Cutting for Stone

ALSO IN 1986, my brother became famous; it was Deepak who showed me the feature article in the New York Times. What a shock it was to see Shiva's picture, to see in it my reflection, but with shorter hair, almost a crew cut, and without the gray that had completely taken over my sideburns and temples. The image brought immediate bitterness, the recollection of the pain of betrayal. And yes, envy. Shiva had taken the first and only girl I loved and spoiled her for me. Now, he was making headlines in my backyard, in my newspaper. I'd followed all the rules, and tried to do the right thing while he ignored all the rules, and here we were. Could an equitable God have allowed such a thing? I confess, it was a while before I could read the article.

According to the Times, Shiva was the world's expert and the leading advocate for women with vaginal fistula. He was the genius behind a WHO fistula-prevention campaign that was a “far cry from the usual Western approach to these issues.” The Times reproduced the colorful “Five Failings That Lead to Fistula” poster: it showed a hand, the fingers splayed out. Peering at the photograph, I could see that it was Shiva's hand. In the palm was a seated woman in a posture of dejection—was the model the Staff Probationer?

The poster was distributed all over Africa and Asia and printed in forty languages. Village midwives were taught to count off on one hand the Five Failings. The first was being married off too young, child brides; the second was nonexistent prenatal care; the third was waiting too long to admit that labor had stalled (by which time the baby's head was jammed halfway down the birth passage and doing its damage) and a Cesarean section was needed; the fourth failing was too few and too distant health centers where a C-section could be done. Presuming the mother lived (the baby never did), the final failing was that of the husband and in-laws who cast out the woman because of the dribbling, odiferous fistula from bladder to vagina, or from rectum to vagina, or both. Suicide was a common ending to such a story.

“Somehow women with fistula find their way to Shiva Praise Stone,” the article said. “They come by bus, as far as they can before the other passengers kick them off. They come on foot, or by donkey. They come often with a piece of paper in their hand that simply says in Amharic, ‘MISSING’ or ‘FISTULA HOSPITAL’ or ‘CUTTING FOR STONE.’”

Shiva Stone was not a physician, “but a skilled layperson, initiated into this field by his gynecologist mother.”

When I next spoke to Hema, I asked her to congratulate Shiva for me. “Ma,” I said, “you should have gotten more recognition in that story. Without you, Shiva couldn't be doing what he does.”

“No, Marion. This is really all his doing. Fistula surgery wasn't something I relished. It suits someone as single-minded as Shiva. It needs constant attention, before, during, and after surgery. You should see the hours he spends thinking over each case, anticipating every problem. He can see the fistula in three dimensions.” Shiva had fashioned new instruments in his workshop and invented new techniques. The article had mentioned Matron's fund-raising efforts and the desperate needs, and the article brought donations pouring in. Matron had in mind a new Missing building devoted to women with fistula. “Shiva has had the plans drawn out for years. It will be in the shape of a V with the wings converging on Operating Theater 3.” Theater 3 was to be overhauled and remodeled, making two operating rooms with a shared scrub area in the middle.

I reread the Times article late that night. I felt a hollow sensation in my belly this time as I went through it again. The writer's unabashed admiration for Shiva came through, and one sensed she had abandoned her reserve, her usual dispassionate tone, because the man more than the subject so moved her. She ended with a quote from my brother: “What I do is simple. I repair holes,” said Shiva Praise Stone.

Yes, but you make them, too, Shiva.

I HAD MY OWN SUCCESS, albeit a quieter one: I passed the written exam of the American Board of Surgery. A few months after that, I was assigned to take my oral exams in Boston at the Copley Plaza Hotel. After a grueling hour and a half in front of two examiners, I was done. I knew I did well.

Outside, the day was glorious. The monolith of gray stone that was the Church of Christian Scientists stood serene at the end of a long reflecting pool and framed against a blue sky. For five years I had spent my nights and days in the hospital, not seeing the sky, not feeling the sun on my face. I felt the urge to wade through the water fully clothed, or to let out a victory whoop. I contented myself instead with an ice-cream cone, which I enjoyed while sitting by the reflecting pool.

I planned to head to the airport, take the shuttle back to New York. But seeing that my driver was so obviously Ethiopian, and having greeted him in our language, I had another idea. Yes, of course he knew the Queen of Sheba's in Roxbury, and it would be an honor for him to take me there.

“My name is Mesfin,” he said, grinning at me in the rearview mirror. “Who are you? What do you do?”

“My name is Stone,” I said, putting my seat belt on, although I wasn't worried; nothing bad could happen to me on this day. “I'm a surgeon.”

49. Queen's Move

THE STREET HAD A JUNKYARD at the corner with high walls and barbed wire so reminiscent of Kerchele Prison. A massive dog, chained and asleep, was visible through the gate. Then came a string of vacant lots where ashes and soot outlined whatever had stood there. Mesfin seemed to be pointing the cab to the sole house at the end of the street that survived the blight that had felled the others. Its driveway began in the middle of the road, as if the paving machine had run out of asphalt when it got this far and so the owner took things into her own hands. The split-level house had yellow shingles. The steps, the railings, the pillars, the doors, the decks, and even the drains were painted the same canary yellow. A column of (unpainted) wheel hubs shored up a corner of the sagging front veranda. There were four taxis parked outside, all yellow.

The smell of fermenting honey elicited a Pavlovian response from my taste buds. A dour Somali met us at the door and led us to a dining room six steps down from the front landing. We found a half-dozen men eating at the picnic tables and benches, with room for a dozen more. The wooden floor was strewn with freshly cut grass, just as it would have been if this were a home or restaurant in Addis.

We washed our hands and took our seats, and at once a buxom woman arrived, bowing, wishing us good health, and placing water and two small flasks of golden yellow tej before us. The cornea of her left eye was milky white. Mesfin said her name was Tayitu. Behind her, a younger woman brought a tray of injera, on which were generous servings of lamb, lentils, and chicken.

“You see?” Mesfin said, looking at his watch. “I can eat here quicker than I can pump gas in my car. It's cheaper, too.” I ate as if I had lived through a famine. The waitress in New York who first told me about the Queen of Sheba's had been right. This was the real thing.

Later, through a side window that looked out onto a sloping yard, I saw a white Corvette slide up. A shapely leg in heels emerged, the skin a cafe au lait color, with a shade of nail polish that B. C. Gandhi called “fuck-me red.” A baby goat appeared from nowhere and danced around those elegant feet.

Soon a lovely Ethiopian lady came cautiously down the stairs, careful not to snag her heels. She said over her shoulder to the Somali, “Why is that silly boy letting the baby goat out at this hour? One of these days I'll run over it.” Her golden-brown hair had red streaks, and it was cut in a perky, asymmetrical style that revealed her neck. She wore a maroon pinstriped blazer over a white blouse and skirt.

The Queen, for there was little doubt that this was she, bowed in our direction while continuing on to an office next to the kitchen. She stopped abruptly. She turned as if she had seen a vision and she stared. I was in my suit, my tie loosened—did I look that out of place? Within the confines of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, all the tribes of Abraham were represented and I felt no more foreign than my patients or the staff. Now, as I attracted her attention, and that of the others there, I felt like a ferengi again.

“Praise God, praise His Son,” the Queen said, her hands on her cheeks. She shifted her tinted glasses to her forehead, revealing eyes that were wide open in astonishment. I looked behind me; could she be talking to someone else? Her expression, at first quizzical, now turned joyous, showing brilliant white and perfect teeth. “Child, do you not know me?” she said, coming close, her rose-scented attar preceding her.