Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 19
‘I’m going to try,’ I tell him as I sandblast a big shower screen, carving a large mermaid on it for the wealthy man who’s ordered it.
His tone changes back to its usual level of aggression. ‘I’ve noticed you reading medical books at work. You’re not allowed to bring books here anymore.’
‘But I only study between jobs.’
‘This is a workplace. If you want to study, don’t come to work.’
So I can no longer study at work. Jamal’s bitterness is catching.
It’s the day before the exam, which will be in the south-eastern suburb of Maroubra. Because I don’t trust my car to last the distance I decide to catch public transport there, but I only have five dollars in my pocket and nothing left in my poor bank account. I ask Jamal to advance my next pay but he refuses. I’ll have to borrow money from someone and the only friend I have is Saman.
At eight that night I tell Azita I’m going out for a walk, and go over to Saman’s house. When he answers the door he assumes I’m there because I’m anxious about the exam, so he brings me inside to have a chat and give me courage and hope. At the end of our conversation I thank him and he sees me out. I’m too embarrassed to tell him why I’ve really come. But while I’m standing out on the street, trying to work out what to do, I realise I have no choice so I knock on his door once more. Saman is surprised to see me again.
‘Saman jan, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how to tell you this . . . I don’t have enough money to get to Maroubra for my exam tomorrow. I was wondering if I could borrow ten dollars from you, just for a few days.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Saman says. He takes out his wallet and hands me a fifty-dollar note. When I protest he says, ‘Kooshyar jan, please keep it. Don’t worry, it’s all fine.’
All the way back home I pray to Adonai to help me pass the exam. I barely sleep that night. If I fail I’ll have to wait another year to resit it, but I don’t know if I can find the strength or commitment to try again. I think, This is my one chance, my first and last attempt to scale this mountain. I vow that if I pass I’ll help poor and desperate people and will try my best to save lives. I want to pay my debt to Australia. I remind myself that I’ve never failed an exam before, but I’m still apprehensive.
The exam goes for three hours and it’s very intense. I face several intricate cases, many complicated scenarios and some very difficult questions. When the final bell goes we all take a deep breath. The Indian man sitting next to me looks at me in despair. ‘It was horrible,’ he says. I nod in silent agreement. I’m sure I’ve failed.
Four weeks pass in dread, with either insomnia or nightmares every night. Then a white envelope appears in the mailbox. I don’t have the courage to open it, so I give it to Azita and she does it. Then she screams.
I’ve passed. I’ve climbed the first cliff.
SIXTEEN
I’m having a bad day. Jamal is furious because I spoke to a potential customer and failed to get their business. He never allows me to answer the phone; I’m ‘not a smart businessman’. He’s quite right, in fact. Then, because I finished late at the mirror shop, the pizza-store owner verbally abuses me too. My final delivery for the night is to a nice house in Carlingford. I ring the bell on the fancy wooden door and hear party noises from inside. A pleasant-looking man soon appears and takes the pizzas, and he puts a two-dollar coin in my hand as a tip. I walk to my car and open my hand to look at the petite coin. Here I am, on this cold winter night in Sydney, with two dollars in my hand and nothing else – no real job, no support and, worst of all, no future. My life in Australia is a vicious cycle of pointless acts. Am I going to be a lousy delivery man forever? Or a lousy mirror man forever? I need a miracle. Where’s my Adonai?
When I pick up Azita from the salon the following afternoon Ben asks, ‘Kooshyar, are you still working in that horrible mirror shop?’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen, I have an idea for you. Why don’t you do body piercing? It’s a booming business.’
I reject the idea immediately. There’s no body piercing in Iran so I’m not familiar with it.
‘You’re a doctor – it should be a piece of cake for you,’ he says. ‘Anyway, think about it. If you decide to try it you can start any time at my hairdressing salon. It’s in Parramatta at the Westfield shopping centre.’
The next day, I go to work in Jamal’s mirror shop and a man in his sixties comes in carrying an old wine bottle.
‘I was wondering if you can cut a small hole in the side of this. I want to put a bird in the bottle and hang it in my shop,’ he says. He tells us his name is James.
Jamal inspects it. ‘I’m afraid it’s not possible. As soon as I put the cutter in place the bottle will shatter.’
But James insists. ‘I’ve asked so many glass experts but they’ve all declined. I’m happy to pay any money for this.’ Jamal shakes his head.
‘I think I can do it,’ I say from the corner of the shop.
‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ warns Jamal.
‘How’re you going to do it?’ James asks.
‘If you want a round hole in the bottle, I’ll do it for you,’ I say confidently.
‘Okay, I’ll let you try,’ says James, handing me the dark brown bottle. ‘But if you break it you’ll have to give me two hundred dollars because the bottle’s an antique. If you do manage to make a nice big round hole in it, I’ll give you two hundred dollars.’
After he leaves Jamal is furious. ‘How the hell are you going to do that?’
‘I can’t tell you, sorry.’
‘Fine, it’s your problem, I don’t care. But if you make that customer angry I’ll sack you.’
As soon as Jamal goes out I start the job. I’m not going to use a glass cutter. I’ve noticed while sandblasting that if you keep the gun on the same spot it creates a dent in the glass, so I’m hoping to do this with the bottle until I create a hole.
I draw a large circle on the bottle and cover the rest of it with masking tape. Then I put the bottle inside the sandblasting machine and secure it with more tape. I start blasting a small point on the bottle with sharp sand grains and after five minutes a small hole appears in the bottle. I’m excited – it’s working. After thirty minutes I’ve created a perfect round and smooth hole on the side of the wine bottle.
The next morning I tell Jamal to ring James because his bottle is ready.
‘Show me,’ Jamal demands. He examines it. ‘How did you do it?’
‘With the sandblasting gun.’ He walks away scowling.
In the afternoon James comes back and I hand him the bottle. He holds it and runs his finger around the edge of the hole. ‘Wow! I’m impressed. Well done.’
He hands me two green hundred-dollar notes. Jamal watches in silence.
‘How long have you been working in this business? I asked many experts, who’ve spent their whole life cutting glass, and they couldn’t do it,’ says James. ‘Thank you.’
After he leaves, we go back to work. Later in the afternoon Jamal takes me to the house of an Iranian woman. As soon as we step inside I notice a black grand piano in a corner. We go to her bathroom and install a large mirror and shower screen. It’s a big job and when I look at my watch it’s seven and I’m due at the pizza shop.
‘Jamal, I have to go soon to deliver pizzas.’
‘Look, mate, you’re working for me and you have to stay and finish this job. I don’t give a fuck about your pizza delivery.’ He’s been cranky all day, particularly since James left.
I stay and we finish an hour later. We go back to the living room and Jamal negotiates a price with the Iranian lady. He always rips his customers off and charges more than he’s quoted, but somehow he convinces them to pay. While they’re talking I run my fingers over the piano keys and softly play a simple melody. All my life I’ve dreamed of owning a piano. I taught myself keyboard ages ago in Iran and I love listening to a song and then trying to play it.
‘That’s lovely,’ says the Persian woman. She stops talking to Jamal and comes over to me. ‘No, don’t stop. Please have a seat and keep going.’
I sit down on the stool. This is the first time I’ve been so close to a grand piano. I start playing an old Persian love song.
‘Oh my God, I haven’t heard that song for twenty years. It brings back so many memories.’ The woman has tears in her eyes.
Before we leave, her husband comes down from upstairs. ‘So, you’re a musician working as a mirror installer?’ he asks.
‘No, I’m just doing this temporarily,’ I say.
‘Please come back sometime and have dinner with us and play the piano,’ says his wife.
Before we leave she gives me a twenty-dollar tip. When we reach the shop Jamal turns to me, his face dark with anger. ‘I think you should stick to delivering pizzas. The mirror business isn’t good enough for you,’ he says.
‘But I —’
‘No, that’s it, mate. Goodbye.’
In the morning I go to Ben’s salon in Parramatta.
‘Is the offer still there?’ I ask him.
‘Sure is.’ He smiles.
After an hour’s training by another body piercer I start working at Ben’s shop, called Catwalk. The next week he puts a sign out the front saying Body Piercing By Doctor.
‘But I’m not a doctor in Australia yet,’ I say nervously.
‘You are a doctor, Kooshyar. Now we just wait for customers.’ He’s confident we’ll be swamped with clients, and he’s right. Ben is a natural-born businessman. In three weeks I’m earning between two and three hundred dollars a day, and this is only thirty percent of what I make. Ben takes the other seventy percent – he’s ripping me off, but he’s much nicer than Jamal. Plus he allows me to study my medical books between clients. Many people come to me because I’m a doctor. I understand human anatomy so I know where to pierce, including parts of the body that other piercers are hesitant to touch.
Two months after I start, a woman covered in piercings and tattoos comes to Ben’s shop and starts yelling at us. ‘This is my suburb. I’ve been piercing here for five years. You and your fuck’n Irani doctor should just fuck off!’
After she leaves Ben turns to me. ‘Are you scared?’
‘No!’ I find it hilarious.
The next week a health officer from the local council comes to the salon to make sure our facilities meet their standards. It’s obvious she’s there because she received a complaint but she’s impressed when I explain to her that, as well as using sterile packs and instruments, I’m using sterile gloves instead of disposable ones. I know about the autoclave and sterile procedures and I explain that many clients come to us because we treat the infected piercings done by others. The officer leaves and never comes back. The following week, though, Ben finds his car completely trashed. The bikie boyfriend of the rival body piercer then turns up with her at the salon and threatens to get rid of us, but when we don’t show any fear they both go away.
Because my body-piercing business is going well and I no longer need a second job, I have a bit more time to study at night. When I passed the second stage of qualifying to be a doctor, with excellent results, I received a letter from the Australian Medical Council telling me I can sit for the clinical exam, the final one, in August 2002 in Melbourne.
Azita’s learning fast as an apprentice for Mary and she’s much less depressed these days. Life is getting easier – except for our finances, which are far from adequate. But at least I’ve started to see light at the end of the tunnel.
Having paid the two and a half thousand dollar exam fee, I head to Melbourne for the clinical exam. I study all night as the train rumbles its way south. This exam doesn’t just test medical theory; I’ll have to communicate with mock patients, examine them and make a diagnosis, as well as come up with a proper management and treatment plan. I go to the Royal Melbourne Hospital, where there are many doctors from different countries, all as nervous as I am. Some of them have been trying to pass these exams for eight years, and the more I talk to them the more disheartened I become.
Eventually the process is explained to us. There are fourteen rooms, each with a patient and one or two examiners. We’re to go to each room in turn and spend five to ten minutes talking to the patient, examining them, diagnosing the disease and then explaining their treatment plan. If we don’t communicate or deliver bad news properly, or calm down an angry patient, or if we make a mistake in diagnosis, we will fail. We’ll receive our results in two weeks.
I’m the third doctor to begin. I try hard to stay calm and focused but some cases are quite confusing. My future is on the line again, and I’m reminded of my interview at the UNHCR in Turkey. I’ve told Azita that if I fail the exam I won’t resit it. I’ve also promised Ben that if I fail we’ll open a tattoo and piercing business in Parramatta. That industry is much more lucrative and less stressful than medicine, but I’m in Australia to be a doctor and save lives, to help the less fortunate.
I start at nine in the morning and finish at two, feeling exhausted, disappointed, and even more nervous. All night at my small South Melbourne motel I’m not able to sleep. I go over and over the cases and my answers. When I arrive home the following evening I tell Azita I’m certain I’ve failed, but she decides I’m being overly dramatic. ‘You’re always a perfectionist. I think you’ve passed,’ she says. I let her stay hopeful.
At work the next day, Ben encourages me to try a tattoo course.
‘Your drawing skills are excellent – you’ll make a perfect tattoo artist. Do you have any idea how much money you could make? Forget about medicine. Look at me, I have a PhD in textiles but I’m so happy running this business.’
Fourteen days pass in agonising anticipation and apprehension. Every day I go over the questions and try to remember my answers, and I get more and more despondent. On the day the results are due I’m at work, piercing a girl’s belly button. She’s saved up to get a third piercing on her umbilicus in a triangle shape and I’m concentrating hard to get it right.
‘You have a phone call,’ says Kelly, one of the hairdressers. ‘It’s your wife.’
‘I’m busy,’ I reply, and the girl screams with pain when I pierce her belly button.
‘She says it’s important.’
‘Hang on.’ I thread the ring in the girl’s belly button and say, ‘That’s it, all done. It looks gorgeous.’ Kelly hands me the phone. ‘Azita, what’s up?’
‘You passed! Kooshyar, you passed! You’re a doctor!’ she says, shrieking with joy.
Kelly and another hairdresser, Emily, congratulate me but Ben is less than delighted. ‘So we’re not going to open the shop, I’m guessing,’ he says.
The next month I get my Australian medical licence. It’s my greatest achievement since coming to Australia, but I can only work as a doctor in the metropolitan area after I’ve done my internship. Before then I’ll have to practise in the country. This doesn’t make much sense to me. What’s the difference between sick people in the country and sick people in the city?
I decide to do my internship and am sent to St George Hospital in Sydney’s southern suburbs, more than an hour from where we’re living. My first days are terrible. I’m ten years older than all the other interns and I did an internship when I was their age, back in Iran, so the whole experience is humiliating. But it’s unavoidable and after a few months at least I’m familiar with the routine and the system.
As part of the training I’m sent to Emergency for three months, and I love it. I decide to do it for another three months but I have to go to Sutherland Hospital instead, another forty-five minutes away. The pay is low so I start working nights as well, and interns from other wards also approach me to do their shifts. Soon I’m hardly seeing my family and many mornings I almost fall asleep driving home. Even worse, though, is the discrimination at the hospital. Some of the staff look down on overseas-trained doctors, especially when the language barrier causes p
roblems, and their judgemental treatment and hostility can make life unpleasant. Regardless of how well we do we’re still stigmatised as OTDs, and sometimes I feel so frustrated and angry I want to scream. It’s like banging your head against a wall.
One of the senior doctors at Sutherland is a very difficult man. Whenever it’s time for handover he talks to all the other doctors but not me. Any time I double-check a treatment or ask him for a second opinion he looks at me irately, sighs in frustration and says something like, ‘I’m busy now,’ or, ‘I can’t help you – go ask someone else.’ I don’t understand why Dr Gordon seems to hate me so much.
One evening I’m treating Joshua, a ten-year-old boy who’s had a skateboard accident and suffered a laceration on his right leg. I explain to his parents and grandmother that I’ll give Joshua some laughing gas to ease the pain, and then I’ll inject a small amount of local anaesthetic to numb the wound before putting in a few stitches. They seem happy with this and Joshua is quite cooperative and brave. I give him the injection and begin inserting the sutures into the wound. The second part is extremely easy for me; I’ve repaired extra-thin hymen membranes.
‘What’s going on here?’ Dr Gordon is suddenly behind me. He grabs the needle. ‘We don’t suture kids in Australia like this,’ he says, and takes over my work. I feel embarrassed in front of Joshua’s family and walk over to another patient nearby. I surreptitiously watch Dr Gordon give Joshua more local anaesthetic and wonder why he’s done this. Joshua clearly doesn’t like the extra needle. I then keep myself busy with the other patient, who has presented with chest pain.
Half an hour later, while I’m inserting a cannula into a patient’s hand, someone calls out to me. I turn around and see Joshua’s grandmother coming towards me.
‘Is Joshua okay?’ I ask.
‘Yes, Doctor, he’s fine. I just wanted to say thank you. That arrogant doctor who interrupted you was incredibly rude. I don’t know why he gave Joshua more anaesthetic – you’d already done an excellent job.’