The Smile of Bethune
This event happened on March 30, 1987 – the day my daughter, Dorna, was born. We were hopeful when her mother was pregnant with Dorna. But then 9 months passed and she did not get labor pains. We were both extremely anxious. We went to our gynecologist, a woman in her mid-40’s, one of the best in Montreal. She advised us to wait and we waited for 15 more days. This made the doctor all the more anxious. She struggled very hard and booked a room at the Royal Victoria Hospital and advised us to meet her at the maternity ward at 8 a.m.
The kindness and care we received from the gynecologist reminded me of Dr. Norman Bethune, a man whom, from my early childhood, I considered my great hero – a symbol of Canadian humanism and multiculturalism. It was my dream to travel to the country of Norman Bethune one day to see his statue in Montreal and pay homage to his memory.
I escaped persecution from Iran and after going through a challenging ordeal, I decided to come to Canada because of Norman Bethune. I landed at Mirabel airport in Montreal on February 12, 1985 and applied for refugee status. While in Montreal, I was delighted to see the statue of Norman Bethune at the intersection of Guy and Maisonneuve. Every time I happened to be in downtown Montreal, I would always pass by his statue, stay there for at least 5 minutes, to pause, think and re-energize myself.
Now, let’s go back to my daughter’s birthday. I woke my wife early in the morning and told her we had to rush to the hospital. I begged her to be very quick. But, with the baby in her womb, she could not move fast and, as newcomers, we did not know that we could call a taxi by phone. We went outside and waited a long time before we got a cab. Instead of 8 a.m., we reached Royal Victoria Hospital at 9:15 a.m. And it took us some time to find the appropriate ward. Doctor was furious and started fighting with my wife, screaming and shouting: “Madame, this is not acceptable! This is not acceptable in this culture!”
I was annoyed by the doctor’s comment, but being a refugee I remained silent. I was intimidated to raise any objection. The good doctor finally cooled down and she did everything in her capacity to help my wife. At times, she resembled an angel to me. But still I was not happy with her. She would diligently check every half-hour on the condition of the mother and the baby inside. I was patiently standing beside my wife’s bed with a blue hospital gown. It was during these moments that a friendship between the doctor and myself blossomed.
Hours passed and it was around 6:30 p.m. when the decision was made to induce labor. They put my wife on an IV drip and the doctor was checking every half-hour and later every 15 minutes. At 6:40, they said the womb was 4 centimeters open and the doctor told me, : “We need to transfer your wife to the delivery room”. And she said that she would let me be with my wife there. Then she assured me that she would do everything in her capacity to help my wife and child. At this time, I finally had the guts, looked at the good doctor and told her: “Doctor, I was annoyed by your comment”. She was surprised and, with a French accent, shouted, “What comment, Misterrrrrrrr?!” I told her gently, “You said this is not acceptable in this culture”. She replied, “Is this acceptable, Mister? Do you accept this behavior? One minute more and you would have lost the room! Is this acceptable?” And I said, “Of course, this is not acceptable”. She almost screamed, “Then what is your problem, Mister?” I shouted at her for the first time, “This is not acceptable in any culture! Why do you single out your culture?” The good doctor paused for a minute, then once again preoccupied herself with the patient. The nurse told her that the delivery room was ready. The good doctor turned to me and said, “I didn’t get your point, but I will do my best to help your wife”, as she gave me a pat on the back.
She stayed true to her promise. My annoyance finally vanished at 7:59 p.m. when I heard the first cry of my baby girl.
From that day onward, whenever I came to the intersection of Guy and Maisonneuve, it seemed to me that Dr. Norman Bethune was weeping. I spoke with him in silence about the insensitivity of his colleagues when they deal with vulnerable refugees and people coming from other cultures.
Three years passed, and one day, I was crossing Guy to Maisonneuve, since I wanted to go to Concordia University. I heard somebody calling. It was a female voice. I looked back and saw our beloved gynecologist. I was in the middle of the road when she ran to me, held my hand and told me: “For the last 3 years, I have been looking for you so that I can say ‘sorry’. I sincerely apologize for what I said. Although I did not mean it, I think I made a racist comment. Since then, I have tried my best to understand newcomers and to respect them as much I respect myself.”
Hand in hand, the good doctor and I crossed the road. We found ourselves at the foot of the statue of Dr. Norman Bethune. I looked up and it seemed to me that Dr. Bethune was smiling. I told my new friend, “Look at the face of Dr. Bethune. Doesn’t it look like he’s smiling?” She stared at the celebrated doctor and humanist, smiled at me, and said, “And such a sweet smile”.