Again, the doctors tried to figure out what type of syndrome Rajan could possibly have, but none of the tests they ran brought up any new information. The doctors concluded that his growth development was slow, but neurologically, he was doing fine. Raj and I felt relieved the doctors did not find anything else wrong with him.
Near the end of Rajan’s discharge from Saint Barnabas Hospital, Dr. Mehmood Cheema suggested the necessity for surgery on Rajan’s feet.
“The surgery is very simple and effective these days,” he said. “I will simply lengthen the tendons of his feet so they look normal.”
Raj held Rajan on her lap, bouncing him slightly while we all looked at his feet. Despite wearing the cast, they were still bent inward.
“Since Rajan has already been here for almost a week, we can schedule the surgery for February,” Dr. Cheema said. “It’s not good for a baby at this age to be in the hospital for too long. He could catch an infection. Postponing the club feet surgery for two months will not make a big difference. For right now, continue changing his cast every two weeks.”
Raj and I felt encouraged by Dr. Mehmood Cheema’s kindness. We held great hopes that once Rajan’s surgery was done, his kidney function would improve with time or with treatment, and the testes could be brought down later. In the meantime, we would treat him as a normal child.
The surgery was scheduled for February 25, 1978, and since I could not take another week off from work, Raj flew alone with Rajan, arriving in Newark two days before the surgery date. They stayed with Dr. Zafar and Billo Cheema, and it just so happened that Mehmood and Zafar’s mother was also there for a visit. Their mother was a kind, affectionate woman, and once she learned that her son was going to perform surgery on Rajan, the whole day she prayed to Allah for Rajan’s health and for Mehmood to perform the surgery well. Raj stayed with Rajan at the hospital, and, later, Billo informed us that Dr. Cheema’s mother continued praying even after Dr. Cheema had completed Rajan’s surgery, moved him to the recovery room, and eventually put him in a regular room at the hospital.
Hearing of Dr. Cheema’s mother’s kindness and devotion, my heart filled with gratitude. I believed in the power of prayer and had prayed the whole day myself. In fact, the first week of October in 1977, when Rajan’s problems flared up again, I made a promise to God that I would repeat the Gayatri Mantra 101 times daily. It was the same mantra I had prayed when I lost all my documents as a young man preparing to travel to America for the first time. I also prayed it continuously throughout my years in college when my studies overwhelmed me. My prayer and devotion to God carried me through the difficult times and the obstacles that met me along my path. Now I prayed for Rajan, repeating the mantra 101 times with my entire heart and soul.
Five days after the surgery, Raj returned to Cincinnati with Rajan. Dr. Mehmood Cheema had successfully extended the tendons of Rajan’s feet. While Rajan continued wearing casts to train his feet to stay in the correct position, he was one step closer to having a normal life.
For a while after Rajan’s surgery, life returned to normal. I was so proud of each of my sons, and now that Rajan was making good progress, I could give Christopher and Subhash my full attention.
In 1978, Raj and I decided to sell our house and buy a new one. We settled on a five bedroom house with a walkout basement on the west end of Cincinnati. The house had a huge playroom on the second floor, a family room on the first floor, a three-car garage, and a wine cellar in the basement. Raj and I especially loved the huge private backyard surrounded by trees with a dog run cutting through it.
In August, on the first night in our new home, Raj prepared a traditional sweet dish to be the first food cooked in the house. Before we ate, we knelt with our sons in a small corner set aside for worship and thanked God, praying for a healthy and wealthy start in our new house. Subhash and Christopher especially loved the house with its large playroom.
Raj and I wanted to fill the house with joy and laughter, friends and family, good food and good conversation. At every opportunity, we invited people to cookouts on the deck. For Subhash’s seventh birthday, we decided to throw a party in our new house.
“Who do you want to invite?” Raj asked Subhash.
“Only boys. No girls,” he answered.
Raj shook her head and looked at me.
“He’s saying this now,” I said, “but when he is eighteen, he will say, ‘All girls, no boys.’”
When Rajan was two years old, Mr. Gilreath told me about a priest who was coming to a well-known church in downtown Cincinnati for a hands-on healing service.
“He is very reputable, very well-known,” Mr. Gilreath told me. “They say he can cure sickness by prayer and touch. Is this something you would be interested in for Rajan?”
I never heard such a thing before. Laying hands on someone and healing them? But I was desperate, and I also trusted anything Mr. Gilreath said. It wouldn’t hurt to try. Rajan was three years old, and his testes still had not descended. Maybe this priest could heal them. That night, I told Raj about the healing service. She looked skeptical too, but like me, she was willing to try anything.
The service took place on a Saturday evening. Raj and I took Christopher and Subhash to a babysitter and arrived at the church early. The pews were already filled, but we managed to squeeze into a pew with our son. Everyone stood to sing, and at one point, the priest asked anyone with a sickness to come forward for prayer. I stood in a long line with Rajan in my arms, wondering what would happen and hoping it would work. The priest moved forward down the aisle, touching everyone’s foreheads as he went, and some fell after he touched them. Then the priest reached me, firmly placing his hand on my forehead while praying in a low voice. Immediately, I fell into a squatting position while the priest’s associates took Rajan from me to keep him safe. When the priest moved on, I stood up and took Rajan back, feeling strange about the whole thing, I returned to Raj who gave me a concerned look. “Are you okay?” she whispered. I nodded, and we remained seated for the rest of the service.
When it was over, the lady next to us asserted, “Your prayers have been heard, and whatever you came for has been cured.”
Mr. and Mrs. Gilreath said the same thing as we were leaving. “That is the way the hands on healing works,” Mrs. Gilreath explained.
I turned to Raj. “Let us see,” I said.
We took Rajan onto the stage behind the curtain to see if his testes had descended. We both sighed in disappointment. They had not. Raj and I looked at each other, reading the sadness in each other’s eyes. Despite our skepticism, we had been so hopeful. While I’m not sure why I fell down or what it meant, I believed strongly in prayer and still believe in it, even though this priest’s prayers did not heal our son. I cared deeply for my son’s wellbeing, and I would never stop praying for him.
In 1980, we applied for Rajan to attend the preschool at Summit Country Day. Although Rajan still wore a cast on his feet, he was able to walk, and so one day, we scheduled him for an interview at the school. We were nervous, wondering if he would be able to answer all the questions, because he had spent a considerable amount of time in the hospital and in doctors’ offices. But since Raj worked with him, teaching him the alphabet and numbers, he did well and was accepted.
During all this time, we treated Rajan as a normal child, disciplining him and asking him to help with house chores appropriate for his age. Raj had taken a pair of rubber thong sandals, removed the top straps, and taped them to the bottom of his cast so he could walk with a flat foot. It gave him confidence to walk more without being wobbly. It seemed that although his body was not growing as it should (he was small for his age), he was progressing well at school. Raj would talk with Rajan’s teacher often, and she said he did well in all the classroom activities and was learning at the same rate as the other students. We were thrilled to hear of Rajan’s progress and how competitive he was.
Every year, we celebrated Rajan’s Fourth of July birthday by setti
ng off fireworks outside our house. In 1980, when Rajan was three, a police officer showed up. As he approached me, all the kids hid in the garage.
“What’s going on?” the police officer asked.
“Officer, today is my son’s birthday, and we are setting off fireworks to celebrate the Fourth of July, just like the rest of the country.”
“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “One of your neighbors thought the kids were playing with fireworks.”
“Would you like a beer while we set them off?” I asked.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’m on duty. You just carry on.”
Once the kids realized the officer wasn’t going to arrest me, they came back, and Rajan asked him, “Wasn’t it fun, the fireworks?”
The officer left after a few minutes when he saw I was the one setting off the fireworks.
As with the fireworks, I enjoyed pleasing Rajan and making him happy. One year, while driving with my family to a hospital management convention in Tucson, Arizona, with my family, I played a book on tape, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and Rajan loved it so much he begged me to play over and over. We all grew tired of it after playing it once, but for Rajan’s sake, I played it again and again.
As time passed, my career continued to flourish. In February 1979, I was asked to present a paper at a convention in Orlando, Florida. The paper was titled “A Simple Approach to Controlling Inventory Dollars,” and I was thrilled to walk around the convention center wearing the prestigious name tag and blue ribbon indicating I was a speaker.
After my presentation, my old industrial engineering professor, Russ Buchan, approached me with a big grin on his face. “Look at you, Kris. Look how far you have come. It seems not long ago you were a student of mine, and now here you are presenting a paper!”
The following year, I flew to Tucson, Arizona, and Atlanta, Georgia, to present a paper about the case cart system that Mrs. Gilreath and I developed. At that point, I was known at the national level in the Hospital Management Systems Society, and I felt like I was walking on air to be able to wear a blue ribbon and walk around the hotel as a speaker. After attending these conventions, I came to be known as a good speaker because my presentations were results-oriented.
Chapter 19
In late May 1981, my family and I visited India so our parents could meet Rajan for the first time. They were overjoyed to see Rajan and hold him close to their chests. He bonded with my father right away. While there, my father said the words I longed to hear.
“We have gotten our passports,” my father informed me. “Now we just need a visa to come to the States.”
After four weeks, I returned to America early for work, and once my parents completed all the requirements a few weeks later, they came to the States with Raj and the boys. They agreed to stay six months with us in the States because I persuaded them that they would get a much better taste of America the longer they stayed. Also, I simply missed my parents, and I did not want them to come, only to leave in hardly any time at all.
I hoped my parents would see our big house and two cars and find comfort in knowing we were doing well. I hoped my mother would see how comfortable I was and wouldn’t feel that I should move back to India. Also, I hoped they would see my lifestyle in the US and decide to stay with me. I wanted them to enjoy the same comforts I did—a nice bedroom, a clean environment, and good food to eat.
“It is amazing to see how my son has come so far,” my father said proudly after I gave my parents a tour of our house. “You have done very well in the United States. We are happy to be here and to see your way of life and to help you in any way we can. This will be an interesting visit.”
“We are proud of you, Krishan,” my mother said, smiling. “I am so happy to be with you and Raj for such a long time, and we are looking forward to spending time with our beloved grandchildren this summer.”
If only they knew how deeply thrilled I was to have them there myself. I could tell them all day long, but words could not express my deep emotions at that moment.
A few days after my parents came to stay, Raj started managing Bressler’s ice cream store. We had purchased the store, located in the mall, a few months earlier, and Raj had attended a two-week training program in Chicago to learn how to manage it.
Since Raj was often at the ice cream store, my mother helped her with whatever she needed at home. Right away, she took over unloading the dishwasher. However, my mother was too short to reach the cabinets, so instead of putting the dishes away, she set the dishes on the counter and my father put them away. While Raj and I were at work, my father would answer the phone. “If the phone rings,” I’d told him, “go ahead and answer it, but state, ‘Mr. Bedi is not home. Call later.’”
My father wrote down my instructions, and the plan worked well. Our friends would simply call later when we were home. However, one day the phone rang, and it was Raj’s brother, Satish, on the line. While Satish tried to tell my father who he was, my father kept repeating, “Mr. Bedi not home, call later.” Satish, realizing what was going on, waited for my father to finish, and then said in Hindi, “Baiji, I am Satish. Satish Verma from Nabha.”
Immediately my father perked up, stating, “Oh Satish mal, why didn’t you tell me that was you?”
“Baiji, I was trying to tell you,” Satish said, “but you kept saying, ‘Mr. Bedi not home, call later.’”
During the day, my mother walked around the neighborhood to strengthen her knees. People, being polite, would wave at her and say, “Hi.”
My mother did not know how to respond, and, one evening, she brought up the matter to me.
“While I am walking, this woman with light-colored hair who lives in the blue house keeps saying ‘Hi, hi.’ There are several others who say the same thing. I’m not sure what illness they have. They keep saying ‘Hi, hi.’ It is very strange.”
I just chuckled because in Hindi, people say “Hi, hi” when they are in pain due to sickness.
“Bibi, there is nothing wrong with them,” I said. “What they are saying means Namaste. You can also say hi and wave your hand.”
“Oh,” my mother said, laughing, too, at her mistake.
Another evening, my mother related to me what happened when she picked up the phone.
“I told them, ‘Mr. Bedi not home, call later,’ but they kept talking. So I say in Punjabi, ‘Why you keep talking? I just knew only this much English.’ Then they stopped talking.”
I always enjoyed hearing my mother’s stories and seeing life in the States through her eyes. While everything around her was American culture, from the way people spoke to each other to how they behaved, she only knew Indian culture and the Punjabi language, and many times the American way of life left her feeling puzzled.
Meanwhile, at Providence Hospital, I was proud of the results my management team and I continued to achieve. However, the inflation rate was high at the time, and we were not receiving salary increases. Looking for a way to fix this, Mr. Gilreath and Finance Director D. M. Hass hired a consultant to work on an administrative compensation package.
After a few months, the consultant’s recommendations were approved. As part of the package, each of the administrative staff was granted $2000 towards an IRA and a company car, with certain limitations, such as a monthly lease payment.
Needless to say, I was excited about choosing which car I wanted to lease. The car was only granted to four of us: D. M. Hass, Bill Poll, Mr. Gilreath, and me. Mr. Poll liked the Camaro. As part of the lease agreement, he paid $1,000 out of pocket. Mr. Hass chose a Toyota Corolla with no money out of pocket. I liked the sporty Camaro and chose a white one, also paying $1,000 of my own money. The hospital paid $200 a month for each car. When I drove the car around town, revving the engine and gliding effortlessly through the streets, I felt on top of the world. The car had eight cylinders, so when I drove to Lawrenceburg to see my friend Harbans Gill, it was exhilarating to test its speed on the country roads. Harbans and his
wife were amazed to see me pull into their driveway.
“Bedi Saheb, what’s going on?” they asked.
I felt as though I were up in the clouds—owning an ice cream store, a company car, receiving a $2,000 financial package, my kids going to a private school, my parents staying with me, and earlier that year, I had invested in two apartment buildings. At the time, I bought gold and silver coins, giving Raj a gold Krugerrand coin to wear as a pendant. Harbans Gill’s wife also wanted one, and one day, he said to me, “Bedi Saheb, what’s going on? Have you won the lottery? You are making it difficult for us. Now my wife wants one.”
There wasn’t much else I could ask for, and it seemed life just kept getting better and better.
One late night, at around 2:30 a.m., Raj and I were awakened by a phone call. It was the security guard from the mall where our store was located.
“Mr. Bedi, there is some melting ice cream through the small opening of your main freezer, and it is running into the open drain,” he said.
Raj and I were stunned to hear this, and we didn’t know what to do at such a late hour.
“I just noticed it during my rounds and wanted to give you a call,” the security guard said.
“Thank you for calling,” I said, “We’ll be right there.”
Once we got there, we opened the freezer door, and to our surprise, there was an inch and a half of melted ice cream on the freezer floor. It was leaking from the heavy cardboard containers and flowing down the drain. Even though the situation seemed hopeless, we tried to salvage some of the ice cream containers, putting them in our showroom freezer and stacking them as much as we could. The rest continued flowing right in front of our eyes, and, as the saying goes, we were watching our money go down the drain.
Engineering a Life Page 24