to normal and that she was probably ready to be awakened. They’d left the stitches in and would remove them first, then awaken her. I wanted to be there when she woke up, so I took a launch to shore and a taxi to the hospital. By the time I got there, they’d removed the stitches and had stopped giving her the pentobarbital, which had induced and maintained the coma.
I had only been there about ten minutes when I saw her start to awaken. My heart leapt as I realized that soon, she’d finally be awake and talking to me.
I watched her stir. Her ankles and wrists were confined, though I didn’t think that unusual at the time. Why would it be? Her waist and chest were banded and fastened to the bed also, but I couldn’t see that because a sheet covered her.
She moaned and moved her head. I saw her right arm press up against the restraints. She tossed some more, as much as the restraints allowed her. Finally, her eyes opened and stared, blankly, at the ceiling.
My heart waited in poignant anticipation of her communicating with me in some understandable way. At this point, I wasn’t yet sure that her mind would be alright. I thought it would be, but I wasn’t sure.
She stopped moving, looking straight up. Her eyes wandered around the room, and alighted on me.
I saw her smile then, and it was like all the sunrises I’ve ever experienced, rolled into one.
“Hi Dyana,” I said, tentatively. "You're in the hospital, but you're going to recover fully."
“Hi lover. I'm in the hospital?" She frowned, apparently trying to remember what had happened. "Throat feels raw,” she managed to say.
“You’ve had a breathing tube for twelve days. It was only removed half an hour ago.”
Her eyes got wider than I thought possible at that point, and she managed to choke out, “TWELVE DAYS?”
“Yes. But you’re well on your way to a complete recovery.”
“I don’t remember anything …”
I told her, in a few sentences, what had happened.
“Is my brain okay?” That was the first thing she asked.
“Apparently. You know I’m Sagi, right?”
“Ha, ha … very funny. Okay, I guess my brain is working. I feel better already. Will I have any long-term trouble with my leg?”
“No. They told me it’s all healed up. Does it hurt?”
“No …”
“That’s a good sign.”
“I can’t move it very much.”
“That’s because your ankles and wrists are restrained. Your chest too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Probably because they were afraid you’d roll out of bed or hurt yourself some other way, since you were comatose.”
Before Dyana could say anything else, a nurse entered. She was young and, I thought, surprisingly stern for her age. I thought her smile faked. She asked how Dyana was doing, in Arabic.
Dyana responded fluently. “I feel fine. Can you release …”
“You are American, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I will speak in English.”
“I understand Arabic.”
“I hoped to practice my English …”
“Oh, sure,” Dyana said. The nurse immediately switched to English. I was glad because I still had to strain to understand the local Arabic. Or any Arabic, for that matter. I was a lot better than Tex, though.
“Now that you are awake, I am going to check your cuts, and interrogate you so that you can tell me how they are healing. Yes?”
“Okay,” Dyana said. She turned to me and joked, “Vie have vays of making you talk …”
We both laughed as Dyana said, “Ask me anything, Mein Herr.” Both Dyana and I laughed at her quip. The nurse didn’t get it. She was going to do her interrogation.
She pulled back the sheet that had covered Dyana. There was, by now, only a light bandage over her leg wound, and a similar light bandage over her pussy. I thought that was strange. Why bandage her pussy now, when all she had was a bad bruise, almost two weeks ago?
The nurse did the old, “does this hurt … can you feel that ...,” routine to Dyana’s leg. Nothing hurt and she could feel everything normally. She probed the upper leg near Dyana’s crotch.
“That feels completely normal,” Dyana told her.
The nurse made some notes on a chart, then began to probe carefully around Dyana’s bandaged pussy. At first there was no reaction from Dyana.
“Can you feel that?” The nurse asked, probing near Dyana’s groin, at the side of her outer labia.
“Not much.”
“Here?” I saw the nurse’s fingertips directly over Dyana’s slit.
“I feel a little pressure, but not much else. What are you doing?”
“Checking your cuts,” the young nurse said.
I didn’t understand. I saw her push harder against the middle of the bandages covering my lover’s pussy.
“Can you feel this?” She asked Dyana.
“It aches a little when you push hard.” Her fingers moved down to near Dyana’s vaginal entrance.
“Ouch,” Dyana said quickly. “I’m sore there.”
I could see the quizzical look on Dyana’s face. “Why am I still sore there? Was I bruised that badly?”
“This area,” the nurse circled it with her fingertips, touching the bandages lightly, “is where the Pharaonic is performed. It has healed on the outside, but still must fully heal internally.”
My heart was instantly in my throat. It couldn’t be. I knew what a “Pharaonic” was, and the thought of it horrified me. No! No, no, no! They didn’t do that to her. They couldn’t. I had misunderstood.
Dyana looked confused at first. I think she was wondering if she still wasn’t quite awake yet. There was a long pause while she and the nurse just stared at each other. Then Dyana said, in the smallest voice I’d ever heard her use, “A Pharaonic what? What do you mean?”
“A Pharaonic circumcision, of certain. Excision and, in your case, partial infibulation.”
I felt myself get nauseous and I’m sure I must have swayed because I remember grasping the bedrail to steady myself. I don’t know what was going through my mind. I know that I broke out in a cold sweat. I was instantly shocked into a riveting panic.
“What did you do to her?” I asked. But right then, I knew
what …
“The very recent social policies of the Islamic State of Egypt, dictate tahara - that you be purified, circumcised, when you arrive at hospital for any surgical procedure. The new regulations went into effect a couple days before you came to us. Since you are not virgin, you were only partially infibulated.”
I felt like screaming. Dyana did scream and shouted, “YOU! YOU? YOU CUT ME? YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO ME!”
“Of certain I did not personally do it … but, Dr. Berkley, … it has already been done.”
I’m sure that Dyana knew, at that point, that something had been done to her. Perhaps, she was only seeking confirmation of the outrage that had been visited upon her. Whatever she was thinking, the truth was too much. I watched her eyes roll back in her head, and she lost consciousness.
The nurse pressed a buzzer and called in Arabic for some medication I didn’t recognize. I’m sure I was looking at her with undisguised horror. I didn’t even have words. We stared at each other for at least a minute, neither saying anything.
At last, I had the presence of mind to ask the nurse, “Exactly what was done to her?”
“In the surgery, they performed a deep removal of her clitoris, and its covering – the hood, I think you call it. They removed her labia minora, trimmed her labia majora back, and closed her pudenda by stitching the outer labia together both within her and over the place where her vulvar slit was, all the way back to her vaginal opening. They formed a new entrance to the vagina, and to her urethra. Since she was not a virgin, they left the vaginal opening large enough for a tight penetration by an average male penis.”
Over and over I started to say something but words wouldn’t come. I finally mumbled, “She is a lesbian. How can she find satisfaction in sexual relations now?”
“With another woman?” The nurse asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“She can find no satisfaction in such a relationship anymore. She has no convenient means for arousal by a non-male partner. Even with a man, her own pleasure will be almost nothing, other than the satisfaction of pleasuring him. That is the way of things.”
Destiny Taken (Destiny Lost Book 1) Page 10