The Douchebag You Don’t Know

My three-year-old son is running around a cramped living room in my sister’s house, manoeuvring between many pairs of knees, circling around the coffee table, roaring. He thinks he’s a T-Rex. In truth, he more resembles a pale and skinny lizard, propped on a pair of toothpicks for legs, his tiny fingers positioned as claws. High on sugar from the birthday cake, he actually looks fierce—a snarl revealing baby teeth, two crimson cheeks, sweaty hair sticking up in spikes. A few amused older adults, my mom especially, try to grab him playfully roaring back, but this only boosts his craze and he nearly knocks down a floor lamp. I’m worrying about the rattling china cups while eyeing a cactus, much taller than him, fearing a collision, when he storms towards a tall shelf with many displayed chachkas and I instinctively close my eyes. Still, nothing happens. When I look at him again I see my boy standing, quiet and curious, examining a framed photo of a newborn with his mom and dad on each side, smiling. My nephew was born the year before, on Father’s Day. 

I feel a pang deep in my stomach. Father’s Day will always suck for Filip. My husband, his biological father, left ten days before I gave birth, a tad prematurely due to stress; he'd left me, my pregnant belly and the troubled country we lived in, trading us for Texas and a mistress and later, another two children. On this joyful summer day, my nephew’s birthday, Father’s Day became my burden. The thought of my fatherless child, noticing for the first time the difference between having a family rather than “just a mom” deal, instantly grew as a chip on my shoulder, the size of Belgrade’s divorce court and its lousy, unenforceable parenting and child support agreement. The rest was no longer a problem: we were safe, having emigrated to Canada, dodging the Civil war and the subsequent NATO bombing. I landed a great job, rented my first apartment, opened a savings account. With all that relief came Father’s Day—not celebrated in Serbia—as a relentless reminder of what we’ve lacked, in flyers and commercials, topped with mandatory card-crafting activities at day care and school.

Belgrade winter of '96.

As a pharmacist, I am well trained in substitutions, so at our home, I framed a photo of my late father holding Filip as a baby, with the young, boyish looking me on the other side. Over the following years, notable father figures found their frames. 

“There’s nothing that the two of us cannot provide for him” had been my mighty mom’s pledge at Filip’s birth and every single day since. Mom had been my rock, my best friend and that sane, wise and reliable other parent. 

Traditionally, on Father’s Day, Filip and I would go to the zoo, biking or rollerblading, followed by slaughtering a few pounds of chicken wings. I doubt he’d been aware of the occasion but for my own sake, I tried to make sure no fun was missing when mama was filling in for that other, absent parent. 

Toronto, 2006

A quarter of a century passed. My boy grew up, got really tall and kind and strong, fell in love a few times, graduated from university and settled in another city with a full time dream-job. Meanwhile, I remarried and Filip became a devoted big brother to two little boys who have an incredible father we celebrate not just every year, but each and every day, who is also a praise-worthy stepfather. The absent parent remained absent, never attempting to meet Filip nor talk to him, unless a few tries at cyber-bullying count, back when Filip was becoming a teenager. 

The shades were pulled all the way down forcing the November sun rays to dim before entering the room 1708 at the Princess Margaret Cancer Centre. 

A printed page showing a black butterfly taped to the outside of the door, stating the plea for no interruptions—a gracious end-of-life gesture so that medical and support staff can honour there won’t be needs for food, housekeeping, nor further tests. Crouched on the chair, next to the hospital bed I am holding my mom’s hand. She spent most of the day sleeping, but now she’s awake and alert. 

The Epic Road Trip, Sep 2020

 “I can’t stop thinking of Filip and how beautiful his condo is.” Mom’s voice is crisp and stronger than I expected. The painkiller dose is likely at its peak. “And how he prepared a feast for us, a generous host with that ‘best of everything’ spread!”

 “Yes.“ I creak; my throat is dry, I’m swallowing tears fast, careful not to be caught. “We were so lucky with the timing.” Just six weeks earlier I took mom and my younger sons on a weekend road trip, to visit Filip and see how he’d settled. Mom and I booked a hotel, while kids stayed for what will forever be remembered as 'an epic sleepover'. Few weeks later, the nausea started. The cause labeled: terminal. 

Our last

“You have a beautiful life, Marina” mom beams at me, her skin flawless and bright, unusual for the condition ravaging the rest of her body. “Everything ended up working just fine.”

“You’ve always promised that, mama. It’s just that I never believed it was possible for me. I feared Filip would’ve ended up scarred for not having a father.”

Mom took a breath. “It’s never the abandoned ones that are scarred. They grow up mature and resilient, like Filip has. It’s the children that came afterwards I worry about: like your ex’s kids,” she paused, “like your nephews.” I shuddered, feeling the electricity spread from the nape of my neck and down my spine. Indeed, that framed photo taken right after my nephew’s birth should’ve included a toddler sister. Older than Filip, the young woman had recently attempted to make contact with her biological father. It didn’t go well. “Some day, they will realize their father was the douchebag* capable of abandonment and their mother conspired. It could’ve easily been any one of them.” Mom closed her eyes. 

I adjusted her oxygen mask and gently moved the bangs off her forehead, then sat down took her hand in both of mine, pressing my cheek deep into her palm.

In my mom's wisdom: It's the opposite for douchebags

*This conversation happened in Serbian. The actual word used to describe the characters in question: govno.

"The Amazing Race" Kind of Summer: Budapest

Listen, I'm no TripAdvisor.

Chain Bridge closed for the Air Races (and iPhone photo opportunities)

Please don't expect me to wow here with my review of the veal cutlet served over corn polenta with spicy tomato and roasted red pepper spread, topped with a slice of calf liver done so deliciously to perfection it qualifies as one of the best five dishes my palate has ever experienced. Ever. Or expect me to choose for you the best goulash soup in town, review the intricate layers of the Esterházy torte, recommend the ambiance of Café Pierrot on the Buda side or insist you can't leave without Szeged's Hungarian hot paprika as a souvenir (what's weed for Amsterdam is paprika for Budapest). Nope.

And if I sound a little grumpy to you, there's a reason. Budapest and I - I discovered - have this complicated relationship. You see, this wasn't our first time. It only dawned on me late afternoon on our third day as I was impressing my husband and our boys by navigating like a pro through the city streets on both sides of river Danube, that is not really schönen let alone blauen  showing them the major landmarks, that the previous three visits to this magnificent city had nothing to do with sightseeing. They more resemble a young woman’s shaky journal entries and serve as monuments to my eventful personal history. 

The first visit was in 1990 with my boyfriend - a magical stay in this majestic city that was going through one of its hungry years, just fresh from shedding the communist era and - like a rebellious teenager - having no clue how it all would end. I remember being struck by witnessing old women selling family heirlooms for cash on the pedestrian-only Vaci Utca: art, china, silverware, intricate hand-made lace ornaments. Those forints were food money. We were young and with long-weekend pocket money of about 200 dollars we were beyond wealthy. Caviar for breakfast anyone?

Second visit - 1994 - same boy turned man and husband. My first husband. Atrium Hyatt hotel and a room with the mesmerizing view of the Chain Bridge. After a few days of empty small talk and group sightseeings with his entire family, captured on the photographs I recently happened to have found, there was one evening and a critical conversation with his mighty uncle from America during which we made our first emigration plans that both felt like a breakthrough and a more-than-solid lifeboat out of former Yugoslavia. What a relief! He would re-enrol in university and get a degree. I would license as a pharmacist in Texas. We wouldn’t be sharing a bathroom with all the smokers in his family nor be helplessly waiting in Belgrade for NATO to bomb!

The final visit in 1995 was far less glamorous. Now we were the poor ones, arriving at the TOEFL test with an overnight bus loaded with smugglers. Sausages, toothpaste, laundry detergent and diapers were hot items on Belgrade's black market. When the bus doors closed at midnight at the Central terminal, cigarettes lit, shoes came off and we marinated for 378 point 4 fucken kilometres in odours I can still recall, ears numb from the turbo-folk music that blasted all night through the crackle of worn-out speakers. We took the test at 10:00 a.m. Then we each savoured a Big Mac at the Vaci Street McDonald’s. By then, the city was all done up, facades renovated and posh world brands had moved into Budapest’s prime locations. Everybody had a cellphone. We hung around the river banks and the Chain Bridge for as long as we could then rushed back to board that same bus for the same many-hours-long ordeal back, the experience only enhanced by the mandatory 10 Deutschmarks per person bribe for the customs officer not to open the the trunk to check for possible imported goods.  

     “But we didn’t buy anything, we just went…” we tried to fight the injustice of it all. 

     “You are welcome to walk home" the toothless driver replied with a grin, cigarette dangling off the corner of his mouth. “In my bus we’re all equal: everyone pays the racket!” 

Nevertheless I passed my test of English as a Foreign Language with flying colours (the then-husband did not do as well but still adequately for the mediocre private university in Texas that had accepted his uncle’s tuition cheque) and we were cleared for emigration. 

The jolly never-ending tune playing in between the tourist sights information on channel 2 for English on Budapest’s double decker bus woke me up. Or was it my family alerting me to our final stop - the 5 star Boscolo Hotel. It was day 6 of us gumping* over Europe, I must have dozed off in exhaustion.

So if I sounded crabby - forgive me. It is from the stark contrast of this before and after for me. The life I willingly signed up for as a young, educated woman and this beautiful life I turned out to be living. The many different dead-ends and near-fatal turns that could have occurred has left me vulnerable in retrospect. I wish my happily-ever right now was more than just happenstance -  that I actually had had a say in it.

Somewhat ignorant or simply unaware, Budapest the beautiful has witnessed all of my personal drama that unfolded over the past quarter of a century, seemingly analyzing my life with equal emotion - oh well: here comes the rain, here comes the sun, take a walk, take a seat, sip a coffee, eat a cake, take a long soothing bath - you will most certainly feel better. This too shall pass. 

"The Grand Budapest Hotel" inspiration?

Dobos torte

I did manage to relax, unaware of the PTSD-like 3-day walk down the memory lane which was lodged somewhere in my subconscious, only to resurface during a short bus ride. Like most European cities there are scars and the monuments of real suffering all around Budapest, once home to a vibrant Jewish community. 

Names of Hungarian Jews killed in Holocaust inscribed on each leaf

But it is what we do with these scars that makes the whole difference. We expose them, we honour them. And we are certain they won’t happen ever again. Never again.

Never again

Just below the Buda Castle there is this 3m tall limestone sculpture called the Zero Kilometre Stone. Erected at the Adam Clark square this stone marks the reference point from which all road distances to Budapest are measured in the country. While kids were busy chasing one another around it and my husband waited in a long line-up for the tickets to the Budapest Castle Hill Funicular, I placed my forehead on the warm, rough stone. The symbolism of how far I've got to go from this true zero point in my life made me sigh in gratitude. There was never a need for a helping hand or a rescue boat. We are all capable of doing it all by ourselves.        

            "Hey guys!" I summoned my crew. "Forget the shortcut! Who's with me to climb the hill on foot?" And so we did.  

Here comes the Sun!

*gumping - the Hasson family trademark name and signature activity. While Forrest Gump was aimlessly running, we aimlessly walk. 

How To Spot A Calling

"Are you 226?" - the piercing bark of a short feisty woman jolted me out of my humdrum wait for the bus. She was so loud that a good portion of the crowded bus stop turned to look.

"N... No" I answered shakily, then continued to introduce myself with a bit more confidence: "I am 227" at which the curious stares became more obvious.

"Well, tell 226 she must come see me first thing in the morning, she left her Erlenmeyer flask at her station. You guys can't be irresponsible with your equipment." Then our fierce analytical chemistry technician disappeared behind the many coats so quickly she missed my timid: "Um... I will."

In an Orwellian kind of way, this episode seemed funny to me the sophomore year of becoming a pharmacist. Little did I know that a quarter of a century would pass before I learned how to handle being assigned and considered a number.

These days floods of articles, TED talks and interviews with new world leaders, business coaches & ultra-successful hipsters point out that the old corporate structure is dead. Truly successful companies have replaced their ivory towers and VP-only perks. Wise executives now share open spaces and open minds with their inspired teams.

The essence of their innovation is that it feels like playing rather than working, all the while achieving remarkable results.

Truth be told, for the last few years of my career I've been immersed in all that stuff.

I dug Simon Sinek. Reread Seth Godin. Adored Shawn Achor. Pondered with Dan Ariely. While driving aimlessly on my tedious Mondays-to-Fridays, Warren Buffet kept me company with his famous address tackling productivity and big life's to-do list published by the Harvard Business Review. I also wholeheartedly "joined the circle" and leaned in as seriously as I knew how. You get the point -- when Netflix already knows I only want the stuff on Musk, Jobs, Gates and even Cuban - I mean business.

The result? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because although the logic is clear, business sense sharp and the stories inspiring, removed by a screen or a print, it failed to sink in. What I realized is that I actually needed someone around me, a warm body I actually would be able to meet and bounce these ideas with - and no, not a bigwig VP on a stage once a year who talks integrity and requests compliance via mandatory signatures on the spread sheet. I wanted a real leader who sticks around but not just at the bar. Who breaths the values herself, then coaches and inspires, unifies teams, solves problems and laughs off obstacles until it does start feeling like play. An intelligent yet fun pastime I'd get to do between 9-5.

Looking at my own professional life these past several months, I'm in awe how things in life work themselves out and not because of meticulous career planning or having a powerful mentor and role model.

So what ended up happening with #227?

Here it is, for the sake of all those currently sporting golden handcuffs afraid or unsure how to make a leap and also those few who have not yet figured out how to troll LinkedIn unnoticed. #hillarious

To start, it's actually enough to know what you don't want - in my case, I could no longer justify to feel like a human equivalent of spam mail. That instead of becoming the prescribed employee of the future, built out of Terminator 2 grade stainless steel, it's OK if you simply keep your own skin albeit at times fragile and sensitive. Anything but thick. In lieu of putting Teflon on to repel the mandatory vermin you put your focus on how you actually want to feel in your professional life. How about empowered and entrepreneurial for a change?

Then you let go. Breathe. Laugh. Train. Travel. All the while keeping focused on your priorities and carefully chosen helpers. Never be afraid to pay for a good advice.

I've been many numbers in my life: The 227 in Analytical Chemistry. The matching 354 around my wrist and my baby's ankle at birth. My immigration file number, I can no longer remember even though it felt seared in my brain at the time. World Wide ID 769 885 007. For some reason I thought that getting the number was a sign of safety. That things would be managed and taken care of because of it, not despite of it.

In truth, there is only one formula to get what you want:

1- Find the cause for which you would gladly volunteer

2 - Form real bonds with real people, including former customers and honorable competitors - these could turn out to be essential 

3 - Never stop learning - stay the course in the chosen field and get to really, really know it. Not for the worthless check mark on the performance review. But to be invited to the big kids' table because of what you know, not who you know.

Then go to work and play. You'll never even think of glancing at the clock. Or loathing when your manager calls. Counting days till your vacation. Or mouth to yourself ever again: "TGIF. TFGIF."

You do deserve better. Much better. When to start? How about right now! 

Or answer Godin's opening question in "The Icarus Deception": How long are you going to wait?

Whistle While You Work

One thing that people living in the country where their native language is spoken can't possibly appreciate is the ease of understanding the song lyrics. To you it just comes with ease and zero effort. To me - it's a labour intensive experience and unless it's a karaoke night I am reluctant to sing out loud for over a decade now because of - Brian Johnson.

My biggest blooper with language and lyrics happened when my oldest son was 8 or 9 and got introduced to none-other than AC/DC by his "dad" - a wonderful man and a lifelong friend I rarely mention in my writing although he helped a great deal in raising my son. But I feel that the story of love and respect for the man who's on paper my "second ex-husband" deserves way more than just a blog post. No need to worry M, you can keep your anonymity a while longer, the memoir's not quite done yet!

Long story short, the kid got a boom box from his dad and a few CD's and the next thing I know the door to his room is starting to be more and more often shut. The music blaring behind it is angry; bass and drums are fierce seemingly shaking the very foundation of our East York home. I approach the door in order to intervene about the decibels when I hear my otherwise gentle boy's voice growl the most disturbing lyrics. Shocked, stunned and mortified, I run to the backyard where M is fixing their bikes so they can go for some equally savage ride and mistakenly I repeat what I heard, but first - of course - questioning his sanity as a co-parent to provide such disturbing musical content to my child.

AC/DC fan club 

   "Dirty deeds un-der sheets? DIRTY DEEDS UN-DER SHEETS!?"

What ensued was one of those moments that I only remember in slow-motion. M lifting his face towards me, dropping the greased bike chain on the driveway, whole face squinting into a grimace before his 6'5" frame rolled over to the grass patch where he laughed uncontrollably until the kid heard him, paused the music, got told how I understood "Dirty deeds done dirt cheap" , after which they both continued laughing and rolling on the ground - likely until supper time. Which I probably didn't even want to cook for them!

Understandably so, I stayed away from loud singing until this past winter, when my new set of kids (Oops 1 & Oops 2) fell very much in love with the Disney soundtrack. No, not Frozen, thank goodness but an old CD they inherited from their big brother, the AC/DC fan himself: Villain Songs! #boyswillbeboys

And since the best way to motivate the boys to get ready for school in a flash is to make it a competition (the kid that gets his snowsuit, boots, hat, gloves & backpack on first gets 2 songs on our drive to school while the runner up gets only one) I got to hear a lot of that villain music this past winter. Before  e v e r y  drop-off and after  e v e r y  pick-up!

When the lyrics finally managed to sink with my comprehension what stroke me as incredible were the lessons and social queues I totally missed when I used to hear these songs with Filip many years back! Disney Villains offer some seriously good teachings that can turn to be very useful for navigating both personal and professional relationships.

Here are some Disney song gems:

You can sleep safe and sound knowing I am around!

Have you ever been encouraged to trust, to trust so much so that once this convincing someone hears and "takes over" your worries you can actually 'sleep safe and sound' only to find out you've been conned? Well, if you saw the Disney cartoon version of the Jungle Book you have been taught a valuable lesson early on! Be careful who you trust and share your burden with - if you have to be convinced you are safe, it's likely a deception! Trust in me, Kaa is way more than just a pretty name!

Please be careful and say NO!

"I'm not asking much, just a token really, a trifle..."

Along the same lines is the lesson brought by Ursula the Witch. She nonchalantly tells the Little Mermaid it is actually her job to assist her.

"My dear, sweet child, that's what I do
It's what I live for
To help unfortunate merfolk like yourself
Poor souls with no one else to turn to."

The price will become visible only in the end, when it's too late - when the "favour" has already been completed. And when Ursula coldly says: "We haven't discussed the subject of payment" followed by "It won't cost much. Just your VOICE!" I actually had chills! Sometimes in life one is offered a deal at the expense of basic human rights, their voice included. Given my life's experience, I am dying to yell to Ariel each time "Don't do it!" as I listen to her singing naively thinking she made a wise choice by trusting a witch. This is when my sons go in unison, while strapped into their car seats in the back: 

   "Don't worry mama, she'll get her voice back!" 

Thank you boys. True. She WILL get her voice back. Of course she will. Silly me!

The lyrics state: "Whistle loud and long". Please DO!

Good news, it doesn't always take a villain to give sound advice. For all of us locked-up in a Monday to Friday routine sometimes referred to as a rat-race, the Snow White has an easy to follow advice: 

Whistle while you work!

What is more surprising, these exact words are echoed by grown-ass councillors that are trained to career-coach!

"Frozen", just not by fear!

It might sound simple but it is actually quite profound. Whistling can make the time pass quicker. In case the work is dull & done only for the sake of a paycheque, it will remind you there is much more to life than just work. It is also contagious - the more you whistle the more people will join in making for a jolly company that weathers the daily obstacles together. We are never alone in our problems. Taking things lightly is a great strategy!

Ask any little girl and they'll tell you, no they won't tell you, they will sing you one of the most important life lessons we all - me first - need to get better at: Let it go!

The 2013 animated blockbuster "Frozen" offers the best ear-worm ever created and I am sure to be humming it until I fully and totally get it. Life-coaching taught me to never to allow things to be rushed, but rather acknowledged and processed - usually with a group of trustworthy peeps - in order for everything to be understood and closed. It's only then one can fully and completely "Let it go!"

I'll end my Disney-inspired silver screen adventure with an unusual learning. Can an ultimate villain offer a useful advice that actually rings truer than true? Absolutely!

When Daniel wins our little pre-school winter-dressing contest, being a jazzy kind of kid that plays a

Couldn't have said it better myself!

piano, he always chooses: "Cruella de Vil". When Joshua wins - him being a hearty little rascal - it's "Are you in or out" from Aladdin and the Prince of Thieves. When it's my turn, perhaps because of my fondness for choir music - I always pick Lion King's - "Be Prepared". And amazingly enough it is the worst of them all that precisely pinpoints how I feel these days as I enjoy my life, my family and my work while mapping our amazingly fun summer:

"Just listen to teacher:

I know it sounds sordid but you'll be rewarded

When at last I am given my dues!

And injustice deliciously squared.

Be prepared!"

Injustices can be deliciously squared indeed. It just takes a tiny little bit of patience and preparation: know who to trust, whistle while the work is getting done, then simply claim one's voice back. Then it becomes super easy to let it all go!

ATSL: 362 days 'till next Valentine's, now what?

It is eight years plus into my very loud yet ridiculously happy right now and I still haven't forgotten my many single Februaries. I don't think I ever will - I keep learning about myself every time I have a flashback of that long stretch of single-hood. Coincidentally, my file of funny stories featuring a Serbian immigrant single mother - meant for one day when I have a legitimate stand-up routine - keeps growing. Here is one:

My old stomping ground

Danforth Avenue in Toronto is a delightfully European stretch of the famous Bloor Street into the East York. It is also the neighbourhood where my oldest son and I grew our first tiny immigrant roots, buying a red brick two-bedroom bungalow exactly two days short of our second anniversary in Canada. Thirteen became my lucky number on an extreme-cold-weather-alert weekend just before Christmas; it was the good old times before the multiple offer frenzy had become an unavoidable part of house hunting in this city. Still, I remember tossing and turning at night for the first six months wondering who would pay all this debt for the home the bank and I now jointly owned. 

Soon after relocating I also got a new job in downtown Toronto that included Greek Town. So on an insanely cold yet sunny and crisp February morning, I wore a fluffy white winter coat and a fancy pair of new sunglasses. The kind that you just have to slap on the shades to your existing prescription glasses that have built-in magnets. Needless to say, I checked myself out in the windows I passed on my way to a clinic I needed to visit. There was a spring in my step - I felt optimistic. The equivalent of the European Ski bunny (someone actually coined this term for me that winter) stared back at me. We've got this, girl! Finally.

About an hour later, elated by the great news of a successful work-related meeting, I reached into my pocket and clipped on my shades just as I was emerging onto the bustling street. Remembering that "attitude is everything" and the "fake it till you make it" mantra, I straightened up, deciding to walk, not drive, to my next appointment that was only a few blocks down the street. As I was strolling down this busy stretch of the Danforth, I noticed that a few guys looked straight at me as they passed by. Although it had been a while since I had been in the head space of noticing there was another gender that inhabited the same planet, a feeling came over me: "Alright, I guess I can handle the attention!" And this was followed by yet another crazy good interaction with a client. Woot, woot!!!

Back on the Danforth the sun was shining and I took a few deep breaths enjoying the cool relief. "This is going to be a good year" - crossed my mind, then I picked up my pace. Optimistic or not, the Canadian winter is not my favourite season.

Again, every single guy that passed looked at me. I even noticed a few double takes. Involuntarily, I reached and moved my then much shorter hair behind my ear, suddenly remembering a recent body-language study finding which claimed this was sure proof I was flirting. "Well, guess I've still got it!" - was my surprised yet delighted conclusion. With my confident cover starting to crack under the wind-chill factor of -22 C I hurried towards my car. 

Once inside, with the engine started and my music on, I self-consciously pulled down the vizor, sliding away the cover for the mirror. I was curious to see exactly what was so special about me on this particular day. The mirror light turned on and I saw my lip-glossed smile and my frost-enhanced blush. And my very cool new sunshades. But, wait - what??!! Right in between my eyes there was a shiny quarter, standing straight up, as if it was a third eye! The strong magnet of my snap-on shades must have picked it up from the inside of my pocket and I had been sporting it for as long as... the sun was shining!

I am sure that random passers-by on the Danforth must have noticed a parallel-parked dark grey Saturn VUE that was shaking as if the epicentre of an earthquake was right underneath it. That's how hard I laughed on that day that just coincidentally also happened to be Valentine's day. Valentine’s day of the year I was very, very single.

Perhaps it was the lucky Jupiter in my sign that day bringing good energy or the contagiously sunny weather paired with deceivingly blue skies, but somehow that laughter came so effortlessly. So organically. It rang true.  Way more true than an attempt to generalize and awfulize why or how embarrassing and stupid things, I truly did not deserve, seem to be happening to me.

With the price tag of twenty-five cents, this is by far the most inexpensive life lesson I've ever received: Don't take yourself so damn seriously. Life is good. Your life is good. Be the best company to your own self first and everything else will fall into place. And for me it did. 

Or perhaps it was the choice of music that blared out of the speakers when I started the car - ABBA - Dancing Queen. Be aware of the company you keep - your thoughts, your tunes and yes, even what you carry in your pockets! Now go ahead, I dare you, play this real loud and try your best to feel bad!

                                                              ABBA - Dancing Queen

The importance of being "gypsy"

There is a very good reason why I didn't study medicine.  I excel in faking I am super cool and composed while mending minor scrapes or pulling splinters out of a screaming child’s finger with tweezers - wielding the triple action Polysporin as if it was a magic wand. However this only stems from the fact that the accountant in the family would have handled it worse than I. Far worse. Forget the Discovery Channel's Shark week - I can't even watch a tooth extraction on close circuit TV let alone be close to an open wound, blood or layers of skin stretched open. And speaking of stretched open, that moment when I was told to push and was politely offered a mirror to actually see the baby's birth: "If I was supposed to see that, I would have been a giraffe. No. Please. Thank you!" is what my skilled Mt.Sinai Hospital team heard back. "Never ask me again!” Although, two years later - they did.  So when a young gypsy boy entered my pharmacy for the fifth time that week, limping on little crutches, I felt uneasy.  I knew this kid. He was about 10 years old and I saw him every morning as I walked to work. He would be sleeping on the street on a flattened cardboard box covered with a dirty blanket next to his mother, who would, with a baby in her arms, set up her post at about 6:30 a.m., right at the entrance to Belgrade's main hospital complex. The sight of her 'coming to work' always bothered me, as I had heard many stories of how these women are just exploited peons in one stream of organized crime, having the pimp-like characters who would 'protect' them take all the money they collected sitting endlessly on a dirty street. With their kids. Breastfeeding.  Each time the boy entered the pharmacy I would tense as I wasn't allowed to let him stay and linger due to the threat of him stealing something or robbing one of the waiting patients. He certainly wasn't buying anything. But then, he was just a kid and I felt that possibly I might be that one person who would always be kind to him. Besides being a brand-new pharmacist, I was also a brand-new wife and I didn't have a child of my own yet. So what I tried to offer, as I walked past the little family each morning was a banana, or a granola bar, a silent blessing and sometimes spare change.  When his turn came to approach the window, he signalled that he couldn't speak, his one leg lifted up so high that only his dirty bare toes with their black toenails peeked out of his trousers. Was he really disabled? I tried to recollect whether he was the one I saw playing with a tennis ball, accidentally hitting me in the back one afternoon when I was walking home from work? I wasn't sure. Trouble is, Belgrade has a family of gypsies lining all major corners; begging is a career. I tried to envision what these slender, swift, dark-eyed children would look like should they have a chance to belong to a normal family. One that owned a bed. And a shower.  "How can I help you?" - I forced myself to address him as I would every other patient.  Instead of replying, he signalled again that he could not speak, pointing to his throat. "Do you have a sore throat?" - I attempted to see what he was looking for, suspecting that he just wanted a few dinars.  He shook his head and slapped his forehead. "Does your head hurt?" He shook his head more vigorously, clearly getting annoyed with me, pointing again to his throat as if to say "woman, I told you already I cannot speak" and stretching one of his arms as if asking for money, his unwashed little palm open in front of me. "I am sorry, I can not give you money from the cash register. Is there anything else I can help you with?" He pointed back to his throat. Then moved even closer on his little crutches to the glass that divided us.  Some people in the line behind him started getting impatient. A few coughs and a loud sigh were urging me to end his visit. In Serbia, many things seem to be 'behind' the advancements of the modern world. I won't argue that. But not the pharmacies. From what I have witnessed in my time as a pharmacist in North America, they have yet to learn what a pharmacy should be like, feel like and smell like. It is a place of individual care and education. It is a temple of sophisticated smells of compounded preparations made according to the unique prescription. The lab behind the row of shelves only staff can access houses both prescription medications and OTC's (yes, teens can't actually buy six bottles of pain killers, at least not at the same place). Behind that wall is an orderly, white and well-lit lab where we mix our knowledge into creams and lotions. And suppositories. The dark glass storage containers are lined up in divine order, their Latin names whispering secrets to us, the pharmacists, in crisp white, starched and meticulously-ironed coats. We are that chosen extended hand of not only the doctor who saw the patient last; we are channeling Panacea and Hygeia and of course Hippocrates. We are chanting his oath with everything we do.

In stark contrast with North America, there is no fridge with Coca-Cola. There are no Nachos. Or Doritos. Or isles of junky chocolate bars. There is no mascara either. And for sure there are no cigarettes. There is only a counter and shelves behind it. And if you need a heart medication or an antibiotic, I will check your prescription for the dose and contraindications, and hand you your medicine with counselling not obtained while reading the computer screen. In an unrushed minute. Or five. Whatever it takes other than a 16 page print-out set to spook you and confuse you with it's dire legal warnings. No you don't have to roam around the store for the next half hour hopefully remembering you also needed a greeting card, a toilet cleaner and a TV dinner. It is not a convenience store. Or a local grocer. It is a pharmacy.  The hand of the gypsy boy now entered the little opening in the glass divider where we usually exchange prescriptions and payments.  "I don't have anything to give you." - I was starting to sound desperate as the line-up stretched behind him.  With one hand, he now lifted his shirt, attempting to show me a wide yet old scar of what was likely an accident with boiling water. I cringed. Closed my eyes. Then in total panic blurted out loud:  "You are not sick, I saw you playing with your sister this morning!"  Hearing that, the gypsy boy promptly stood on his feet, tucked both crutches under his right arm and feistily marched towards the door. Right before he kicked it to exit he turned around and in front of all of my other patients snarled, spitting on the floor first: "Pu, apotekarice, 'lebac ti jebem!" which can be only translated, for sure losing some of its original charm, as: "I f*ck your bread, pharmacist-lady!" I don't remember ever having laughed so hard while at work. A few patients whose ailments did not tamper with their sense of humour also giggled. The others just moved closer in line as I continued with my regular work, pursing my lips yet still laughing.  One of my favourite movies What was so funny to me? I laughed feeling the relief that he was gone but healthy - his leg wasn't injured. And he wasn't mute. Or crazy even though he kept pointing to his head. He just grew frustrated that his gig didn't work this time, knowing exactly what to curse - not me, but the way I earned my living.  Twenty-one years later I still laugh at this. This time, I laugh more because it strikes me how much I learned over the years from the gypsies. Not only from my young friend who spat on the floor of my pharmacy, but from all I came across, all I met over the years. They packed lightly, moving swiftly.  There was an importance to setting up a home even if it were only for a day spent on a cardboard box.  And they often lived more joyously than those who had everything. This benignly profane line when said in Serbian is what works for me when seeking refuge from stress. It gives instant relief while I long to let something I cannot control go. And it does it completely and swiftly. Both crutches under my arms, slam the door, I'm done with this! It doesn't have to be smart. Or sophisticated. I just want it to work. This one works for me.  Realized I lost my favourite wrist watch. Pu 'lebac ti jebem!  Husband gave kids' large school photos to his mother leaving me only the wallet-sized ones. Yes, she already framed them. Pu 'lebac ti jebem!  It's -19 C outside. Pu 'lebac ti jebem!  It's gonna be -19 C for the next four months, if we are lucky. Pu 'lebac ti jebem! It might sound very un-sage like for me to suggest you find your own relief profanity. But if you can create a shortcut out of some daily crap not spending too long simmering in what you cannot change? What the heck, be a gypsy!