Renting an Apartment in Kuala Lumpur
In 2002, I went to Malaysia as a visiting professor at the International Islamic University in Kuala Lumpur (KL). The first week I stayed at a hotel close to KLCC (City Center). Since I was planning to live in KL for 7 months, I needed to rent a furnished apartment either close to the university, which is in the northern outskirts of KL, or close to the Putra Subway Line to make it easy for me to commute to the university. I searched the newspapers for housing ads. Whenever I called for an apartment, a Chinese or Indian landlord/landlady would answer and either tell me that the apartment was gone or ask for a rent higher than that mentioned in the paper. The owners or landlords I called were rough and tried to take advantage of me as they could easily tell that I was a foreigner. Almost 2 weeks were gone without finding an apartment. My colleagues at the university were also helping in the search for an apartment. The hotel bellman recommended an apartment in a condominium behind the hotel. A colleague of mine recommended another one (Fajaria Condominium) that was 15 minutes far from KLCC along the Putra LRT and gave me the landlord's phone number.

I looked at the apartment at the condominium and it was a very nice and cozy one bedroom apartment and I really liked it. It was about 2400 riyals per month in addition to the utilities. The other apartment was a three-bedroom apartment and was not as nice and was noisy as it was by the highway.

I visited the condominium 3 times, talked to Lily, the Chinese manager in the rental office, seemed to be nice, she served me tea and cookies, and stayed after hour to chat with me. After reading the lease and asking questions about it. I told Lily that I liked the apartment and would like to rent it for 7 months. She told me that I needed to pay 2-months deposit, one month advance payment and one thousand for the utilities (about 9000 riyals). She added that I had to pay the whole amount in cash. She refused the credit card payments and traveler's checks. She told me they would clean the apartment and it would be ready at 2 p.m. on Friday. I asked my colleagues at the university for advise as I did not know anything about the renting procedures in Malaysia. Dr Ismail told me that I needed to sign a lease and that the landlord should register it at the Puduraya (Municipality) and affix stamps on it.

It took me several days to withdraw the money from the bank because I could only withdraw a limited amount per day and only one bank accepted my ATM card. I walked around KL with the cash money in my purse and was worried I might get pick-pocketed. Friday morning, I checked out of the hotel, asked the bellman to store my luggage until 2 p.m., and went to the bank to withdraw the last sum of money around 1 p.m. While I was crossing Ampang Road, I had strange feelings. I was uncomfortable and was afraid of being robbed down the street. I was walking down the street and looking around.

At 2 p.m. I went to the condominium to sign the lease, pay the money and get the apartment. When I arrived at the office, Lily was not there. I felt more uncomfortable. The secretary told me Lily was eating lunch. I told her that I had an appointment at 2. In few minutes, Lily came and she was chewing. She asked me to fetch my luggage from the hotel until she finishes her lunch.

I went back to the hotel which was about 100 meters away twice and dragged 2 pieces of luggage down the street by myself. My 4 pieces of luggage were outside the office on the 9th floor and I waited for Lily inside. My feelings of discomfort were increasing and my heart was beating fast. Lily came, took her seat behind the desk and asked for my passport. I gave it to her and she photocopied it. "Give me the money", she said. "No", I replied. We have to sign the lease first. "Give me the money", Lily repeated, "so that I can give you the key and you put your luggage in the apartment and you go to work". The lease is not ready and It takes few days to be ready. "You told me it would be ready and we would sign it when I met with you few days ago", I replied. I insisted on signing the lease before giving her the money, and told her that I did not have to work that day and that I was willing to wait until they finish the lease. Her face changed color. I sat on the chair with one leg over the other and waited. Lily asked the secretary to type the lease. The secretary was pregnant and too slow in moving, typing and getting things done and I think she was acting this way to force me to corner me. While waiting, I was contemplating over what happened and what she said. I thought if she gives me the apartment today without signing the lease, how can I guarantee that I will not be kicked out following day. I have no document to prove that I rented the apartment and that I have paid 9000 riyals. Someone might come tomorrow, tell me that he/she own the apartment, and kick me out. This way I'd lose the money and have no proof in my hand.

When the secretary finished the lease, she handed it to me and Lily asked me to sign it. I told her I had to read it first. When I read it, I found a mistake and asked her to correct it. Lily said she would do that later after I pay the money. I refuse and insisted everything should be correct right from the beginning. Every time I told Lily there was a mistake, she would take the lease to the landlady in another office to get her approval before correcting anything and come back in 10-15 minutes.

The lease was re-typed several times and every time I read it I found a different mistake. This process took about 3 hours. While waiting, all kinds of ideas came to my mind. I thought that I made a great mistake by checking out of the hotel and bringing 4 pieces of luggage without having finalized the leasing procedures. If I do not lease the apartment today, how am I going to take 4 pieces of luggage back to the hotel? I was wondering how I could put all my pieces of luggage in the elevator and leave the building. It was a secured building with security cameras and T.V. screens in the Office. The main door to the building was locked and you could only enter if someone from the office opens it for you. What will happen if they lock the outside entrance and I cannot leave the building. I felt as if I was sinking in boiling water. While waiting and thinking, Lily will interrupt me to show me the corrections or to tell me a new condition (she tried to fool me and take advantage of me as I was a foreigner). For example, Lily told me that I needed to pay 15 riyals for the apartment key and 50 riyals for the stamps. For re-assurance, Lily gave me a signed lease to look at. I took a look at it and found that one article was missing from my lease and a ten-riyal stamp was affixed on it. As a matter of fact, the lease signed lease was a testimony against her. I told her the stamp on the lease was for 10 riyals and wondered why she asked for 50. I added that she is the one who should register the lease and pay for the stamps not me. I also told her that the first key should be free and when I lose it, she can charge me for the replacement. Every time I answered back, Lily got more furious and her face became more congested.

At 5:15 p.m., Lily told me that the landlady went home and I had to sign the lease myself. I refused and demanded that the landlady sign the lease first before I sign it and asked for a second copy of the lease. She said she would photocopy the lease after I sign it. I refused and asked for 2 original copies of the lease pr-signed by the landlady: one for me and one for the landlady. When she told me that the landlady had gone, I stood up and told her that she cheated me and was taking advantage of me and told her that I did not want her apartment.

I quickly put my bags on top of each other, pushed the elevator button, pushed them all in, pushed the button again and in few minutes I was in the ground floor. I pushed the button and the glass entrance was open. I quickly pushed my bags outside to the yard before she locks the door. While in the back yard, I was thinking how I could take 4 pieces of luggage all at once back to the hotel. It was difficult to take a taxi as the hotel was too close for a taxi ride. There was no taxi then anyway. It was also impossible for me to carry 4 bags by hand. I thought I should take 2 pieces and leave 2 in the yard. What if someone takes them while I am gone? I thought I should take a chance and leave the 2 bags that are less important. I took the bags that had my laptop, cameras and books and left the ones that had my clothes. When the security guards saw me pulling my bags and heading back, one asked about what happened and why I was leaving? I told him that Lily cheated me. He felt sorry for me because he saw me come there three times. While walking back to the hotel, I heard a noise, I looked back and found that the younger security guard was following me and pulling my bags.

While walking I was afraid the hotel might be full and what will I do if I cannot find a room at another hotel. It was June and hotels are usually fully booked. When I entered the hotel, I told the receptionist that I needed a room. I had a good relationship with all the receptionists and they were all nice to me. Luckily she could find a room for me and in few minutes I was in my room.

I sat in bed and cried for a while. I felt sorry for me and was wondering why this happened. I only had one option left and did not know if the Fajaria apartment was still available. I called the landlord and asked and he said it was. The following day I went to Fajaria. The landlord, a wealthy 71 year old Muslim, came with his driver. He asked me to check the apartment and see if everything was O.K. I did and I told him it was. He took 2 leases out of his pocket and asked me to read them and to see if I agree to the terms and conditions. There was something that he added to the lease and I did not agree to. So he omitted it. He signed both originals and handed them on to me to sign. I gave him the money and he told me I could move in the following day after they clean it. On Sunday his driver came to my hotel, loaded my luggage in the car, and took me to the supermarket to buy groceries. When I entered the apartment, I found a large plate full of fruit on the dinning table. I also found cereal, milk, coffee, tea, prunes, bread, eggs, cheese in the fridge.

Although, the apartment was large for me, was very noisy, and very far from the university, the landlord was like a father to me. Whenever I asked for anything or complained about anything, he would get it or fix it right away. He told me about his visits to Makkah for hajj and omrah and about his 2 daughters who live abroad and about his son. He introduced me to his niece who became a good friend of mine. Before I went back to Riyadh, he invited me to his lovely house where I met his crippled wife, niece and grandchildren.

Losing My Mother
Losing my mother was a very traumatic experience for me. It happened 2 years ago. My mother got so sick during Hajj break. She was suffering from hepatitis C and liver cirrhosis. She was so pale and slept a lot. Shortly after I returned to Riyadh, my sister called one night and told me that our mother was at the hospital in Mecca. My whole body was shaking and I could not stand up. I called the airport but it was too late as the last flight was at 11 p.m. and I only had half an hour to get to the airport. I could hardy fall asleep that night. My neighbor was kind enough to drive me to the airport 5:30 in the morning. I took the 7 a.m. flight and was in Mecca around 10:30 a.m.

When I arrived at the hospital, she opened her eyes and smiled. My brothers, sisters, and myself were all at her bedside. She could not leave her bed, could not eat nor do anything herself. We had to take her to the bathroom, bathe her, change her clothes, and feed her. For more than two months, I flew to Mecca at least once a week and sometimes twice a week, depending on how bad her health condition was. Many times I went to the airport with no luggage, just my handbag. Most of the time I had to buy my ticket at the airport.

Every time I went there, I noticed that my mother got weaker and paler as she was jaundiced. The best doctors were taking care of her, but she was at an advanced stage, as her liver was not functioning and it was difficult for them to control her blood sugar. Her blood sugar went up and down for no obvious reason. She went in a coma several times and once she fell in the bathroom 1 a.m., injured her head and had severe bleeding.

I was there one weekend and stayed with her in the hospital room. I was grading the Liaison interpreting tapes while watching over her. I had to say goodbye to her and leave for Riyadh Saturday afternoon as my students had their final exam the following morning. My students took the test Sunday morning, and I was planning to grade it before I go back to see my mother. I was calling the hospital every few hours to see how my mother was doing. It was Monday. I called 5 p.m. My cousin answered the phone and told me that my mother was in the same condition as I left her. Two hours later, my sister called and said that my mother had passed away. I started trembling and crying. A friend of mine who was my student many years ago was staying with me. She tried to calm me down and accompanied me to the airport. I took the 9:30 p.m. flight. When I arrived in Jeddah, I took a limousine and was in Mecca 1 a.m. When I arrived, our house was full of people who came to offer their condolences. I watched the ladies wash my mother and get her ready for her final destination. Her eyes were closed and her face was so pale yet peaceful. She looked as if she were asleep. Soon, she was taken to the grand mosque in Mecca for dawn prayer.

Hundreds of people came to offer their condolences and pay their tribute to her. They were talking about her and what she did to each of them. I never realized how kind and good my mother was until after she passed away. I was thinking about my mother, her sickness, with her children all around her and asking myself ?Who will cry when I die?? Life and death had a new meaning and a new feeling for me.

Having good and supportive friends in moments of darkness is the greatest gift of all. I remember that every time I came home form Mecca, I was exhausted, disoriented and starved. A friend of mine (Mrs. Nahed) was always generous enough to bring me food or take me out for dinner every time I retuned to Riyadh. I would eat as if I saw food for the first time in my life.

I lost many dear people. But losing my mother was a unique experience. Without my mother, I am an outcast. I lost her abundant love, care, and endless support. Without her, days are bleak. Every time I go to our house in Mecca, I feel that our home is not our home any more. It is so barren, so desolate. I can hear my nieces and nephews run and play the way they always did, but I cannot see or hear my mother anymore. She is gone and gone forever. May God rest her soul!

Losing My Father
It was Monday night and I was studying for a final exam that I was supposed to take the following day in the evening. My sister Fatma was in her last year of high school and my sister Rawda was a medical student. I was called for dinner. We all sat at the dinner table and were unusually quiet, specially my brother Mohammed. I was feeling bad as I had a bad dream the night before. In my dream, I saw a full moon appear among dark clouds and fall in the sea, in a stormy and cloudy weather. After dinner, I finished studying and went to bed. 4 o’clock in the morning, the doorbell rang. To our surprise, my uncle and grandmother had come from Riyadh.

The following morning, I went to school, as I was a teacher. In the school broadcast, the students read an article about death. When I went to class, I looked at the board and saw the word death on it. When I returned home, the gate was wide open and there were people in the house. I entered my room and to my surprise, my aunt was sitting on my bed. She had also come from Riyadh. Her eyes were red and swollen. I asked her why she had come from Riyadh and why she was crying. She said that she wanted to see us. I insisted that she tell me the truth. She said that my father had a car accident and that he was at the hospital. I started to cry and told her that I wanted to go to the hospital to see him. She tried to calm me down and asked me to go to the reception room to say hi to the other ladies. There were many ladies and I did not know why they were there. An hour later, my oldest brother came after he picked up Rawda from King Abdul-Aziz university in Jedda, he hugged me and said that our father had passed a way.

Shortly, my oldest brother came back and asked us if we would like to go downstairs to look at my father for the last time and say good-bye. He asked us not to scream. My legs were shaking and could hardly walk downstairs. But I wanted to see him so bad as I was his favorite daughter. I had to push myself as I thought that that was my last chance to see him and I wanted to see what happened to him as a result of the accident. I looked at him. His was pale, his head was rapped in a white bandage and his eyes were closed. He looked so peaceful. I tried to get close to him and kiss him, but I could not. My hands were shaking.

My father was 53. He was strong and healthy. He used to go to Lebanon and Syria on business. Every time he went to there, he always filled the car with all kinds of gifts such as clothes, chocolate and baklava. He would arrive at night, ring the doorbell and never stop until we all wake up, and run downstairs to meet him. We would sit around him talking and laughing, eating and looking at the gifts. But on this last trip, he was on his way home from Syria and Lebanon. He had reached Rabigh shortly after midnight. He was in his pick- up truck when it went off the road and rolled over several times. The police came to the site. They tried to find who he was, but could only find his driver license. So they called the police department in Mecca, who in turn called our store there. My brother, who was 20 at the time, was the one who answered the phone and knew about dad’s death. He did not know what to do, so he called my uncle in Riyadh and told him about it, but he did not utter a word when he came home and was silent at the dinner table. The police collected as much as they could of the gifts that were scattered everywhere. The gifts came but my father never did.

After the funeral was over, I tried to study for the final exam that I missed hoping my instructor would give me a make-up test, but I could not concentrate. For six hours, I was tying to study one page, but did not comprehend a single word. A week later, I went to college, told my instructor and why I missed the final exam. I told her that I had not been able to study and asked when I could take the text. She said that I had to take it in about an hour after discussing the project with my classmates and suggested that I study in the time being. I started crying and thought I would fail for sure, as I was unable to concentrate. My classmates gathered around me. Some offered to tutor me and others offered me their notes. But I felt that it was impossible to review the whole course in an hour. I was pretty sure I would fail. So I just cried.

After the discussion was over, I went in, helpless and hopeless. Instead of giving me a written test, my instructor started asking me oral questions about the course. She asked few easy questions and I was able to answer them all. I passed the course with an A.

When my other instructors knew about my father’s death, they were so sorry and each gave me words of sympathy, wisdom and encouragement. I still remember Dr Farouk (my psychology instructor), who turned the mic off at the end of the class hour, and offered to be a father for my brothers, sisters and myself. Every time my sister Rawda needed medical books, he either got them from Egypt himself or ordered them for her and never accepted to be paid for the books. Whenever my sister Fatma was crying and unable to accept dad’s death and the poor grades that she got in her final exams, he always offered to talk to her and made her feel better. When my brother Mohammed defended his thesis, he was the first one to come to the defense room. He sat there and waited. He always provided me with advice and he is the one who motivated me to pursue a Ph. D. degree. Now he is retired and he is back in Egypt with his five children and grandchildren. Whatever success my brothers, sisters and myself I achieve, we owe to him. May god bless his heart.

Losing My Young Brother
I had just graduated with a doctorate degree and returned home at the end of the summer. My uncle picked me up at the airport and everybody was so happy to see me. I was so happy and excited to be back with my family. An hour after I had arrived at my uncle’s, my sister Rawda called to welcome me home. I was in my uncle’s bedroom talking to her while standing and facing my uncle who was sitting on his bed. I was asking Rawda about each member of my family starting with my mother, Mohammed, Fatma and finally my youngest brother Yahya. When I asked how Yahya was doing, she said that he was NOT O.K. I asked whether he was sick. “Worse than that,” she replied. “Is he at the hospital?” I asked. “Worse than that,” she said. “What is worse than being sick?” I wondered, “Is he dead,” I added anxiously. “Yes, he is”, she answered. What a shock! I felt as if heaven had fallen on earth. My feet could not hold me, I choked with words and tears stood still in my eyes. My uncle picked up the phone from my hand and rebuked Rawda for telling me such shocking news at the wrong time. It seemed like yesterday when I last talked to Yahya over the phone to wish him a happy Eid (I was a student in the States and he was in Mecca). We talked and laughed and I never thought I would lose my 20-year old brother whom I had not seen for over 2 years just like that. He had passed away one month before I arrived and my family did not tell me about Yahya’s death as I was finishing my studies in the States.

Yahya got killed in a car accident on the Mecca-Jedda highway. My brother Mohammed, his wife and baby “Ahad” were in Italy on holiday. Ahad was Mohammad’s first baby. She was three months old and Yahya adored her. Yahya always held her, played with her and brought her toys and presents. He learnt that baby Ahad was coming home from Italy around midnight. So he took Mohammad’s Mercedes car and drove to the airport in Jedda to meet Ahad. He waited and waited but could not see Mohammad. So, he drove back to Mecca as fast as he could, hoping to get home and return the car before Mohammad’s arrival. On the highway, Yahya had the accident and the car rolled over several times and Yahya died instantly. The police came, picked Yahya’s body and could not find out who he was. So they sent him to the hospital and kept his body in the mortuary.

My mother and sister were waiting for Mohammed and Yahya to come home. Mohammed and his family got home, but Yahya did not. Mother asked Mohammed where Yahya was, and Mohammed replied that he did not see him. Mohammed went out to look for Yahya 3 o’clock in the morning, and Fatma called Yahya’s friends in the neighborhood and asked them to look for him. They looked, but in vain.

The following morning, Mohammed and his friend Marwan went to the police station and checked with the hospitals in Mecca but there was no trace of Yahya. Marwan suggested that they go check the hospital’s morgue. They did. Mohammed was searching quickly and did not notice anything. Marwan was more patient. He saw a young man with fair skin, so he asked Mohammed if that was Yahya (Marwan never saw Yahya before). As soon as Mohammed saw his face, he fainted. Doctors and nurses tried to resuscitate him. When he was conscious again, he screamed and screamed and screamed. Marwan helped take Yahya home. When my mother learnt about Yahya’s death, she took heart and asked to take a look at him. She saw him lying peacefully. She kissed him good-bye and asked God to rest his soul.

For Yahya’s funeral, people came from all over, even people whom my mother never saw or knew before. They all cried and mourned Yahya. Yahya was so popular and had a good sense of humor. He was good-hearted and always liked to help people and joke with them.

For a very long time, it was hard for me to enter Yahya’s room, look at his pictures or his beautiful black car. He had a talking car. Its seats were covered with white soft fur. He liked to wash his car at night while playing very loud music. He was a very loving brother. Every time he came home from Jeddah for the weekend, he brought each of us a gift, although he was just a student at the institute. He was very dainty. He always styled his hair with a brush and used hair spray.

Baby Ahad is 15-years old now and she keeps pictures of her beloved uncle, whom she had never seen and will never see again, in a special photo album, as she knows, for sure, how much Yahya loved her.

Having My First Surgery
Many many years ago, my oldest brother, who is a professor at King Fahad University, came over to Mecca for a short visit. Shortly after he had arrived, we all sat together to have dinner. After dinner, I started to feel abdominal pain. I went to the kitchen, made cinnamon tea and hoped the pain would disappear. Soon everybody went to bed and I went to my room too. I tried to sleep, but I could not. The pain was still there. It was a mild continuous pain. I left my room, entered my mother's room, then each of my brothers and sisters' room. I stood close to their beds in turn, tried to wake them up to ask them to take me to the hospital, but I could not wake them up, as I did not want to disturb them so late at night. So I just walked and walked around the house, from room to room and from one floor to another. When morning prayer was due, I went to my room and pretended to be asleep lest should my mother would worry about me.

When breakfast was ready, I sat with my family and tried to get a bite of breakfast. Soon my brother Mohammed drove me to school. I was a junior high school teacher then. I went to class but I could not teach as I was in pain and was exhausted because of lack of sleep. The school principal, who was also a friend, was sympathetic. She had me lay down on the couch in her office and was joking. She said I would feel better if she cauterized me in the foot. So she did. Around noon, I got worse. I was not able to see. I could only see shadows. Around 1:30 p.m., Mohammed came to pick me up. Two of my colleagues supported me, and some of my junior high students carried my bag and cloak and walked behind. They walked me to the car. When I got into the car, I asked Mohammed to take me to the doctor. So he took me to an internist, Dr Ismael, who was a friend of my father's. Dr Ismael examined me and told me that I was having an acute appendicitis. He added that I needed surgery and that I had to go to the hospital right away. He started to write a report about my condition, and asked me to tell him to which hospital I would like to be referred. He asked me to decide by the time he finished the report. I felt that I was in another world. All I could visualize was death. I thought that if I were to die, I would die at the best hospital, and if God meant for me to survive, I would survive no matter where I have the surgery. So I asked the doctor to refer me to a hospital of his choice. So he referred me to King Abdul-Aziz Hospital.

Mohammed drove me to the hospital. At the emergency room, three doctors looked at the report, checked me in turn, and they all confirmed that I had to have surgery. Shortly, I was taken to my room. The doctors instructed that I do not eat or drink.

I asked Mohammed to go home lest should mother worry. When mother did not see me, she asked Mohammed where I was. Mohammed could not answer. Instead he burst into tears. Then he told her that I was at the hospital.

While lying in bed alone, I was thinking to myself and wondering: "If I die, how will I meet God? What would I say?" I could not pray, of course. So I thought it would be a good idea to ask the nurse to go to the toilet and at least ablute. So I did.

Around 4 p.m., my mother, brothers and sisters came to the hospital. They all kissed me before I was taken to the operation room. At 5 p.m., I was in the operation room. A doctor gave me anesthesia and I did not feel anything. When I opened my eyes, I was in my room and my mother, brothers and sisters were around my bed.

The following morning, two doctors came to see me. One told me that I was lucky I survived because my appendix had ruptured. He blamed me for not coming to the hospital few days earlier. I told him that I only had the pain for 15 hours. But the doctor did not believe it.

For a few days I could not leave my bed. Every time I moved in bed even one inch, I screamed of pain in my abdomen as the doctors had inserted a drainage tube in my abdomen. One morning, a nurse came and asked me to get out of bed in order to walk. I told her I could not even bend. She thought I was spoiled. So she pulled me out of bed and I started to scream and cry of pain. I almost fainted and could not walk at all.

By the end of the week, the doctor came around noon to check on me. He told me I could go home the following morning as he thought the wound had healed. I was so happy. But unfortunately, I started to have fever shortly after the doctor had left. My sister told the nurse about the fever. The nurse could not find a doctor, as it was Friday afternoon. In the evening, the nurse came with a doctor on call. He examined me, gave me some medications, and asked the nurse to use ice packs to reduce my fever. She did that the whole night.

The following morning, my doctor came to see me. He ordered that I be taken to the operation room right away. The cause of the fever was a localized peritonitis (inflammation in the membrane that surrounds the intestines) that required another mini surgery. He cut open the wound again and had to squeeze the puss in there. As he pressed and squeezed, I was screaming. For several days in a row, I was taken to the operation room to take the puss out. After another week I was discharged of the hospital.

Having that surgery gave me a chance to reflect on many things. One of them was how lucky we human beings are. We never think about those little things that we do everyday. We always take things for granted. Lying in bed and finding it difficult to move even one inch without pain made me realize that even the tiniest movement is a blessing and a great gift from Allah. We move in bed while asleep, we walk and jump without thinking for a second about those movements. We never thank Allah for the multitude of actions and movements that we do everyday. We never appreciate what we have got until it is gone.

Another thing was how loving and devoted mothers can be. While at the hospital, my mother did not leave me a single minute. She fed me, changed my clothes, brought me the potty and took care of me with a smile. She even visited and helped all the patients in the ward in order for God to help her daughter recover. When I went home, everyday she cooked iron-rich foods to help me replace the blood that I lost.

Finally, every time I wake up in the morning able to walk with no pain, I thank Allah, for health is the greatest gift of all. Anything can go wrong any minute. Health cannot be bought nor replaced.