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"No pneumonia," the doctor said. "But she does have the flu."
I was infuriated. This was not how my Thanksgiving was supposed to go. I was supposed to be in Boca Raton with my family, enjoying a proper meal with turkey and cranberries and green beans and pumpkin pie, traveling to the beach the day after, soaking up the sunshine and maybe seeing Twilight or Quantum of Solace. Instead, I was stuck at home with a hundred-degree fever, unable to even stand on my own.
"It's not fair," I sobbed as my mom helped me into my bed. "It's just not fair."
I, of course, had no idea what "not fair" was.
The following morning, I heard my dad talking on the phone with someone. The walls muffled the sound, so I couldn't hear every word. But then I heard a few snatches---"train"---"hurt"---"how many?" I knew that something big had happened in Mumbai---where my dad grew up----but I did not know how big.
When he hung up the phone and came to check on me, I asked him, "Baba, what happened?"
As soon as he told me, my heart broke.
Listening to the news that night made it worse.
Hearing cries of pain from the wounded and the families of the deceased made me angry. It wasn't just the fact that some of my own people----hundreds of innocent Indians-----were dying. It was the fact that so many others---vacationers at the Oberoi and Taj Mahal hotels, among others----had died in the shootings. There was no reason for this. There was no reason for so many to perish because of terrorists.
Seeing so many people lose loved ones made me realize how near and dear I held my own family. This was especially true after I heard that one of the attacks happened near the area where my grandmother and uncles live. I was (and still am) thankful that none of my family was hurt, but hearing the news made me sicker inside than I already was. It was as if God had sent me a reminder, in his own mysterious way, as if to tell me, There are worse things than the flu...
Having the flu over Thanksgiving is not the most pleasant or favorable experience. But an illness that forces the sufferer to stay in bed is nothing compared to seeing others suffer and die half a world away. Watching the reports of the killings made me thankful for what I did have---my loving mother, my feisty father, my home and my life as I know it. Moreover, I was eternally grateful that my family in India was all right. I had everything I could possibly ask for, and more, especially in time of need.
Perhaps I celebrated Thanksgiving properly after all.
"No pneumonia," the doctor said. "But she does have the flu."
I was infuriated. This was not how my Thanksgiving was supposed to go. I was supposed to be in Boca Raton with my family, enjoying a proper meal with turkey and cranberries and green beans and pumpkin pie, traveling to the beach the day after, soaking up the sunshine and maybe seeing Twilight or Quantum of Solace. Instead, I was stuck at home with a hundred-degree fever, unable to even stand on my own.
"It's not fair," I sobbed as my mom helped me into my bed. "It's just not fair."
I, of course, had no idea what "not fair" was.
The following morning, I heard my dad talking on the phone with someone. The walls muffled the sound, so I couldn't hear every word. But then I heard a few snatches---"train"---"hurt"---"how many?" I knew that something big had happened in Mumbai---where my dad grew up----but I did not know how big.
When he hung up the phone and came to check on me, I asked him, "Baba, what happened?"
As soon as he told me, my heart broke.
Listening to the news that night made it worse.
Hearing cries of pain from the wounded and the families of the deceased made me angry. It wasn't just the fact that some of my own people----hundreds of innocent Indians-----were dying. It was the fact that so many others---vacationers at the Oberoi and Taj Mahal hotels, among others----had died in the shootings. There was no reason for this. There was no reason for so many to perish because of terrorists.
Seeing so many people lose loved ones made me realize how near and dear I held my own family. This was especially true after I heard that one of the attacks happened near the area where my grandmother and uncles live. I was (and still am) thankful that none of my family was hurt, but hearing the news made me sicker inside than I already was. It was as if God had sent me a reminder, in his own mysterious way, as if to tell me, There are worse things than the flu...
Having the flu over Thanksgiving is not the most pleasant or favorable experience. But an illness that forces the sufferer to stay in bed is nothing compared to seeing others suffer and die half a world away. Watching the reports of the killings made me thankful for what I did have---my loving mother, my feisty father, my home and my life as I know it. Moreover, I was eternally grateful that my family in India was all right. I had everything I could possibly ask for, and more, especially in time of need.
Perhaps I celebrated Thanksgiving properly after all.