Baba and I before he was wheeled into surgery

Baba needs to go to the doctor often. His pains and ailments stem from abuse he endured during the Chinese cultural revolution in the 60’s. Surviving starvation, physical beatings, and public shaming stripped him down to a place where he valued three things that could not be taken away: the love of his wife, son, and knowledge. His wife recently passed away and his son (my ex-husband) lives in China. His grandchildren and I do what we can for him as he is an angel on earth casting out smiles, love, and encouragement. In my twenty-six years knowing him, I have only seen him angry once.

Last year, Baba suffered an aneurism in his right eye and needed urgent outpatient surgery.

He was already blind in his left eye. I took him into the hospital per instructions of his doctor.

As I helped Baba check in, we were told the interpreter wasn’t ordered. I was asked to help out. I let them know I wasn’t fluent, didn’t know most medical terms. A call was made to request an interpreter.

In the meantime, I helped Baba by dutifully translating a number of questions on the many forms. As he could not see anything, I held and guided his hand to scrawl his signature authorizing all the answers as correct. His literal blind trust of me, (his ex-daughter-in-law) was a responsibility I didn't want, but held nonetheless.

When Baba was on the gurney ready for surgery, I left to chat with a nurse. I looked back towards Baba and saw an Asian woman talking to him. As she looked at his chart, I felt an inner squeak of joy when I heard her speak Mandarin to him. I walked over and listened to her patiently chat and even share a quiet laugh. She told me she would be Baba’s anesthesiologist and would give him a sedative and then a local anesthetic as he needed to be awake during surgery. “We are waiting on the translator” I said.

She looked at me calmly, her hand resting on Baba’s chest and said “Don’t worry. The surgery is simple and short.”

"Oh, okay," I sputtered as she walked away.

Baba’s eye surgeon came over and took Baba’s hand, saying “Hi, Mr. Tien.”

Baba recognized his surgeon's voice and became animated, saying in English over and over, "Thank you, thank you."

I asked the surgeon if he knew the status of the interpreter's arrival. The surgeon responded that this was a repeat surgery for Baba, and urgent. He added a bit louder before walking away, “Let’s carry on.”

As I rested my hand on Baba's shin, my spirit fled. This was one of those times I deferred, believing others knew better than me. I looked down at my old loafers for hope and strength. I took a deep breath and asked the medical assistant if there had been any word on the interpreter. She told me no and handed me a gown and hairnet. Someone had dropped the ball mid-play at my feet. I was pissed but tried to focus and trust what the doctor said.

Five minutes later I joined the small group of medical staff standing around Baba, who lay flat on his back on the table. A large blue sheet was draped over his body and another square sheet covered his face except for one eye. The surgeon asked him, “Are you feeling okay?”

I spoke up, interpreting the short question and Baba’s answer. I felt relief and sat back in my designated chair on the right side by the foot of the bed.

The surgeon stood at the head of the table. He wore specialized microscope eyeglasses and alternately looked down at Baba's eye, then up at a TV screen just off to the left. A camera was mounted on a mechanical arm above the table, positioned to display Baba's right eyeball. In front of me, closer to the surgeon, was a metal tray stand with two neat rows of instruments that looked like items I might have seen at my dentist’s office. An assistant stood behind the tray, facing the surgeon.

The room was quiet as the doctor began to operate. I looked at the TV to see the close up of the surgeon’s work begin. Baba's eye looked like a richly colored planet. I was transfixed. I watched the doctor delicately use micro-tweezers to remove what looked like a glistening gelatinous contact. I was caught up with the eye-hand precision as the surgeon looked down at the eye and then up to the screen while his hands were working.

“Mr Tien, Mr. Tien! Put your arm down!” The surgeon called out.

I saw the blue sheet covering Baba rise, then billow, as his left arm stretched upward. Panic engulfed me. I dropped my phone with my pre-loaded translation phrases. I sprang forward to hold Baba's arm down. In my haste, I hit the metal tray, sending it upward into the air. The assistant shouted for me to sit down.

The tray miraculously slapped back down into the tray holder. I could see and hear a few articles clank on the ground. I prayed not his cornea.

“Move her away!” shouted the assistant.

The surgeon interjected, assertively, calmly, “Diane, sit closer to his feet.” A different assistant came up behind me and placed his blue gloved hands on Baba’s arm, just next to mine.

I released my death-grip and retreated to my seat. I wanted to rewind the movie to know what just happened. Did the surgeon’s instrument plunge into Baba's eyeball?

The assistant who yelled at me earlier retrieved something from a closet and said to the surgeon, “We have one.”

“One what?” I wondered. Oh, God. I was charged up like a balloon after being scrubbed across a young girl’s head of hair, my hope and fears sticking to everything, anything.

I patted Baba's shin to convey all I had to offer, repeating the words "Don’t move" over and over, softer and softer. The second attendant let go of Baba's arms, sensing the storm had passed. The surgeon carried on and I stared at the screen for clues.

When surgery was over, I looked up and into the bright fluorescent lights as if to connect with God or one of the saints whose name I couldn't remember. I sent a silent plea to please, please, please do their thing and let Baba see again. I mustered my courage to utter a question to the surgeon “Was his eye hurt during the...?” Before I found the words, the surgeon told me no and quickly followed up saying it would take 4-6 weeks before we knew if the operation was successful.

They rolled Baba out and I followed, head heavy like a mourner, slowly glancing around the room, still looking and wondering what happened. My back stiffened straight up to my neck as my eyes landed on the Chinese anesthesiologist to the right. Where was she twenty minutes ago? Why had she not come forward when my father-in-law struggled? Our gaze met and held, then broke apart as I kept my pace walking out of the room, leaving her at the scene. My silence needed no translation.