I have pretty much had only 2 kinds of experiences with Korean women, and by women I mean women older than me, I’d say women from their late 30s to their 50s, not necessarily grandmas, but not someone I would consider in the same age group as me. The first (and by far the most common) is complete, unadulterated disdain and contempt. (I assume this is based on preconceived ideas about white girls, coupled with my wearing what they consider to be a revealing shirt. This is because for whatever reason Korean girls can wear the shortest skirts imaginable, but showing anything lower than the collarbone is a no-no. In Spain it was the opposite, a girl could show her entire chest and/or torso, but shorts seemed to create a frenzy.). The second is a sweet kindness and open curiosity. This is a story about one of the (rare) second kinds, a lady I call sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt.
I met sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt in the ER on my first day before the surgery, during one of my trips down the hall to get an x-ray. I was laying there looking pathetic, I’m sure, when she came over to hold my hand and comfort me. I assume she was visiting someone else in the ER, though I never did see her with anyone. She was so kind, and though I couldn’t understand a word of what she said, she could tell I was alone and scared and her motherly instinct took over. She murmured calming words in Korean and petted my free hand with her tiny, soft one. It was a Chicken Soup for the Soul moment. It was something I could imagine my mom doing in a similar situation, and it really did make me feel better.
Over the next couple of days, I had numerous encounters with sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt, and the tides of my feelings slowly changed, although her intentions were always true blue. Here are the details of our brief hospital relationship as I remember them.
April 1, early afternoon: Sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt notices me on my way to get an x-ray, and comforts me sweetly in the hallway outside the x-ray room.
April 1, early evening: On my way back to the ER from surgery, sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt sees me again in the same hallway as before, and prays with me while clasping my hand. I know this because the one word I understood was her “Amen” at the end, which she says with feeling, probably to help me understand that she is praying. It is surprisingly welcome to see a familiar face. I think she must be a purple-clad angel.
April 2, around 11am: Sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt (still wearing the same clothes as the night before, but I am too, so who am I to judge?) finds me in the ICU and brings me some bananas and strawberries. I am pretty sure she also asks if I want coffee or milk, both of which I am not fond of. I try to be nice while telling her that I can’t have coffee anyway because of the whole kidney thing and that unless she wants me to vomit again, I can’t have milk either. She may or may not understand this from my hand gestures and slow English. After disapprovingly removing the cup of ramen my male friend brought me the night before, she eventually goes away.
April 2, around 1:00pm: My head co-teacher and self-proclaimed “Korean Mom”, Mrs. Kim, comes by at lunchtime to check on me and bring me some donuts and coffee. She too seems oblivious to the fact that people with kidney problems should probably lay off the diuretics. Sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt comes by while Mrs. Kim is there. Purpleshirt putters around my bed, bringing me a small carton of milk, even though I try to gesture that I don’t want it. She goes so far as to open the milk, sticks a straw into it, and tries to put it into my mouth. I envision miming gagging and putting both hands to my neck as if I am choking, but instead I ask Mrs. Kim to tell her I don’t like milk. Mrs. Purpleshirt still tries to hang around and act motherly before eventually leaving. I imagine Mrs. Kim feels territorial about this, but it could be all in my head. However, I would not be completely against a Kim vs. Purpleshirt throwdown. When they have both gone, I hide the coffee and the milk behind a big bag on the counter near me.
April 2, around 11:00pm: Lights are out in the ICU, and sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt barges into my curtained-off area as if she owns the place. I am watching a movie on my laptop. She starts fiddling with my stuff, presumably trying to help make me comfortable. I have scarcely been less comfortable in my life. I convince her I am okay by repeating “I’m okay, I’m okay” at least 10 times and she leaves.
April 3, 1:00am: I am still watching something on my computer, with my headphones in. Sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt comes back again, entering again without being invited. She gestures to me to take off my headphones and go to sleep. I gesture back that I am 28, not 7, and I will go to sleep when I please. And I also say “I’m okay” a bunch in a tiny whisper until she eventually leaves. I try not to imagine what she would do if I was asleep when she came by, which is probably what she expected.
April 3, 10:00am: Sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt (still wearing said purple shirt) comes into my ‘room’ again, invading what I feel is my very limited personal space yet again. She starts cleaning up the area around my bed, which is now littered with cups and donut boxes and plastic bags. She sees the abandoned milk and picks it up, clearly confused as to how I could resist a perfectly good carton of milk. She pantomimes that she wants to take the milk, and I let her know that that is perfectly okay with me. She also wants to take the coffee Mrs. Kim gave me with her, and I say okay. "Okay" is an important word in most of our communications. She tries to give the day-old coffee to an old Korean lady in the bed next to mine before reappearing with wedges of grapefruit. I don’t hate grapefruit, but it is not my favorite, and I have not been very hungry since the surgery. Purpleshirt tries to feed me a wedge of grapefruit no less than 20 times before finally getting the hint that I don’t want it. I keep shaking my head and rubbing my stomach, indicating that I can’t eat it because I don’t feel good and/or I am not hungry. She FINALLY leaves me alone.
April 3, 1:00pm: I return from a trip to the bathroom to find sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt in my ‘room’ yet again. I curse my bum left kidney under my breath for getting me into this. This time she has brought the milk back, and now it’s been heated. This is possibly the only way day-old milk could be grosser to me. I again gesture that I don’t want it. She has also brought with her 2 small gift bags. The first one contains 2 brown eggs. The other contains a bruised miniature banana and an open and half-empty pack of Kotex pads. When I pull out the Kotex, she mimes how to use them in a way that has me scared she might diaper me right there. I convince her that I know how to use them and that “I’m okay”. She starts to leave, but then comes back and gestures to me that she wants some of the bread Mrs. Kim brought me the day before. I think it’s strange for her to be taking things from someone in an ICU bed, but in an effort to grease the wheels of her exodus, I gladly let her take some. She eventually leaves, never to be seen again, and so ends my relationship with sweet Mrs. Purpleshirt.
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