THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO

by Wafa Faith Hallam

  In meeting after meeting, management persisted in showing confidence and optimism, continued to call for those annual business plans, insisted on increasing assets under management by aiming at bigger accounts, and urged the annualization of earnings by recommending money managers as the best way out of the crisis. Broken consultants were dropping like flies and their best accounts went to the top male producers in every office of the firm. Those of us who remained saw their numbers fall and their despair grow. I lost many clients, my income plunged, and I was moved physically back into a smaller office. My morale and my self-esteem were badly shaken as days went by, and I felt totally misunderstood by those around me.

  Worst of all, I could not tell my clients, often people I cared for immensely, to just move on with their lives and wait for the storm to pass. I was reminded time and again that clients were like patients; they needed a prescription to feel that one was doing something for them, even if the prescription was only a placebo. I was told numerous times that I cared too much and took things too personally, that I had to understand that the bear market was not my fault and that I had to learn this was a survival game, nothing more.

  Meanwhile, for the previous two years, my mother’s health had continued to deteriorate, culminating in her inability to stand or walk normally. For years, she’d been suffering from osteoarthritis of the knees—in fact, she’d grown pretty accustomed to the aches of arthritis, as well as the throbbing of corns and bunions, which had presumably been corrected with surgery a couple of years earlier. But this was quite a different sort of pain—the sort that would not quit. Arthritis pain prescription drugs like Celebrex and Vioxx had little effect. She also relied on huge dosages of over-the-counter pain killers, and Tylenol Codeine 3, for some modicum of relief. She became dependent on a walker and, sometimes, a wheel chair. Her pain-stricken knees could no longer carry her; the osteoarthritis that plagued them had rendered her legs completely useless.

  I became depressed, experienced sleepless nights, and sudden anxiety attacks. Most days, just getting out of bed in the morning was a test of will. When I made it to the office, I was met by another challenge: continuing to feign a calm and self-controlled appearance when handling my panicked clients’ calls. The year 2002 went by slowly draining me of every last bit of energy I could still muster. I tried everything from exercise to meditation to anti-depressants as I tried to cope with the unyielding stress I was confronted with day in and day out. I felt strangulated by my circumstances: my suffocating job, my mother’s deteriorating health, her continuous demand for my attention and care, and my now-teenage daughter’s competing needs.

  As it were, the coup de grace occurred in February 2003. In the middle of the month, my mother was hospitalized for a bilateral knee replacement operation. The procedure was a success from a mechanical point of view, but Mom never again walked unaided. When most patients needed a month of rehabilitation to regain the full use of their legs, she spent almost three months in a reputable New Jersey rehabilitation facility and still could not walk, or even stand, on her own. Even worse, the pain never lifted.

  My own health had become a concern, too. My mental distress had been feeding multiple physical problems for quite some time, including a growing uterine fibroid. Eventually I succumbed to a nervous breakdown, and I went on a prolonged medical leave under both a psychiatrist and a psychologist’s care.

  29

  Dying Inside

  I walked to my psychologist’s office on Park Avenue, blind to the vibrant palettes of tulips planted on the grand avenue’s mid-section and deaf to the birds’ chirping on the blossoming branches. The full splendor of spring was everywhere on display that warm May afternoon. Only I was a prisoner of my mind, aware only of the ten-thousand-pound elephant crushing my lungs. My chest felt achy, my breathing shallow and hard. I barely cracked a smile at the doorman of the old pre-war building and rushed inside. The doctor’s office was right off the lobby. I pushed the buzzer, and the door opened. As I sat in the dowdy armchair, alone in the small waiting room, images of my mother lying in her bed in the rehabilitation center occupied my thoughts.

  A curtain was drawn between her bed and the other patient in the semi-private room. The white light shed a cold glow on the greenish walls. The small TV set, hanging from the ceiling at her feet, was muted. A strong and unpleasant hospital odor filled my nostrils, a nauseating mix of illness, detergent, and urine I fought to ignore. She seemed almost not there, pale and feeble, absent in her gaze. She’d lost a lot of weight and appeared smaller.

  “I can’t sleep; the pain keeps me awake in spite of the pills,” she moaned with a small voice, adding: “and I’ve been constipated for days…”

  I reached for her hand and kissed it.

  “Haven’t they given you any laxatives?” I asked.

  “I take them every day, but nothing works anymore. I’m so bloated…”

  She closed her eyes in resignation.

  I patted her hand. “Let me go find the nurse and see what else can be done!”

  I left the room and headed for the nurses’ station.

  I had been going to the center almost every day after work, driving more than an hour from home on the notoriously busy New Jersey highways, stopping only to pick up a favorite dish or zesty salad for Mom, and staying until past nine most nights.

  I found a couple of attendants engrossed in animated conversation when they spotted me waiting uneasily to explain the problem.

  “She didn’t have a bowel movement in how long?” the tall, black woman in charge asked, her eyebrows raised.

  “I don’t know exactly, but she said it’s been several days and the laxatives aren’t working. She’s been complaining about it the last two times I visited her.”

  “All right, I’ll send someone over. You’re her daughter, right? You come every night, huh?”

  I nodded, thanked her, and left without further questions. I wondered if she was going to order an enema to relieve my mother of her discomfort. Twenty minutes later a nurse with a friendly demeanor showed up at the door. I had already helped Mom to the restroom and I could hear her groan in frustration behind the curtain that served as a screen.

  “Okay, lady, let’s see what we can do,” interjected the middle-aged woman cheerfully in the direction of my mother.

  Before I could understand what she was up to, I watched her put on a pair of plastic gloves and walk inside the bathroom. I stepped back, puzzled. She had no other equipment but her gloved hands and what appeared to be a tube of lubricant.

  “Just relax, darling. I won’t hurt you, just take a deep breath and relax,” she was instructing behind the curtain.

  My mind went blank.

  I heard Mom utter a feeble, “Okay, thank you.”

  “You’re going to feel a hell of a lot better in a minute, I promise you,” said the attendant with conviction.

  Mom was presently grunting in discomfort, but no vocal protestations came out of her mouth.

  Baffled by the turn of events, I was ready to intervene. This was definitely not what I had been expecting. I felt sickened and inexplicably filled with sadness at the indignity endured by my poor mother when I heard the sound of the hard droppings in the bowl and the deep sigh of relief that followed.

  A few minutes later, the nurse laughed at my discomfited look.

  “It’s called manual disimpaction of the bowels,” she informed me in passing while helping my mother slowly regain her bed. “It’s quick and very effective. Your mom will sleep better now.”

  She smiled with a compassionate look at her. “Aren’t you relieved now?” she asked gently.

  Mom nodded and touched the woman’s forearm. “Thank you,” she sighed.

  Sitting in the psychologist’s waiting room, the images of that night were carved in my memory. Mom was now living with me and was again complaining of constipation, among many other things. The pain killers were responsible for that. I felt so tired, so overwhelmed…


  Dr. Damon interrupted my thoughts and waved me into her office. She was a thin, older woman with the look and manner of an old-fashioned school principal.

  “How have you been since last time?” she inquired after I sat down on the sofa facing her.

  The room was small but clean and comfortable in spite of its near darkness. A faint old-book smell lingered.

  “Not well, unfortunately. My mother was sent home from the rehab clinic after three long months of little or no progress. I have her staying in my apartment. There isn’t much more they can do for her. I got the insurance to agree to more physical therapy sessions at home.” I tried to take a deep breath. My tight-sealed lungs wouldn’t let me.

  “It’s very frustrating; she simply doesn’t seem to want to work too hard. I can’t understand it. Her effort in therapy is timid and filled with complaints. It’s like she gave up on walking or something. Her willpower is shot…” I paused again.

  Dr. Damon patiently waited for me to go on.

  “She used to be such a fighter, a real trouper… now she can’t stop complaining of inexplicable pain, nothing helps… I feel useless… There are times, I… I…” The words stuck in my throat, my sight clouded with tears…

  Dr. Damon reached for the tissue box and put it in front of me in silence. I hated the predictability of her gesture, of what was to come.

  “I don’t know how to say this… I wish she… I’m a monster for thinking this… I know,” I shook my head and reached for a tissue to wipe my face. The tears were flowing slowly down my cheeks. “Sometimes, I wish… I wish her dead…” I finally whispered.

  A torrent of tears gushed through and I wept and wept, a high-pitched wail, twisting my hands, leaning over in agony and shame.

  “Can you imagine? My own mother… I love her so much, and yet…I hate her, too…”

  What was I grieving for so intensely? My admission, my guilt, myself? I had no idea!

  “It’s completely normal to feel that way, anyone would under the circumstances,” offered Dr. Damon. “You’re under a lot of stress. You shouldn’t feel guilty for your feelings.”

  Her soothing words did not interrupt my cries. I was a mess, sensed my eyes, nose, and mouth swelling, my face throbbing. This was a typical session marred by hysterical weeping leading nowhere but more heartache. I was sick of my own voice, tired of talking to this complete stranger. Still, I went on, choking with self-pity.

  “It’s killing me… If only she could try harder, you know? It’s like she’s regressed; I can see it in her eyes. After all those years of fighting for her independence, she just gave up. At sixty-four, she’s a cripple like her mother before her. But unlike Grandma, she’s always in agony, always whining.”

  “Don’t you have anyone else who could help take care of her for a while, your sister or brothers, maybe?” asked Dr. Damon.

  I shrugged. “My sister is overseas, and my brothers… well, let’s just say they’re oblivious.” I said it without a second thought, and yet, I realize now, I had never really asked them for their help, or even opinion, never contemplated such a possibility. As usual, I had single-handedly taken over the duty of caring for our mother, assuming all along they were unable or incapable of caring for her and doing as good a job as I was. But then they barely even visited her.

  I was the head of the family after all; I controlled everything, especially when it came to Mom. I had willingly been managing her life to the last detail since I was a teenager. Our roles had been reversed for as long as I could remember. She was as ensnared by me as I felt trapped by her. My burden was my own doing. Only I didn’t know it then. I viewed myself as a helpless victim.

  “How do you feel about your job? Have you given any thought to when you think you can return to work?”

  My psychologist’s voice brought me back to the second matter of utmost importance. I had gone on a medical leave within a few weeks of my mother’s operation, almost twelve weeks already, and a decision had to be reached regarding my return. She had authorized my prolonged absence, and the company was again asking about my condition.

  “I can’t even fathom going back to work at this point. How can I be of help to my clients, anyway? The markets are still so far below their highs and crippled by the uncertainty associated with the war in Iraq.”

  I shook my head in disgust. This was yet another topic feeding into my overall anxiety.

  “The Bush administration is lying to the American public so that they can wage war in Iraq. There’s this growing general hysteria about Muslims.”

  The question flashed through my mind: What does that have to do with me?

  “I can’t really explain this. My mind is shrouded in dread and impending doom.” Another futile attempt at a deep breath disrupted my thoughts. I blew my nose hard.

  “I guess I know what you mean. Many of us feel that way,” volunteered Dr. Damon.

  I looked at her in surprise.

  “Really? No, I mean I think it has something to do with me, my background.”

  I was born a Muslim, of Arab parents, but since I started working in sales, both as a real estate agent and Wall Street broker, my identity had carefully been concealed, at least at a professional level. After my divorce, I had dropped my Irish married name and started using my new and improved, albeit truncated, western-sounding last name.

  “You know my original last name is really ‘BenHallam’,” I explained looking in her eyes. “I officially shortened it to ‘Hallam,’ which, I always volunteered, was also a very ‘British’ name, referring to the Victorian writer and historian Sir Henry Hallam. There’s even a Hallam Street in the heart of London.” I breathlessly recited my oft-repeated validation as I had countless times with clients over the years. At this point, I literally believed it myself.

  “So you see, ‘Ouafae BenHallam’,” I went on in self-derision, “became ‘Faith O’Brien,’ then ‘Faith Hallam,’ western raised, French speaking, with an undefined religious background. People around me know I celebrate a pagan Christmas, don’t practice any Islamic rite, and that my brother is married to a Jewish woman from Brooklyn. I wholeheartedly assimilated Americana. In my professional circle, no one can tell you with any certainty what I really am at this point,” I sneered.

  “How does that make you feel?” asked Dr. Damon.

  “I’ve avoided asking myself that question. I conveniently justified it as the only way for me to succeed in a city and an industry overwhelmingly dominated by Jews and WASPS. It’s very difficult as it is to acquire new clients. It would’ve been virtually impossible with an Arabic name. Imagine me calling a prospect and introducing myself as ‘Ouafae BenHallam, Arab-Muslim-American, asking you to trust her with your money.’ No, that was not really an option. But to answer your question, I guess it did make me feel ill at ease. I deliberately hid my background, lied by omission, cunning even. But you know it was more for survival’s sake than in dishonesty. I’ve always believed my integrity to be one of my strongest assets.”

  I stopped to ponder my words.

  “Still, around my family and old friends, I found pride in my roots and lineage. I wasn’t ashamed of that,” I reminded myself. “In spite of the appalling state of the Arab world throughout my existence, I’ve never stopped identifying with its magnificent culture and past glory.”

  “In what way do recent events affect you, then? What has changed for you?” she asked pointedly, forcing me to face issues I had been sweeping under the rug for a long time.

  “This war, this new hatred of Muslims, is definitely affecting me deeply, although not overtly. It’s more of an inner struggle. For the first time in more than twenty years, I feel I don’t belong anymore. There’s so much ignorance of the world out there in this country, a lack of knowledge that is being used for a bloody conflict, and the majority approve. Thousands and thousands of innocent Iraqi civilians, women and children, who have nothing to do with 9/11, are going to die because of a handful of so-called Islamic terrori
sts. How is that supposed to make me feel? I despise terrorism too, Islamic or otherwise. It’s a curse that must be defeated, but this war is only going to strengthen it. Of that I am certain. It’s so obvious to me. I cannot believe it’s not to most Americans!”

  My tone had turned contentious; I was incensed. The subject of the war in Iraq never failed to inflame me.

  “You know that many people agree with you,” said Dr. Damon, shaking her head.

  She may agree, but she couldn’t possibly understand, I thought to myself.

  I was at a point where I had begun to feel rejected, if only in my head. It was a bizarre thing to experience. Yet I knew my family and close friends all were in agreement with me. It was not as if I was living in America’s heartland, cut off from similar opinions, or that opposition to the war was not in fact widespread in New York and most of the Northeast.

  But this felt much more personal, and it beckoned me to come clean about my identity, to close ranks with all the other Arab-Americans who felt stigmatized and cast off. I felt a pressing need to speak out, condemn the murderous fringe that cloaked itself in Islam only to defile it. Theirs was not the religion of my father, I wanted to shout out. His peaceful, tolerant creed had nothing to do with those barbarians.

  Only I did not speak out, did nothing in fact but fret and fuss in hollow frustration and anger. My mental and emotional health was under attack from so many sides, they rendered me inept and hopeless. I retreated, kept reacting to events that seemed out of my control, and never took any action, save popping anti-depressants in a futile attempt to lift my disposition.

  “I’m going to sign off on a few more weeks of therapy and medical leave. You have another appointment with your psychiatrist, right? He may need to adjust your medication. I’ll contact him. I don’t think you’re ready to go back to work just yet,” concluded Dr. Damon after a furtive glance at the clock on the side table. My time was up.