FARZANA 1

It was Christmas Eve 1962, the year I turned ten. The whole trouble-making crowd of drunks which was the Mullaly clan was gathered at the farm of my grandparents in southwestern Saskatchewan, Canada.
As things got really loud, grandma packed us off the bed. As soon as I lay down, I could tell trouble. Terrible pain in the right side. Still I didn't like my odds of going downstairs, so it'd hafta wait til morning.
Sometime later, grandma discovered me, doubled up in pain, moaning. She suspected appendicitis. Her problem, the hospital was forty miles away, raging snow blizzard, no one sober enough to drive and she'd didn't know how to drive. She decided my grandfather was the best of a bad lot.
I doubt if we got more than two miles before the car got stuck in a monster snowdrift. Minutes later, we ran out of gas, so forget any heater warmth.
Freezing is actually a fun way to die, drift off peacefully. I recall thinking how good it was to leave. What is life anyhow? Best get it over with.
Only one thought troubled me. It seemed a sacrilege to die on Christmas Day, almost a defiance of God. Neither grandfather nor I had a watch, but I was hoping I died before midnight.

If I'm dead, why do I hurt? Headache, stiff like I've been lying here forever, raging thirst.
I open my eyes, take in my surroundings, an obvious sickbay.
Seeing me awake, the nurse vanishes a few moments, returns with a woman in naval-type uniform, blue and white. Single silver bar on each shoulder, so I guess Lieutenant from TV movies. She looks sort of Arabic, as do the nurse and other patients.
Seems too old for a Lt. Could be someone passed over for promotion, bitter. Or maybe, only looks older, hard living. Either way, I don't like my odds of giving her any trouble.
She breaks into a kind smile, I'm 50/50 whether it's phony or real. "Good morning, Farzana."
"Excuse me, ma'am, but my name is Fern."
Indulgent smile, "right Fern. How do you feel?"
"Headache, stiff all over, thirsty, ma'am."
The nurse fetches water. Lt sits on the side of my bed, gently starts running her fingers through my hair, "Fern, you're a brave child, to stay alive so. Most didn't. I'm proud of you."
Something feels wrong in my hair. I reach, pull it in front of my eyes. This is wrong. I have reddish-brown hair, Irish tint, short as a girl can. This is long and black.
"Uh ma'am, you gotta mirror please?"
She produces and now I'm screaming. It's the wrong face in the mirror.
She reacts by hugging me tight. Feeling her warmth, I can sense she really is a kind person. I gradually relax against her. "Rest child, we'll talk tomorrow."