by Hamed Amiri
There wasn’t. Hessam was with Mum, Dad had gone for a walk and Hussein was in the hands of the surgeons, so it was finally just me. I tried to deal with my thoughts. But they were so muddled, all I could do was cry. The tears streamed down my face. They were for the last few years of Hussein struggling, the terrifying journey we’d all endured to get us here, the rollercoaster of emotions as Hussein had all his tests, and for having to hold it together for so long to protect Mum and Dad.
The one person who could have comforted me then was Hussein, but he was the one person who couldn’t be there. I’d never felt so alone.
The tears came and went, and as they stopped I looked around the room. I wondered how many other people had knelt here, praying for someone to pull through something?
I didn’t want to ask God for anything. I knew I hadn’t been a good person. I’d hurt people, messed around in school, made the wrong choices. Why should God listen to me instead of all the other people who needed his help? During those few hours I begged and pleaded with God. I promised anything – I’d be a better person, help people like Hussein, swear less – anything if he would just give me one thing. My brother. As the hours passed, I thought of more promises, more things I would do if God could just make it that Hussein was okay. I’d volunteer like Hussein, help people who were less fortunate than us, give back to all those who’d helped me settle in in the UK. Anything, just to have my brother.
After a couple of hours I heard the door to the prayer room open. My heart sank, but as I looked up I realised that it was Mum and Hessam, come to do some bargaining of their own. Mum was crying so much she could barely get up off the floor from her prayers. I whispered to Hessam, asking him where Dad was. He whispered back that he was doing laps of the hospital. ‘The construction workers have even got to know him,’ he smiled.
We left Mum in the prayer room and went out into the corridor. Finding ourselves back where we started, by the doors they took Hussein through, we found Dad. They’d been operating for nearly five hours.
Dad wanted to know if there was any news, but we’d already buzzed to ask and been told that they’d let us know soon. But as the hours went by it became harder and harder to bear.
Ten hours in, and still there was no news. I went back to the prayer room, where I found Mum being comforted by a nurse. I realised it didn’t matter what religion you were in situations like these.
After twelve hours I was convinced there had been complications. I buzzed again and again, but this time the nurses didn’t respond. I rested my head on the door. ‘Please God,’ I whispered. ‘I promised him I’d always be there.’
It was like someone heard my prayer, because as soon as I’d said it a voice came over the telecom system. ‘We’ll be out with an update shortly,’ it said.
What did that mean? Was it good news? Or were they going to tell us something terrible? Hessam had heard the buzzer and rushed towards me. I motioned to him not to disturb Mum. ‘I don’t want her to come out until they’ve got something to tell us,’ I said.
We waited by the metal door, looking up and down the corridor to check that Mum and Dad weren’t around. Then there was a faint ‘beep’, and I could hear the inner doors opening and closing. I held my breath.
The metal outer door unlocked and Dr Haw came out. His face was hidden behind a surgical mask, so it was difficult to read his expression. Hessam and I said nothing, both of us afraid to ask. Dr Haw slowly removed his mask.
‘The surgery was a success,’ he smiled. ‘We’re really pleased with how Hussein is doing.’
I broke down in tears. Hessam hugged Dr Haw – to the surprise of both of them – and we started to repeat ‘Thank you, thank you’ over and over.
Dr Haw explained that he needed to get back to the theatre now as the finishing up was still in progress. We let him go, but not without thanking him one more time. Then Hessam went outside to find Dad and I headed to the prayer room to tell Mum the good news.
The operation had taken fourteen hours and 32 minutes. Hussein was semi-conscious now and doing well on the coronary care unit (CCU) ward. The nurses told us that two people could go in and say hello.
There was no stopping Mum, but Dad was hesitant. He could never bear seeing any of us cut or bleeding, and I knew he didn’t want to see his son in that condition. I remembered the night Dad had been captured by the Taliban. I thought he was the bravest person in the world then. When it came to his children it was different.
I said I’d go with Mum, so we waited to be buzzed in by the nurse. We walked through a dark corridor before coming out in front of another set of doors. I guessed all this security was to prevent infection.
As the doors opened and we went into the CCU, all I could see were machines and wires. Then I saw Hussein. He was still drowsy from the anaesthetic and he was linked up to lots of screens and buttons. He looked small among all the machinery.
‘He looks in so much pain,’ Mum said in a hoarse voice. ‘Why are there still so many tubes?’
The nurse said the tubes were necessary – they had to drain off the fluid from Hussein’s chest. It was very important after such complicated open-heart surgery.
All I could focus on was that Hussein was alive. He looked frail and his eyes were barely open, but he was there and I could look into his face and see that he recognised me. I didn’t say anything, but it was like he could read my thoughts anyway. I’d promised I’d be there and now I was.
None of us had been able to eat for the last fourteen hours, and the stress of seeing her son in this situation, connected to so many tubes and monitors, was too much for Mum. Suddenly I felt her lean against me and I realised she was losing consciousness. I could see she was trying her hardest to keep her head straight, but the blackness was closing in. I grabbed onto her and pulled her away from Hussein. She tried to resist but she was so limp that I was able to bring her towards the exit doors. The doors opened, and Dad was standing on the other side of them. I called for Hessam to fetch a chair for Mum (a real one this time) and he ran and got one.
But I was desperate to get back to Hussein. As I turned to go back into the CCU room Dad stopped me and said he wanted to come with me, so together we went back in. He was also shocked by all the tubes and machines, but then Hussein gave him a little nod and I could see that Dad was finally relaxing.
But then he whispered how hot it was, and I realised that he, too, was about to pass out. I grabbed hold of him and held him firmly as I felt his legs give way.
I gently guided him towards the door too, and when it opened I told Hessam that we needed another chair. The nurses must have seen this reaction a lot, as they went to get some water for Mum and Dad. Mum said she could feel the sensation coming back to her fingers.
With a jolt she asked, ‘Who’s with Hussein?’ I held her hands.
‘It’s ok, he’s resting now. We need to let him sleep.’
‘Go in, will you Hamed?’ she said. ‘I want him to know there’s someone there.’
So I went back into the ward. Hussein seemed more awake now, and he looked at me and said in a frail voice: ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘She’s fine,’ I stumbled. ‘They had to go to pray.’
Hussein smiled, and I knew he was laughing at me for making up such a rubbish lie. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
I knew there would be a long road to recovery ahead of us. But I also knew that Hussein was through the worst of it. And that I wouldn’t be leaving his side any time soon.
CHAPTER 22
Recovery
Over the next few days we tried to focus on the success of the operation and what Hussein had to do to get well. But he still looked frail – his ribcage had been broken during the operation so it was hard for him to talk or laugh – and he had an alarming scar running all the way down his chest. We spent every possible minute with him there in the CCU and I longed to tease and laugh with him, but Mum told us to keep the jokes to a minimum.
The nur
ses in the CCU were amazing, and within a few days they said Hussein could go back onto the cardiology ward. As they wheeled him up there, a neatly folded towel placed over his scar, everyone on the ward cheered. Hussein held the towel in place with one hand and raised the other in a thumbs up. He was like a returning champion.
Dad was happy to have his rubbish joke partner back again, and Mum was so relieved that her oldest ‘baby’ was going to be okay. I just couldn’t wait for Hussein to get out of hospital so we could start our night time chats again.
Even though we were all keen to get home, Southampton had become like a second home for us by now. We’d spent so much time with the nurses and doctors there, and the other patients, that they were starting to feel like family. Dad couldn’t believe the level of care we were shown, given that we weren’t even from the UK. Mum said after all we’d been through Hussein deserved the best.
Because of how rare the operation Hussein had received was, he was the focus of a lot of attention. Doctor after doctor came to meet him and chat to Dr Haw about the procedure. On one occasion Hussein pretended he’d had enough. ‘Do I look like a case study to you people?’ he teased, mock-angrily. The junior doctors looked embarrassed, until Hussein burst out laughing and told them he was just kidding.
Each night the nurses had to physically kick us out as none of us wanted to leave Hussein on his own. He said he didn’t mind, but he told me afterwards that he found those nights quite hard. The nurses cared for him brilliantly, but the hardest thing was being alone with his thoughts. He told me one day that he was feeling stronger than before the operation, and that he had a purpose now, and that purpose was to help people. He said he’d had a lucky escape, and the least he could do was to pay that forward to people in need. I could tell he was itching to get out of hospital so he could make a start.
One day I looked at his long scar, bright red on his chest.
‘I wonder what’s going on under there,’ I said.
‘Same thing that’s going on under yours hopefully,’ he grinned. He patted his chest. ‘It’s good as new, this.’ But we both knew we could hear the opening and closing of the new metallic valve, keeping his heart beating steadily. We also knew that some of his right ventricle had been removed to take the pressure off. So he had less heart than he’d had before. I thought it was more like the other way around – everything that happened to Hussein seemed to make his heart grow.
Before long Hussein was able to take his first steps. The nurses cheered him on as he walked one, then two paces across the ward. He was getting stronger every day, and soon we’d be able to leave hospital and go back to normal. That word always felt funny for our family, as ever since that night where we had to hide on the roof to escape the Taliban there hadn’t been any such thing. There was no normal for us.
Eventually the day came for us to leave Southampton. There were tears from the nurses as they waved us off, and I knew that Hussein had been a very special patient for them. We had been living there for over two months while Hussein recovered, and it felt like the last day of a holiday, or leaving extended family. They’d never once referred to the fact that we’d been refugees just a short time ago. They treated Hussein like he was the most important person on earth, and they were so proud to hear of all his future plans. We were forever indebted to the staff at Southampton, and all of us would miss them.
The journey back to Cardiff was a long one, but not as long as the journey Hussein had in front of him. He was still saying he was determined to go to university, but Mum said he had some work to do first. For a start, he’d have to get back to his studies.
Slowly but surely Hussein got stronger over the next few months. He gained more energy, and as his ribcage healed he was able to laugh properly again. Our night time chats were back, and we passed the hours before we fell asleep talking about all sorts of random topics. Sometimes we’d joke; sometimes it would end in an argument. But I could always confide in Hussein without the fear that he would tell Mum and Dad. Often, I’d make things up just because I wanted to talk to him. I was so glad to have my big brother back.
Although everyone knew how patient Hussein was, the one thing he was impatient about was getting back to his studies. Mum and Dad weren’t sure whether he was strong enough for university, but Hussein said he could study at the nearby University of South Wales (USW) and still live at home. He was determined. I understood why Mum and Dad didn’t want him to go, but I also knew that Hussein was an adult now, and he would always do what he wanted anyway. So he started his application.
While Hussein was planning for university, academically, I wasn’t doing so well. I’d missed lots of lessons while Hussein was having his operation and only managed to scrape five GCSEs. Now it was time to do A levels, and I knew Mum and Dad had high expectations for me. But I was out of my depth. I couldn’t shake off the fact that getting to the UK had always seemed like a dream. I couldn’t face the reality of us living here, never mind of school and university. But there were no more excuses. I couldn’t use the fact that we were refugees, or that my face didn’t fit – all that was years behind us now. I had to accept that I was a failure.
One night, when we were in our beds, I couldn’t stop worrying.
‘What are you plotting?’ Hussein asked when he noticed how quiet I was.
‘Nothing. I’m just worried about school.’
‘How come?’
I explained that I was struggling with A levels and didn’t think I’d ever make it to university like him. I didn’t want that to happen, but my main worry was that Mum and Dad would think I was a failure.
‘They made so many sacrifices,’ I said.
We talked for hours then, me pouring my heart out to my bigger, braver, wiser brother about everything I thought I couldn’t achieve. We discussed what other options I had, or which subjects I could choose. Eventually – as I knew he would – Hussein came up with a plan. I would sit a community language A level in Farsi alongside my other exams. It would give me more qualifications and help me with my confidence. By late into the night I’d started to smile again.
Eventually a day came for Hussein that none of us ever thought would happen: his first day at university. As usual Hussein took it in his stride, and if you asked him he would always say that he was meant to be there. Through everything he’d always had an unshakeable faith – that he was here for a reason.
Looking around the campus that day, at all the people from every corner of the world, it was clear they were gathered for one thing: to follow their dreams and ambitions. I thought back to our journey to get here, hiding in fields at night, being abandoned in jungles and travelling in cramped shipping containers. Hussein was just the same as any other student now, nothing more, nothing less. He’d achieved his ambition.
Hussein took to university life brilliantly. Unlike the other students, he never complained about assignments or exams, and he enjoyed every day. He told me once, that when we complain about a rainy day, we forget that for someone somewhere a rainy day means water for their crops. And some people don’t live to see another rainy day at all. We just have to be grateful.
But while Hussein was full of optimism, I was dreading every day – rainy or not. My fear of failing my A levels was catching up with me again, and I couldn’t bear the disappointment Mum and Dad would feel if I flunked my exams. Whenever they asked me about my studies I would lie, saying everything was ‘going well’. But it wasn’t. And the worst thing was that I couldn’t blame the people around me or my circumstances. Look at Hussein! After everything he’d been through, there he was at university. My life felt like it was slipping out of my control.
Hussein noticed I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t sleeping well, and our night time chats were becoming more awkward. He’d even try to entice me with a topic he knew would make me argue, but I couldn’t be bothered to rise to the bait.
Hussein was coming to the end of his first year at university when I was due to get my A level resul
ts. We drove to school together – Mum, Dad, me, Hessam and Hussein, but I told them I wanted to go in by myself. I remember walking slowly into the school building and being greeted by the cheers of students who’d obviously got the results they wanted. I felt sick.
I got to the lower school hall, and the teacher looked through the names in alphabetical order for me. Then he placed an envelope into my hands. It felt like my future was folded up in a piece of paper.
The one thing I’d learnt over the last few years was that you have to face your fears head on. I tore open the envelope. I knew it would be bad, but I hadn’t expected it to be that bad. Next to the subjects I’d agonised so much over there were three ‘U’s.
I felt the blood rush away from my face. Well, I wasn’t going to be an astronaut then. My next thought was how I was going to face my teachers and, more importantly, my family waiting outside. How could I tell Hussein that I couldn’t even get a single A level?
Most of the other students had left by now, which was good because I was terrified of someone asking me what I got. I knew I couldn’t stay here much longer – I had to go out and tell the others.
I walked out to the car, and as I opened the door I sensed something in Mum. We had always shared a sense of intuition, and I wondered if she could tell it was bad news without me even saying a word.
‘How did it go?’ she asked in a soothing voice. She knew. This was her way of telling that she was proud of me no matter what.
I couldn’t bear to do it. Hussein grabbed the paper and looked at it. He showed no expression. Then he said, ‘What about the community language result?’ Suddenly I remembered. I’d forgotten to pick up the separate results paper! I bolted out of the car and ran back into school. The teacher was still there and he handed me another piece of paper. Surely there was some hope?