Deep emotions like love and hate transcend words, culture, origin. I fell in love with a foreigner and his language. He had a complex mind yet spoke very simple English. His brilliant ideas about solving real world problems using applied math required patient listening as he found words, circumvented concepts, and expressed part of his thinking in his native language to regain traction. I could sense his energy return as he spoke more fluidly, as if he needed a reminder of the value of his ideas. As he built word-by-word his command of English, I benefited from exposure to his home language’s depth of meaning and core values. Mandarin’s simple structure holds a poetic power drawing upon centuries-old parables layered under words.

Spoken Chinese is made up of monosyllabic words that seem to push against some friction in the mouth to sound like stones spitting out of a tumbler. To understand what is said, one must listen to the combinations and musicality of the words. This isn’t easy, especially if you are tonally impaired like me. I have spent more than half my life learning Chinese and feel I could confidently perform well in a Beijing preschool class.

Part of this was a result of a marriage-saving decision to remain superficially capable when I agreed to have my in-laws come live with us. Typical of Chinese in-laws, they asserted opinions on all things and required respect and deference on many family decisions. My embracing their culture only went so far. I discovered that persistent ignorance dressed in smiles and kind gestures was the quickest end to a complaint or criticism. Ahh, ignorance was bliss, or at least a blissful disguise.

Baba and eye moments before his eye surgery

I do deeply love my in-laws and admire their courage to adapt to the US and also try to learn English. They are amazing with my children, who are bilingual and able to give and receive loving words with their Chinese grandparents. Residing in the international district where Mandarin is spoken at many businesses has allowed them to live independently. However, going to the hospital or to a specialist requires me to step in as an advocate. We always request a translator to join us. I'm not fluent in medical terminology and this is the type of translating you don’t want to get wrong. Even my former husband requests a translator. I have gone to the hospital or to doctors with my in-laws dozens of times. On rare occasions, I've been asked to help out when the translator doesn’t show or somehow wasn’t ordered. I take no joy in these experiences. I reached my breaking point when I was dragooned into the OR to be on-hand to help interpret for my father-in-law, Baba, during eye surgery.

“Can you help him out?”

“I don’t know any medical terms and am really not very good.”

The translator was late. Then, as if the Gods were listening, the anesthesiologist came over; I could see she was Chinese and felt an inner squeak of joy when she spoke Mandarin. As I told her the translator was delayed, she said to not worry. The surgery would be simple and short. "Okay," I gulped. Next came the surgeon who reassured me all would be well, barely acknowledging the absence of a translator. He reminded me this was a repeat surgery for my father-in-law, who had burst the vessel in the other eye. He also said surgery needed to happen immediately if there was any shot at Baba's vision returning.

He concluded, “Let’s carry on.”

As I rested my arm on Baba's shin, I felt my spirit flee. This was one of those times I deferred to others, believing they must know better than me. Listening to my gut just stirs needless worry. Still, I decided to ask the medical assistant one more time if they had any word on the translator. She told me no.

The assistant handed me a gown and hairnet.

On the table, Baba lay flat, a mask covering his face except for one eye. The surgeon asked him, “Are you feeling okay?”

I spoke up, asking him the same in Mandarin. I felt relief after communicating back to surgeon from my designated seat at the end 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. There a camera was mounted on a mechanical arm, positioned to capture my Baba's right eyeball. In front of me, closer to the surgeon was a metal tray with many instruments that looked like pens, and a few smaller tools that reminded me of items I might have seen before at my dentist’s office. An assistant stood behind the tray, ready to hand the surgeon what he needed.

The doctor began to operate. I observed Baba's eye on the TV. It resembled a planet photographed from the Hubble telescope. I was transfixed. I watched the doctor delicately use microtweezers to remove what looked like a glistening clear gelatinous contact. I was caught up with the eye-hand precision as the surgeon looked at the eye and then to the screen.

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

I saw the blue sheet covering my father-in-law billow as he tried to lift his arms upward. Panic engulfed me. I dropped my phone with my pre-loaded translation phrases. The surgeon held his position as did the assistant while I sprang forward to hold Baba's arms 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.

my prayer as I captured photo, 'please, please please let the yellow not be a hole born when hell broke loose.'

The surgeon interjected, “Diane, sit closer to his feet.” I lifted my hands off of my father-in-law as this new person clad in blue came up behind me and placed his blue gloved hands on my father-in-law's arms.

In an instant, I tried to replay in my head what just happened. Did the surgeon’s instrument plunge into his eyeball? The assistant now retrieved something from a closet and said to surgeon, “We have one.”

“One what?” I wondered. Oh, God. I felt sick and yet charged like a balloon after being scrubbed across a young girl’s head of hair. Mentally torqued, I held my arm on Baba's shin to keep anchored, 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 watched the screen for clues of permanent blindness.

When surgery was over, I looked up 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 asked the surgeon if my awkward movements had affected the surgery. He told me no and advised that it would take 4-6 weeks before we knew if the operation was successful. As I walked out of the room, I glanced over and saw the Mandarin anesthesiologist. Why had she not come forward when my father-in-law struggled? She could have helped so easily, but instead abandoned me while I summoned the few words I knew to calm Baba down. I will never know her reasons, and it may have simply been that she was not allowed to translate because of hospital regulations. Still, I couldn't help but wonder at her silence.