Souly does a good job bandaging me up.
Achtung! If you’re squeamish or are Nadia El Hage, brace yourself. This story is bloody.
Next week we celebrate Souly’s birthday. Many take New Year’s Eve, Christmas, or Valentine’s Day to reminisce and make resolutions. For me, the fact that the Earth has completed one more revolution around the sun, that a wise man was born 2000 years ago, or that some chocolate companies want to make money means very little to me. Therefore I don’t partake in the giddy excitement that surrounds those occasions (though I don’t mind those who do).
But the birth of my best friend is one thing I do get excited about. So I find myself looking back at that May day (mayday!) one year ago.
We’re at Pangéa, a beautiful and somewhat secluded resort just south of Beirut, at a rented bungalow with our own yard and jacuzzi. This all sounds very posh, but it’s actually quite affordable. Twenty of us eat, drink and splash about all night. It’s pretty silly and lots of fun (hey that’s what birthdays should be, no?). By dawn, some have left, others have crashed in the different rooms of our bungalow, and all who remain are The Three Wise Men: Souly, Shibly, and Meedo.
After making the best of the jacuzzi, the fact that we had no shorts on, and my underwater camera (boys will be boys), it’s time to clean up. Armful by armful, we carry the half-empty bottles from our yard to a dumpster a few feet away. It takes several trips back and forth to get most of the work done because the bungalow is a few steps higher than the rest of the complex.
As we move our last few bottles, I get the brilliant idea to shave a few minutes off my lap time by jumping off the steps instead of taking them one by one. What makes the idea even more brilliant is that I don’t think to set down the Smirnoff bottle from my hand before doing that. So, with infinite grace and agility (not helped by some alcohol and no sleep), I take a leap and land bottle-first on the ground below. The glass shatters into a million tiny pieces, at least eight of which lodge deep into my hand.
Blood everywhere. My first reaction: “Souly! Quick get the first aid kit!” My second: “Shibly! Quick get the camera!” Sing in a high-pitched Mariah Carey voice: And then a hero comes along. Souly puts his years of outdoor experience to good use. He cleans up my wound with some salt and water and wraps it up. I’m fine for now.
Souly’s done a great job, but half an hour later I find the bleeding hasn’t stopped. The cuts are deeper than we thought and it’s clear I’m going to need stitches. Souly and Shibly are asleep, so I grab my car keys and make my way out (but not before, in my dazed and confused logic, I take Souly’s cellphone so he can call me — but hey, that’s another story).
I get stitched up.
My father works his magic.
I drive back to Beirut and after bleeding all over ten flights of stairs (the elevator was broken) and leaving a note to the neighbors that nobody died, I wake up my father (a full-time doctor and wizard) and get stitched up at the hospital next door.
A lot has happened since that day one year ago. And now thanks to Souly, Shibly, and my wonderful friends, I’ve learned to look before I leap.
