Frequently, I question the decisions that I make. I never quite know why I leap of the edge of the cliff sometimes. My actions aren’t brought from confidence, or from sheer lack of care or thought, even though the consequences often lead me to question my prior judgement. I tell myself that in these writings, through these experiences, I hope to “discover myself” and I suppose that through this process, it is most essential that I fail on occasion, because that is the only way I can learn, change, and develop into the person I am destined to become. I share these thoughts with you because I am fairly uncertain of the judgement that may befall me after I present the following account. Now that I have pleaded my case, and the stage has been set, I would like to share with you my experience with a local theatre here in TZ.

My stage debut took place in the theatre of the Lutheran Medical Centre on March 31^st . Although the show didn’t have a specified title, my character, was most notably recognized as noted to be the Kitcha Mzungu (crazy European traveler). Which, I think we can all agree is probably an apt description. The plot of the show was simple, or so I thought. I would walk in to the hospital, have a growth, presumably a piece of bone, removed from the base of my middle finger, and go home. Yet, as with most spectacular productions, there is always some grand plot twist. I suppose I should enlighten the stage of your mind with context to place all of this into perspective.

 Several weeks prior to this account, my students and  I went to the recording studio to finish the demos of our new songs. As usual, my Ukulele was in my hand and I was fumbling around with the frets and strings. I noticed, after a moment, that the third digit of my left hand simply wasn’t functioning properly. Yet, in my stubbornness, I decided I would continue to practice. 

Within moments, as I shifted my hand to approach the first string, I felt pressure against my skin. I assumed I had simply needed to stretch my fingers more, and released the neck of my Uke and braced her body with my right hand.

As I ran the fingers of my right hand between those on my left, preparing to release the pressure that had prevented me from playing to my greatest capacity, I noticed something peculiar and disturbing. At the base of my middle finger, on the right side of that little crease that forms where the skin folds over I felt something. I pressed around for a bit and no matter how I massaged the area, it was as if I had been pressing into a bone. How could I have a new bone on my finger? At first, I thought this was pretty cool. I mean, to have a new bone on my hand, perhaps that could come in handy (all pun intended). Yet, the more I fiddled with the area, the more pain and uneasiness began to settle within me. With each ounce of pressure, it was if the bilayer of skin was becoming thin. Suddenly, this small handicap, became a major ordeal.

Within the coming week, my predicament became more severe. Soon, I was unable to write and playing any instrument was virtually impossible. Fortunately, my students are extremely intelligent and could work together and work with me to allow our lessons to continue with no visible obstruction.

Still, I knew if I wanted to be able to write effectively, and continue to produce music on my own accord, I would need to have this treated, whether by medication or removal. At the time,  I had thoughts about having the piece cut out and what surgery would mean for my work, but I tried not to jump to extremes quite so soon.

In the coming days, I traveled to a local clinic which in itself was a marvelous feat. After entering the consultation room, I was quickly informed that I had some weird action going on in my hand and that this was something the doctor had never seen or felt rather. He was perplexed and without second thought, informed me that I needed x-rays. Normally, this shouldn’t have surprised me, because x-rays would be the only way to confirm any real deformities.

Unfortunately, the x-ray process was something of great inconvenience for me. In order to have the pictures taken, I would have to take the local transit to a different facility on the other side of town and then return to the clinic for the doctor to review them, all in the same day. Without hesitation, I quickly left the clinic knowing I would be in for a day of adventure.

My pictures that would soon become my character’s headshot for her casting call, were taken at the clinic’s other (larger) facility.

 Still, regardless of the journey, the road along the way made everything worthwhile. Now, I know in looking at these photos, you may say there isn’t anything there, well look close and note that my thumb was laid over my hand, so viewing the abnormality is still almost impossible, but see that little thing sticking out, that was the source of my discomfort.

Still can’t see the little nuisance? That’s okay, the doctor wasn’t sure about it either, and to make matters worse, the clinic had no light to view the pictures, so the doctor had to leave the room. He returned to share with me that regrettably, he would not be the one to give me answers, he nor anyone else could understand what was going on and suggested that I return that Friday to meet with the orthopedic surgeon.

Friday rolled around and I met with the surgeon at 4:30 PM. The surgeon wasn’t quite sure of what he was looking at either, but knew there was obviously something there when he pressed his hand into mine. Yet, he still suggested to me that there couldn’t have been anything there that was too out of the ordinary because well, to him the pictures showed nothing. I requested that he go outside and view the images under sunlight and fortunately, he returned to inform me that I was indeed, feeling something in my hand and that I wasn’t crazy. Sadly, the only way he and I could solve this issue, would be to surgically remove the growth. I didn’t hesitate, and quickly we were in agreement that with some anesthetic for my comfort, and a few hours of his time, he would be able to perform the operation without fail and without stress on my part. In exactly one week from that visit, he would repair my hand and I would soon be making music and writing again, that sounded great to me.

Soon after leaving the office, I began going back and forth with myself, was this something I could really go through with? Should I trust someone I had just met, in the third world to be doing this to me? Even my friends in TZ weren’t sure. Everyone I spoke with seemed concerned for my sanity and soon, I was too. Had this been my non-dominant hand, I wouldn’t have worried until I returned home. But I knew I had to have this done and as soon as possible, because I would soon be going to South Africa and had to be able to work efficiently and music is everything to me, how could I suddenly go months without playing my uke? I had already battled sickness, infection, and I knew I could handle this all the same, God would be with me through this regardless. Either way, in a weeks time, I would be different, either possibly healing and happy, or hurt and horrified. Or something else all together but regardless of the results, I knew I would be wiser.

Friday approached all too soon. I woke early in the morning and was off to the hospital. After arriving, I was asked to sit and wait for my appointment.
Once I was checked in, I was left alone to wait for my preparations. Unfortunately, the entire process had been delayed because the nurses neglected to inform me that I would be required to pay up front and I had given the driver all of my belongings, as I would not need them where I was going. Fortunately, I have angels everywhere, and I immediately called one of them. They brought me the money I would need for my bloodwork and repaired the wall whose bars threatened to break under all the pressure my emotions placed against the bar that I thought I had raised too high for their torment.

Honestly, I wasn’t afraid in this moment. I figured that as with most operations, the most painful bit are the needle sticks, and once I made it through this, everything else would be a breeze. But as I began to mull the thought over in my mind, I got nervous. I was starring in my own production. I wasn’t ready after all. In every performance throughout high school, I was in the ensemble or in the tech booth, always with the talents of others supporting me in my role. Now, I didn’t have friends or family, this was just me.

After my blood was taken, and we confirmed that I had no blood born infections or diseases. I was led to an exam room to answer basic questions about myself and how  I was feeling that day.

The doctor wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about making my acquaintance. He didn’t even want my autograph (which I later discovered my procedure had been illegally performed as I had not provided signed consent, but oh well). But, I appreciated his lack of interest, I didn’t need anyone to try and comfort me, but I was also sick of hearing of how stupid I was. This man genuinely didn’t care either way, and I somehow adopted his mindset as I walked back, and everything became enjoyable and somewhat hysterical.

The doctor handed me off to a woman who led me to one final room where I would wait to be taken to the OR.  The room, interestingly enough, was called the “Family Waiting Room.” Which, as we all know in the States, that isn’t where most are taken to wait for their surgical workup.

“Is there anyone here with you?” asked the nurse somewhat troubled.

“Well no, I am doing this alone.” I responded, less certain. ‘Did I really just question that?’ I thought to myself.

“You’re brave, good luck today.” She said, still seeming to look behind me, as if someone would appear.

“Yeah, thanks. God bless you.” I concluded.

With that, she was gone and now, I was once again, the kitcha mzungu that everyone was starring at. No one seemed to be interested in my composure, and quickly, I realized that I wasn’t in the best place for this operation. An uneasiness settled inside of me unlike anything before. My brain had already rationalized that I was in need to take flight, not fight but I ignored my adrenal glans as I had ignored everyone else. I had ventured too far to turn back now.

“Mary” A voice called as a hushed whisper in the back of my mind.

“Mary? Mary?.” I shuttered,  that was me.

“Mary…” The voice called only seconds later, no longer as a question, but as a demand.

That is not the name I usually identify with, MaryBeth is my title, and I had let myself fall so deeply in thought that I almost didn’t hear the call of the doctor until the final demand. Of course, he didn’t know that and I wasn’t going to try and explain myself to him.

He led me into another exam room.

“Where is your gown?” He stated, thoroughly annoyed by me.

I looked down at the clothing I was wearing, why I don’t even recall, but then I looked up at him and simply retorted.

“My gown. My gown?”

“Yes, you cannot wear that in the theatre.”

Me: “………………….”

Finally, the man realized, as if the color of my skin didn’t give it away, that I was rational in being unware of this requirement. Still unsure, and a bit worried, he pointed me to a chair and asked that I be seated.

“Wait here.”

I waited for quite some time. Finally, I was realizing I that I may very well be in for something interesting. But, I wasn’t afraid anymore, I didn’t even feel as if I was attached to myself. I thought I was in a movie, or some dream to be honest, how did I really get here? You know what I mean? That feeling you have when either something great happens, or you are caught doing something you shouldn’t. That fire that melts your stomach. The fire that procures smoke that rises through your windpipe. That feeling that makes your knees buckle and your face flush with color. The one you welcome in times of glory, but detest in times of discomfort. That is what this was to me. But, all that smoke from my gut was taking the oxygen away from my brain and my sight was beginning to blur. I looked to the clock and had suddenly realized how much time had passed since I first arrived at the hospital.

My surgery was scheduled for 10 AM and the clock was already approaching 1PM. But, the whole process had now only felt like a few minutes. Perhaps this really was just a dream…

“Okay put this on.” The doctor said throwing what I presumed to be a gown to me.

I looked at him as if I didn’t really know what to do with the garment. I mean, I knew good and well that I was supposed to change, but where did he expect me to do that?

“Oh, you can go in here.” He stated, responding to my gaze.

He then led me to a storage room and jokingly (I hope) offered to help me change. I kindly, responded with no, procuring  a fake laugh in response.

After my costume change was complete, he proceeded to led me to the wings of the stage where I  would wait for my cue.

As I waited behind stage, I couldn’t think about anything. My phone was dying at this point and I decided to snap a few selfies for snapchat to show the world how interesting my day was.

I then just allowed myself to meditate, breathe and prepare myself. I knew I would soon be under anesthetic and was ready to relax and allow the events to unfold. I looked at my hand once more. I moved my fingers around and tried to feel the area one more time. I wanted to preserve the mental picture of my hand as it had been my entire life one more time before that picture was altered.

“We are ready now, follow me.” A nurse called.

“Sawa.” my voice quivered, followed by a chuckle.

“Oh but first, take off your shoes, you wont need them in the theatre.” She explained.

“Of course! I almost forgot about that.” I stated, as if this was common practice for the hospitals in my place of residence.

As we walked back, my phone was taken by one of the doctors. I was then led into the theatre and the nurse handed me off to several other women who then asked me to sit down.

At this point, I was a bit confused. I have had multiple operations before and in none of them, does one walk themselves into the operating room. Even under the anesthetic during my ACL surgery, I recall being rolled into the operating room and being asked to slide myself from my bed to the table. I remember looking to my right and seeing the instruments on the wall and then one of the nurses looking at me, as I drifted off. I had never done anything like this and immediately, I wanted to leap out of the bed and run.

Several doctors entered the room, and as they paced around the stage, one stopped beside me. I discovered the man was a young resident and my procedure was part of his rotations for the day. The man asked questions about why I was there and I felt better about my situation.

Then, the surgeon entered stage right, and I wasn’t ready for his appearance. I felt like Hamlet facing the Ghost of his father. I didn’t know how to react but I knew I couldn’t run. Prior to coming to me, the surgeon fiddled with the sound system and switched to BYU Vocal Point. Actually, I was a bit relieved to hear my favorite song, “Nearer My God to Thee.” But all the same, I wasn’t prepared for the actions that were about to take place.

The surgeon fiddled with my hand a bit and couldn’t seem to remember what he had stated he would be doing to me. He didn’t know where the piece of bone was and didn’t quite know where to cut. Eventually, the surgeon remembered the conversation he had with me a week ago and mapped out in his mind where he would be starting and finishing the procedure.

Without further delay, the surgeon laid my hand out and began prepping the area. I was okay with this as this was standard procedure. I was relieved to see a standard medical kit with Iodine painting the surface of my skin. Still though, I didn’t have any anesthetic and I couldn’t quite shake that.

After cleaning the area, the surgeon looked at me and asked if  I was ready for him to begin and I then questioned him about my anesthetic. He then told me they could use a basic nerve block in the area. He then prepared the block and injected the fluid into my hand.

Moments passed and still, the nerve block didn’t set in. However, the surgeon decided I was ready and he began cutting. I couldn’t bear this, I screamed in Swahili even. At this point, the cast thought I was delirious. The surgeon stopped and decided they would try the nerve block again.

“Do you have feeling?”

“Yes.”

“Now do you have feeling?”

“Yes, yeeES,  STOP!” I yelled. In each time he inserted the nerve block, he would take the needle and move it around inside of my hand, with no concern for how I could still feel EVERYTHING.

“We can try one more, but after that, if you still feel everything, I guess we will just abandon in the procedure.

*Inserts final syringe*

*Amazing Grace begins to play*

” I love this song!” The surgeon stated.

Suddenly my performance was being upstaged by the surgeon and this production of mine had transformed into a musical. I would have competed with him, but unfortunately, he left the needle in my hand as he was singing, and I still felt everything. With every time I cried out, my words were drowned out by his. I became light headed and my vision began to blur.

The surgeon looked at me and could tell I didn’t feel comfortable. I had been kicking and jerking so much that the nurse had grabbed a sheet and draped it over my ankles to anchor me down. I tried to focus on keeping my hand still but in doing so, my reaction was diverted to my right half. Even the nurse had to use her entire body weight to hold my legs still.

Instead of concentrating on the hand the surgeon was touching, I decided to place my frustration into my right hand and grab the sheet of the table. I then began talking to the resident who was still to my right. The surgeon then began to play matchmaker and tried to give the man my number, of course I denied that request. Soon after however, the resident had other patients to tend to and could no longer provide me with comfort.

I tried to bring myself to sing the songs that were playing, but soon I couldn’t hear anything. Once I felt the blood dripping down my hand I began to feel nauseous and attempted to give into the urge for sleep. After the surgeon reached my bone, and after he pulled out the first part of the object, and cut out the bad tissue, suddenly, I didn’t really feel much anymore. I could tell he was tugging at my bone and moving his finger around inside of mine, but I wasn’t worried anymore, nothing hurt. I am not sure if this was the nerve block or my adrenaline kicking in. But it didn’t matter to me, I was finally able to think again.

I looked at my hand, and I don’t recall blinking for the remaining half-hour or so. I couldn’t. I could only think of how dumb my decision had been. I didn’t feel sorry for myself because I knew the situation could have been avoided. I guess I felt a bit stronger, still, not enough to matter. But what did matter, and what is most significant now, is the understanding I gained from that experience.

I don’t often understand why I allow some events to take place or why I place myself into the situations I do. Yet, in this particular show, I knew my role and I knew why I was cast in this show from the beginning. This was never about what could befall me, but what would happen to those around me if  I didn’t do it. I knew I would go home, but I wouldn’t be the same person I am now. I would have been mad at everyone, because I didn’t think anyone would care about my interests. I didn’t want to go home to have the procedure done because I knew getting back to this side of the world wouldn’t be easy. Everyone I knew jumped at the thought of me returning home, and that just kindled an angry fire inside that I wouldn’t have been able to control. I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, my students, just as some of you reading this, weren’t ready for me to leave you. For some time, I thought this made me selfish.

However, I realized once the show took the stage that I wasn’t selfish, I was being human and I wasn’t acting as a child, I was playing the role of an adult. I didn’t rely on others to make choices for me, even knowing the consequences could be great. I played the role by no mandatory method. I was myself and I was confident. My decision may not have seemed brilliant at the time, but I think I performed the best I could with the part I was given.

In the International Thespian (theatre) Society, we share a common phrase:

“Act well your part, there all the honor lies.”

-Alexander Pope

I may not have starred in a production that would interest most audiences, and the reviews may not be great; but I did act well in my part regardless, and for that I maintain my honor. Having my hand operated on may not have been the best choice, and I acknowledge that, but it was the right choice. I weighed the value of each consequence and chose to listen to my heart. In spite of the experience, I was able to spend more time at the school, am living for each moment in  South Africa, and both my hands work fine.

I, like many people both young and old, frequently rely on others to make my decisions for me. But, I don’t take into consideration that all situations are different and sometimes I  need to trust in myself; that the decision that pleases me, may not always be what makes others happy. Sometimes, what I need to do, isn’t what I should do based on social belief.

I remember in high school theatre, the natural instinct was always to rehearse an audition piece over and over, and ask others for feedback. What made me happy about my performance, was not always pleasing to the rest of the audience. Sometimes, even in using the advice I was given, others didn’t seem interested and I felt fake; everything was, “too rehearsed.” I suppose what I am saying is, it is great to seek insight from others, but the decision will always come down to you. Sometimes that choice may lead you down a difficult path, with immense mental or physical pain and discomfort and you may have a few scars. But, in the end you could procure a laugh, a smile and realize it was all worth it, as I have. Other times, you may listen to the advice of others and choose a simpler path and things still may not work out the way you expected or wanted. Ultimately, you may not always make the “right” decision, but what makes a choice right or wrong isn’t exactly clear either, is it? Regardless of what I or any other critics say, this is your life, your part, and you are director of your production. So maybe not break a leg and have an operation away from home, but live your part to the fullest.