by Hamed Amiri
There was. I’d passed. It still wasn’t great, but at least I had one qualification. I went back to the car, and while I’d been gone Hussein had obviously showed Mum and Dad the three ‘U’s. Mum seemed a little disappointed but okay, but Dad could hardly look at me. I knew that, even with the community language result, I’d failed them.
Dad stayed silent the whole way home. No words, just a look I’ll never forget. I’d let him down and it was all my fault. I felt like a spoilt kid who’d thrown away all the sacrifices his parents had made to get him to a better place. I’d had more opportunities for education than anyone in Herat would ever have, and I’d thrown it down the drain.
Over the next few weeks I closed myself off from my friends and family. I resigned myself to a menial job, and left any dreams I had of a better life back there in school. Even the result of the community language couldn’t bring me any hope.
I stopped going out in case I saw someone from school and they asked me about my future plans. Hussein knew I was in a dark place, and he tried to cheer me up and help me to think about what I could do next, but I wasn’t listening. I missed our night time chats, but I couldn’t bring myself out of the mental state.
‘You have to stop punishing yourself,’ he’d say. But that was exactly what I wanted to do.
I think Hussein knew that I was starting down a road from which I wouldn’t recover unless I got some help. It was his turn to be there for me.
One day he came home from university and took me into the sitting room. He was beaming. ‘I’ve got some good news,’ he said. He was so excited he could hardly stand still.
‘What is it? Why are you being weird?’ I asked.
‘USW have agreed to accept you to do the computer science foundation year,’ he said. I didn’t understand.
‘Me? How? I didn’t even apply. I don’t even have any A levels.’ I couldn’t work out what he was saying.
‘You do – you have your community language. I told them your result and asked them if they’d consider letting you try the foundation year based on that. They took a bit of persuading,’ here he grinned, ‘but they say given our circumstances as a family they’re willing to give you a go.’
I couldn’t believe that Hussein had been doing all of this behind the scenes, without my knowledge for the last few weeks. I could just imagine how difficult it would have been for the people at USW to say no to him – no one could ever say no to Hussein – but he must have had a hell of a job convincing them based on one rubbish A level.
‘This is probably your last chance though, bro,’ he said seriously. ‘Don’t mess it up.’
There was no chance I was going to do that. Things would be different now – no messing around, no laziness. I was going to work like I’d never worked before. This wasn’t about me any more – I absolutely couldn’t let Hussein down.
CHAPTER 23
Angels in lab coats and overalls
The next year – 2007 – was a good year for our family. Hussein’s health was stable, we were both enjoying our university courses, and Hessam was also doing well in his studies. We had been in the UK for six years and we finally felt that things were working out for us.
Mum and Dad’s main struggle was with the language. It still wasn’t coming easily to them, and we often had to help them with everyday tasks. I passed my foundation year and became a fully fledged student. Family mealtimes felt like they had done years ago – full of laughter, Dad’s terrible jokes and Mum telling us all to pipe down. But the main difference was that there was no fear. No fear of the Taliban, no fear of not being able to get to a safe haven, no fear of Hussein’s health deteriorating. Things were good.
We decided to take a holiday. There followed weeks and weeks of discussions about where we would go, often ending with some ridiculous suggestions. But we eventually settled on France. Mum’s aunt was living there so we could stay with her, and her husband was one of Dad’s best friends, so it would be a reunion for all of us. Dad in particular found it hard to connect with people these days. The language barrier and the effects of our traumatic journey meant that he hadn’t made many friends in Cardiff. This holiday would be an opportunity for him to spend some quality time with people he loved.
It was strange to think of returning to France when the last time we were there things were so different. This time we were legal and had nothing to fear, but it still felt wrong to be leaving the UK. I couldn’t help feeling that somehow we wouldn’t be allowed back in. At border control, it felt good to say we were from the UK. We’d always be Afghan of course, but after everything it had done for us we were proud to call the UK home.
As we left the UK my mind flashed back to hiding in tyres, chasing the train and being caught by the police dog. Now, instead of hiding we could sit proudly on the train, excited about our holiday.
Lyon was just what we needed. It was warm and relaxing, and Mum and Dad loved being with family. I realised how much they’d left behind when we fled Herat. When the holiday came to an end and it was time to say goodbye, Mum cried.
Hussein was eager to get back to university after that summer. He still had a sense that it was a race for him to achieve everything he wanted, as if he didn’t have all the time in the world. He was a brilliant student. I would wait for him after lectures to go home together, and more often than not I would have to go and find him, and remind him it was time to leave. One day, angry that he’d made me wait for so long, I went to find him, only to discover that he was deep in conversation in the library with another student – someone who needed some extra help.
It rubbed off on me. I realised that, whether you have eight years or 80, your time is still limited. Hussein hadn’t just helped me with my education, he’d helped me to realise that there’s no time to waste in chasing your goals. Being positive was a craft, and he was the craftsman.
Although Hussein was well, I knew that his pace of life and everything he threw himself into took its toll on his heart. With a reduced right ventricle and a pacemaker, he still had to be careful. But it was his other heart that was working the hardest. Even though he had so much he wanted to achieve, his first thought was always to see how he could help someone else. In this he was relentless.
In 2009 a day came that none of us had ever thought we’d see. Hussein brought a letter home to Mum and Dad and translated it as they stared at it. He’d be graduating from university with his degree in Network Management and Security in June.
Mum put her hands over her mouth. We all knew what this day meant. Not just that Hussein had completed his degree, but that one of us had succeeded in our new country. It meant that Hussein, who three years ago had been on the operating table in Southampton having one of the most complex heart operations there is, was now a graduate.
I have a photograph of that day that makes me smile. It shows the three of us boys, smart in new suits and with fresh haircuts, standing proudly together. Hessam had polished all our shoes to death, saying they had to be extra shiny, but of course you can’t see them in the photo. Hussein has his gown on, and Mum and Dad are either side of us. Dad has a grimace on his face, and I remember how the photographer kept asking us to move closer together. Dad got impatient and kept fidgeting, trying desperately to loosen the tight top button of his new shirt. We couldn’t stop laughing. In the end it was all captured on camera – Hussein looking at Dad instead of at the camera and Hessam and me giggling. But nothing could take away from how proud we all were of Hussein.
Sometimes, all you want is to stop time. There is often a moment or event where we look around us and realise we’re in that ‘sweet spot’ – that rare moment where everything seems perfect. Hussein’s graduation day was that moment for me. His operation felt like a distant memory and the future felt bright for all of us.
Thanks to Hussein’s help, I flew through university. I graduated with a 2:1 in Computer Science and went on to get a job with one of the largest ICT employers in Wales, as an application analyst.
After my failures at school I had lost faith in my own ability, but seeing Hussein take himself through university I knew that school wasn’t the end, and that there was so much more to come. The drive he gave me is something I’ll always be thankful for.
During this time, Hussein’s health was stable, and he used his degree to set up an IT consultancy firm with his best friend Moe. The company was doing well, and we all enjoyed riding Hussein’s success with him.
But within a few months of the company launching, Hussein started to say that something felt wrong. It started with him being sick during the day. There didn’t seem to be a reason for it, and it was happening way too regularly for it to be a bug. He seemed wary, as if his old enemy was rearing its head.
At first the sickness seemed dependent on what Hussein ate. Eggs seemed to be a trigger, but the doctors tested for an allergy and found nothing. One of the frustrating things about Hussein’s condition was the doctors’ lack of knowledge. It wasn’t their fault – they had nothing to compare it to, and because he had several rare conditions, he was always uncharted waters.
Hussein was making more and more visits to the doctor, and we all knew this wasn’t a good sign. Perhaps it was stomach acid? Reflux? A reaction to some unknown chemical?
He started to hide his sickness, throwing up in secret and refusing to tell Mum and Dad, getting Hessam and me to cover for him. As Mum and Dad got older we all felt it was our duty to protect them, but Hussein had always taken this very seriously. Ever since we’d arrived in the UK he’d told me how much they’d sacrificed to get us here and how much they’d gone through. ‘Don’t let us be a burden,’ he’d say.
Time passed, and Hessam too started university. One day I was at work Mum’s name came up on my phone. ‘Hey, Mum,’ I answered, surprised. Then something in my stomach lurched. She was sobbing.
‘It’s Hussein. Megan tamoom karedeh.’
I stopped dead. Her words in Farsi meant ‘They are saying he is done.’ What did that mean? I went straight to my manager and told him I needed to leave for the hospital straight away. I couldn’t stop hearing Mum’s words in my head. I rushed to my car.
On the way to the car park I tried calling Mum back, but she didn’t answer. I just wanted to speak to her and find out what was going on. Why wouldn’t she pick up the phone? I swore as I turned out of the car park and headed for the motorway. There was traffic, and I begged silently for drivers in front to move out of the way.
My mouth was dry and I realised I was holding my breath. Ever since we travelled as stowaways in the lorry this was something I’d do when I was under stress. I screeched into the hospital car park and dumped the car by the barrier. Running up the stairs to the cardiology department I knew so well, I was terrified of what I would find. Although I was desperate to see if Hussein was okay, I could also hear his words echoing in my mind: ‘Don’t be a burden.’ Hussein would want me to protect Mum and Dad from whatever was happening. I knew I couldn’t break this promise.
I heard Mum before I saw her. Her crying was echoing down the corridor and I panicked that I was already too late. I pushed my fear down – deep inside me like I’d done on so many other occasions – and ran towards Mum.
She fell into my arms and said that Hussein was with the cardiologist. She didn’t know what was going on, they hadn’t told them anything and he had been in there for a while. She pointed to the door that led to the ward.
‘Let me go and find out, Mum,’ I said. I was itching to get behind that door, where I knew my precious brother was in some sort of serious trouble. But my legs were heavy. I put my face to the circular glass of the door’s window, hoping to be able to prepare myself for what was to come. I could see the nurses’ station. It was deserted. In fact, there was no one around at all. At the end of the room was another set of doors with a similar small window in it. Behind it I could see people milling about. So that was where all the commotion was.
Suddenly a nurse rushed out of that door and bent to prop it open. She ran to fetch some medical equipment and wheeled it back through into the room. Behind her I could see Hussein, the pads on his chest, lying motionless on a trolley. They were shocking him again.
I wished that what I was seeing wasn’t real. But my face stayed pressed up against that little circle of glass, fixing my eyes on Hussein. Then the nurse came and closed the door, blocking my view. I suddenly remembered that Mum was behind me, desperately waiting for some news. What could I tell her?
I hated lying. But I didn’t have any choice. I needed to give God a chance to bring my brother back.
‘They are still working on him, Mum’ was the best I could do.
The wait was becoming unbearable. It was just like Hussein’s big op, except at least then the doctors were fixing something that was in their control. Right now it was as if they were fighting against time.
Eventually the door opened again and I stepped back. The doctor was coming. I braced myself, knowing that I had to somehow keep Mum calm. I tried to read this doctor’s body language, and I noticed that he was avoiding eye contact. This didn’t feel good.
I knew this doctor, and he was normally one of the chatty ones, treating us more like friends than relations of a patient. I knew that his silence wasn’t a good sign. He sat us down.
‘There have been some complications with Hussein’s pacemaker. We don’t know why, but it’s become ineffective. It’s highly unusual in such a short space of time. The arrhythmia has therefore caused a lot of problems for Hussein. We had to shock him to restart his heart.’ I could see he was clenching his jaw. Mum was shaking. ‘Is he okay?’
‘He’s as stable as we can get him,’ nodded the doctor. ‘But this raises bigger questions about what we’ll have to do now. At the moment, I don’t know the solution. It might mean another op. But we know that’s not straightforward.’
I looked at Mum. We both knew that Hussein’s pacemaker had been placed in his belly rather than next to his heart, which was unusual, so another operation would be incredibly risky.
‘So what happens now?’ I asked.
‘We’re prepping him for theatre so we can take a look at what’s going on,’ said the doctor. ‘But in the meantime we’re also waiting on a call from Southampton and some cardiology experts at University Hospital Bristol.’
After that the waiting was unbearable. Dad and Hessam arrived and we all sat in the private waiting room as the doctors discussed what to do. They didn’t want to operate on Hussein unless they had to, but they didn’t have much time to wait for advice. For whatever reason, Hussein’s pacemaker wasn’t working. This meant he was relying on his own heart to keep him alive – something it couldn’t do for long.
After a few hours, Dr Masani came to see us. He seemed agitated.
‘We’ve had a call from University Hospital Bristol and I’ve spoken to the cardiologist there. They’ve got a different theory – quite a surprising one. They don’t think the problem is a faulty pacemaker at all, but rather that something’s interfering with how the pacemaker is working. They think that could be Hussein’s medication. There isn’t much research to support it, but then there isn’t much research on cases like Hussein’s anyway. They think a chemical in the medication is corroding the pacemaker.’
Dr Masani waited patiently as I explained what he’d just said to Mum and Dad in Farsi. But I didn’t really understand it myself. How could Hussein’s medication be doing more harm than good? There wasn’t time to argue. If Bristol were right, draining the medication from Hussein’s circulation system might solve the problem. The dilemma was, how long could we wait to find out if this was the case?
Dr Masani left us, and once again we were alone in the waiting room. We didn’t know whether Hussein would be having a dangerous operation any minute or whether this untested theory could save him in the nick of time. What if they waited to test this theory and it turned out to be wrong? All we could do was pray and leave it in the hands of the doctors.
A
fter another hour or so Dr Masani came back. He said that Bristol were so confident in their theory that they’d decided to go with it. They’d agreed for Hussein to be transferred as an emergency to Bristol while they tried to formalise their theory. Once he got there, they’d try to drain the medication from his body and restart the pacemaker.
We followed the ambulance with its blazing blue lights all the way to Bristol. On the way I kept thinking that the only thing that was waiting for us at that hospital was hope. We just had to get there in time. I didn’t take my eyes off that ambulance the whole journey.
When we got to the hospital, Hussein was rushed into the cardiology unit and we followed behind. The doctors were on hand with fluids ready to flush out the medication from his system. They just had to hope that the pacemaker wasn’t too damaged to be restarted.
When we got to the CCU we were once again left behind as they rushed Hussein behind closed doors. Although we were used to being kept away by now, it didn’t get any easier. Dad went back to his pacing, busying his body so he could control his mind. Mum prayed quietly, and I remembered Hussein’s instructions. I had to look after them. I wouldn’t let him down.
As time went on I started to worry that we’d have another fourteen-hour wait like the last time. But after just a few hours a doctor came through to tell us that they’d tested the theory and were confident it would work. They would go ahead and drain Hussein’s body of the medication.
I felt like I was holding my breath. Would the pacemaker be good enough to restart? It was the only thing keeping Hussein alive.
It was only a couple of hours later that the Bristol doctor came out to see us. I stood up as he came back through the double doors. He took off his mask.
‘It’s worked,’ he smiled. Mum ran to him and hugged him. ‘We’ve managed to restart the pacemaker and regulate the rhythm of Hussein’s heart. As it kicks in he should regain consciousness.’