My Name Is Mahtob: The Story that Began in the Global Phenomenon Not Without My Daughter Continues by Mahtob Mahmoody

Author:Mahtob Mahmoody [Mahmoody, Mahtob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2015-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

The trek to Munich was exhausting. When Mom and I met Dr. Franke, my body was scarcely strong enough to support the weight of my head. We were in the opulent lobby of Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten, surrounded by dark wood, marble, and stained glass. Too weak to scoot the heavy chair up to the table, I sat on the edge of the seat and leaned forward to rest my head wearily on the cool wood. I knew it was rude, but I was so drained I just couldn’t help it.

Dr. Franke wasn’t what I had expected. He looked like a Disney villain, with long, knobby fingers that curled over the end of a gnarled wooden cane. His hollow eyes were sunk deep into his skull, creating dark circles in his chalky skin. Only one corner of his wrinkled Oxford shirt managed to remain tucked into his pants. He was a disheveled mess, a mad scientist in form and function.

There was a jerkiness to the man’s movements, and he waged a never-ending battle against the hair that fell unkempt in his eyes. When he wasn’t laboriously pushing it aside with the palm of his hand, he was grotesquely cracking his wrists. A half turn down and to the right, then a quick flip up and out . . . pop. His body was creaky, and I wondered whether this was a side effect of the treatment. He had promised there would be no negative side effects, but he didn’t seem to be aware of his creakiness. Would the same thing happen to me?

Dr. Franke had brought along his business partner. Dr. Regensberger, who wore jeans, riding boots, and a black leather jacket. We learned he was a motorcycle enthusiast with a Route 66 obsession.

Anja had come for moral support. Her translation skills weren’t necessary because everyone at the table spoke perfect English.

Dr. Franke, surprised by the advanced state of my illness and fearing that the disease had already done too much damage, was reluctant to treat me. After Mom’s and Anja’s pleas he capitulated, but not without issuing a sober reality check. He told us not to have high hopes—not to have any hopes at all.

The next morning Mom, Anja, and I reported to Dr. Franke’s small and sterile clinic. I felt like Goldilocks sitting in Papa Bear’s seat as I half-reclined in the massive vinyl-upholstered clinic chair. New Kids on the Block was singing “step by step, oh, baby . . .” into my ears, courtesy of my new Walkman cassette player, and the latest Babysitters-Club paperback rested unopened on my lap. My right arm was outstretched on the armrest, the IV needle disappearing into the plumpest vein in the crook of my elbow. Even my best vein was pitifully shriveled by disease. The nurse had been forced to use a butterfly, a tiny needle I knew well by now.

It was a warm day, and Mom and I watched in amazement as the children from the preschool next door stripped down to their birthday suits and splashed around in a kiddie pool.

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