When my wife had her first (and hopefully last) scooter accident, our relationship became at once closer and more strained. There were things that we had taken for granted from each other that were now, at least temporarily, impossible to take for granted any more. We are both very busy, so our habits revolving around everyday things like buying groceries, cooking, and shuttling ourselves around have been, up until the last two months, very independent, individual endeavors, excepting weekends and any other time we find to be together.
Now, with school back in session and Dee at physical therapy until late in the evenings every night, those independent, individual choices are now all up to me. I buy all the groceries, usually cook all the meals, and drive Dee to work every morning in our new used car. Since Dee is now much slower getting around than she once was and full recovery still somewhere to be seen in the months ahead, there's no going back to normal; this is how things are going to be until Dee can pass the physical examination required to take Taiwan's draconian driver's license test. For two fairly independent people like ourselves, the mutual reliance we've been required to maintain has been frustrating, at times humiliating, and most certainly humbling.
For our good friends and neighbors in Taiwan, this level of mutual interdependence is commonplace, a fact that I learned on the day of Dee's accident. When I got Dee's call, I was ready to be overwhelmed by the experience - talking with the doctor's, nurses, triage staff, the police, filing out forms I might have only an inkling of understanding about (lots of technical language and Legalese, which is equally indecipherable in Chinese and English), being asked questions about Dee's medical history, not to mention putting up with the slack-jawed stares of some of the other patients, whose daily interactions with foreigners are most likely limited to television or movies.
All of the above and more happened, but the difference between the experience I had prepared myself for and what actually occurred was, thanks to our friends Joan and April, very different. They have been our closest neighbors (and by closest I mean friend-wise, not in terms of space) for the last four years. They are sisters, both married with their own families, and both fluent in English. April came with me to the emergency room, and when Dee or I didn't understand something she would explain in English. She helped me change Dee's clothes, which were torn and bloodied. She helped me explain to Dee what was happening, what her surgery would entail, and how long it would take to get admitted to the operating room.
Both Joan and April stayed with me for the five excruciating hours Dee was in the OR, and though I didn't really need help translating at this point (things aren't so difficult to understand when one person is speaking to you rather than five), they stayed and listened to what the surgeon had to say about Dee's post-op condition, asked questions, and were sincerely engaged with the whole proceeding. After Dee was brought out of the recovery room and upstairs to a hospital ward, Joan and April went home and grabbed a bunch of stuff to help us (mostly me) cope with the next few weeks in and out of the hospital including a pillow made of memory foam to help prop Dee on her side, DVDs and a laptop to watch them on, and an inflatable mattress that I slept on for the better part of a month.
When reflecting on how Joan and April have sacrificed their time, money and effort to help make us more comfortable here, the oh-too-practical, lizard-brain survivalist in me can't help but ask why. Why would they go out of their way to help us? What makes us so special?
Truth be told, the two sisters and their families are not the sort of foreign-worshiping Taiwanese that are the subject of much criticism in local magazines, blogs and newspaper editorials. They are hardworking, dedicated people who want the best for their families. They have gone through the loss of family and loved-ones, their children's accidents and illnesses, not to mention their own problems both at home and abroad. As a consequence, they have plenty of compassion. Most importantly, they know what it's like to be far from home and suffer from the confusions and misunderstandings between themselves and natives speaking a language that is not their first.
During the last few weeks, I have amazed myself again and again remembering the level of friendship and genuine concern we have received not only from our neighbors and their family, but from all of our Taiwanese friends since the accident. This isn't to say that fellow foreign friends haven't also been as outgoing (you know who you are, you excellent people who came to visit or showed us your concern), but in a place where local fear, misunderstanding, and sometimes outright xenophobia are dominant themes in conversations among foreigners, Dee and I feel that we have been accepted by Taiwanese society about as much as anyone - foreign- or native-born - can be. So, whenever I get a queer look from a local or hear mutterings about the foreigner or get a capricious "hey man" from a group of young, bored Taiwanese men on a smoke break, I can remember Joan, April, Rainy, Justine, Ellodie, Songqi, Vicky, Miki, Belle, Jill, Stephany, Kelly, Qing Hui, Ms. Qiu our landlord, her daughter Shaoyuan and son-in-law Yaohao, Roddick, Jason, A-Hin, Qiongwen and little Junyi, and how they, along with quite a few others, have accepted us as fellow human beings.
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