YR 47 Issue 1 2011
Letters
The Magic of Dr. Calbie
By ZENDY VICTORIA SUE G. VALENCIA
RAIN washed over the busy streets of Bangkok at five in the afternoon. The weather matched my mood as I walked home on tiptoe, hand-in-hand with my mother, brothers, and Aunt Susan. The doctor had just scheduled an operation in three days—an attempt to fix my inborn cerebral palsy. At the tender age of six, I did not understand anything that went on in the doctor’s office. My mother’s bewildered mind was the only noticeable sign of darker days to come.
The sun was just about to set. The vendors were preparing their wares to be sold that evening. My favorite one, a blind, old woman was starting her first song—her voice swollen with tones of sorrow. At that moment, it was as if our sadness had spoken to one another. I pulled my mother in her direction as I got drawn to her song. I was overwhelmed with excitement at the sight of the toys she had on display.
I stared at them while being wide-eyed in amazement. I wanted to own them all— the small, stuffed-monkey with beady eyes dressed in a multi-colored robe; the teddy bear in the maroon winter coat; the cat that meowed when pressed; and the twin rag dolls in their tattered floral nightgowns obviously in need of love. All of them! Noticing this, my mother spoke to the old woman in Thai, telling her about my forthcoming
operation. A puzzled look spread across the old woman’s face as she tried to comprehend what my mother was saying. And then, after a few moments, she nodded, instinctively reaching out for one of the toys.
She had chosen a blue-eyed baby doll, dressed in a white coat with a plastic ministethoscope hanging from his neck.
“Here, something to take care of you,” she said in Thai.
My mother insisted on paying her but the old woman shook her head and gave the toy for free. Not making too much fuss about it, we whispered “thank you” and continued on our way.
The rain had stopped by the time we reached home. I sat alone in the living room, clutching the little doll in my hands. I studied him curiously. Aside from his still blue eyes and the permanent friendly grin, his most prominent feature was his shiny baldhead which I caressed gently with my palm.
“Calbie,” I whispered to him all of a sudden, seeing his eyes shine as I uttered his name.
“That is his name,” I said to myself. Calbie, from the Filipino word kalbo, meaning “bald”. Yes! The bald wonder of a doll!
There was a hint of magic in this doll, I knew it—just like I believed that there was a hint of magic in the blind singing woman and her songs. Perhaps they were chants speaking to each doll and that afternoon she was speaking to this one. Why else would she pick him, if the purpose is not to help me?
That night after I was put to bed, I expressed all my fears to him in hushed tones. I expressed to him my anxieties about the operation, how I did not understand a single thing the adults said about it, and how the only thing that I knew for sure was that there would be pain afterwards. Would he be there with me? I asked him. He just stared back blankly, but I knew that he was listening. I felt a sort of relief by this conversation—I found that it was easier to talk to someone who did not talk back. Words were a hard thing to swallow for a young girl like me at a time like that—sugarcoated and useless words that meant to cheer me up only brought me further down, causing more fear than calm. I wondered what Dr. Calbie would have said if he could talk. I imagined him: his plastic, baby-shaped body coming to life in the darkness of my room, his little voice breaking the silence that made the air feel like a heavy cloud waiting to burst. I stayed awake, waiting for the magic to take hold of this doll. I would try to trick the little creature and pretend to be asleep, but to no avail. Finally, after hours of waiting, I drifted off.
The days before the operation had passed like water, slithering and almost unfelt. It was then that I realized that the clock was merely a big liar. Time did not go as slow as it did. It is a fast mystery of a monster and it was coming for me soon. I found comfort in the company of Dr. Calbie. We spent afternoons on the terrace while the adults kept themselves busy turning the house upside-down preparing for the day we would leave for the operation. I remember telling him all my little girl secrets and stories I made up in my head, trying to
escape the hullabaloo my home had turned into and the horrid thoughts of the hospital days ahead.
The day of the operation came too soon. The entire family had come to offer comfort. Dr. Calbie already became an official member. Assured that he would be there with me throughout the ordeal made my frail six-year-old self feel stronger that it really was. It was as though I could face anything.
“Look!” I whispered to him as we sat together in a wheelchair watching the scenes taking place in the hospital. “It is just horrible, is not it? All these poor sick people!
Are they hurting too much? Do you think I will hurt just like them after all this is over?” I asked him, a slight quiver in my voice. Silence was his only reply, that familiar comforting silence. If he could open his mouth, I knew he would reassure me otherwise.
“No,” he would say, “I will be right there with you. I will make sure those doctors do not hurt you. I promise. In fact, being a doctor myself, I might even do the operation along with them. What do you think?”
I grinned, excited at the thought. I imagined Dr. Calbie inside the operating room with me, doing the operation himself with his magic medical tools that caused no pain but maybe just a ticklish sensation here and there.
I let out a slight giggle.
***
After minutes of ceaseless begging, the doctors allowed Dr. Calbie to go into the operating room with me. The nurse placed him on a chair beside the operating table. I looked in his direction, tears welling up in
my eyes as I felt the sting of a needle making its way deep into my arm. “It is okay, little girl. I will be right here.” I heard him tell in my mind, in the background, the old woman’s magic song.
Here, something to take care of you.
Here, something to take care…
Here...something to take…
Here…something to…
Here…something…
Here
The sun was just about to set. The vendors were preparing their wares to be sold that evening. My favorite one, a blind, old woman was starting her first song—her voice swollen with tones of sorrow. At that moment, it was as if our sadness had spoken to one another. I pulled my mother in her direction as I got drawn to her song. I was overwhelmed with excitement at the sight of the toys she had on display.
I stared at them while being wide-eyed in amazement. I wanted to own them all— the small, stuffed-monkey with beady eyes dressed in a multi-colored robe; the teddy bear in the maroon winter coat; the cat that meowed when pressed; and the twin rag dolls in their tattered floral nightgowns obviously in need of love. All of them! Noticing this, my mother spoke to the old woman in Thai, telling her about my forthcoming
operation. A puzzled look spread across the old woman’s face as she tried to comprehend what my mother was saying. And then, after a few moments, she nodded, instinctively reaching out for one of the toys.
She had chosen a blue-eyed baby doll, dressed in a white coat with a plastic ministethoscope hanging from his neck.
“Here, something to take care of you,” she said in Thai.
My mother insisted on paying her but the old woman shook her head and gave the toy for free. Not making too much fuss about it, we whispered “thank you” and continued on our way.
The rain had stopped by the time we reached home. I sat alone in the living room, clutching the little doll in my hands. I studied him curiously. Aside from his still blue eyes and the permanent friendly grin, his most prominent feature was his shiny baldhead which I caressed gently with my palm.
“Calbie,” I whispered to him all of a sudden, seeing his eyes shine as I uttered his name.
“That is his name,” I said to myself. Calbie, from the Filipino word kalbo, meaning “bald”. Yes! The bald wonder of a doll!
There was a hint of magic in this doll, I knew it—just like I believed that there was a hint of magic in the blind singing woman and her songs. Perhaps they were chants speaking to each doll and that afternoon she was speaking to this one. Why else would she pick him, if the purpose is not to help me?
That night after I was put to bed, I expressed all my fears to him in hushed tones. I expressed to him my anxieties about the operation, how I did not understand a single thing the adults said about it, and how the only thing that I knew for sure was that there would be pain afterwards. Would he be there with me? I asked him. He just stared back blankly, but I knew that he was listening. I felt a sort of relief by this conversation—I found that it was easier to talk to someone who did not talk back. Words were a hard thing to swallow for a young girl like me at a time like that—sugarcoated and useless words that meant to cheer me up only brought me further down, causing more fear than calm. I wondered what Dr. Calbie would have said if he could talk. I imagined him: his plastic, baby-shaped body coming to life in the darkness of my room, his little voice breaking the silence that made the air feel like a heavy cloud waiting to burst. I stayed awake, waiting for the magic to take hold of this doll. I would try to trick the little creature and pretend to be asleep, but to no avail. Finally, after hours of waiting, I drifted off.
The days before the operation had passed like water, slithering and almost unfelt. It was then that I realized that the clock was merely a big liar. Time did not go as slow as it did. It is a fast mystery of a monster and it was coming for me soon. I found comfort in the company of Dr. Calbie. We spent afternoons on the terrace while the adults kept themselves busy turning the house upside-down preparing for the day we would leave for the operation. I remember telling him all my little girl secrets and stories I made up in my head, trying to
escape the hullabaloo my home had turned into and the horrid thoughts of the hospital days ahead.
The day of the operation came too soon. The entire family had come to offer comfort. Dr. Calbie already became an official member. Assured that he would be there with me throughout the ordeal made my frail six-year-old self feel stronger that it really was. It was as though I could face anything.
“Look!” I whispered to him as we sat together in a wheelchair watching the scenes taking place in the hospital. “It is just horrible, is not it? All these poor sick people!
Are they hurting too much? Do you think I will hurt just like them after all this is over?” I asked him, a slight quiver in my voice. Silence was his only reply, that familiar comforting silence. If he could open his mouth, I knew he would reassure me otherwise.
“No,” he would say, “I will be right there with you. I will make sure those doctors do not hurt you. I promise. In fact, being a doctor myself, I might even do the operation along with them. What do you think?”
I grinned, excited at the thought. I imagined Dr. Calbie inside the operating room with me, doing the operation himself with his magic medical tools that caused no pain but maybe just a ticklish sensation here and there.
I let out a slight giggle.
***
After minutes of ceaseless begging, the doctors allowed Dr. Calbie to go into the operating room with me. The nurse placed him on a chair beside the operating table. I looked in his direction, tears welling up in
my eyes as I felt the sting of a needle making its way deep into my arm. “It is okay, little girl. I will be right here.” I heard him tell in my mind, in the background, the old woman’s magic song.
Here, something to take care of you.
Here, something to take care…
Here...something to take…
Here…something to…
Here…something…
Here
Year 47 | Issue 1 | 2011
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