Together Forever
Obiajunwa Amarachi@amarachiobiajunwa270889
1 year ago
The tall, dull grey building looms over me like a shadow, its lifeless façade a prelude to what lies within. As I step inside, the antiseptic air wraps around me, pulling me into a déjà vu that tightens my chest.
The antiseptic smell pulls me back to six months ago, when Mama and I walked these halls together, clinging to a fragile hope. Stage four cervical cancer, they said—three months to live. We fought hard and laughed harder until the laughter turned to tears, and she slipped away.
I sat in the waiting area, filled with soft chairs and whispers of conversations from families filled with hope, worry, and fear. Something I know fully well and how dangerous it can be to experience all three within one year. Deciding not to have my thoughts moved down that path so as not to cry and feel terrible for myself again, I look around the room again to note any change since the last time I had been here.
The halls of the hospital stretch out like tunnels with the vibrant movement of doctors in their unsullied white coats and blue scrubs, the nurses moving with practiced grace, and patients in numerous recovery states walking in and out of the waiting area. Unlike the outside, which is dull and grey, the inside feels warm. Something I didn’t take note of the last time I was here. I believe the warmth is a result of the new sky-blue wall paint. I guess the blue looked grey the last time I was here for me to notice the warmth.
While still observing the area as I waited to be called in to see the consultant, I noticed a woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a beautifully designed and tailored Ankara gown with a white coat draped over it, walking toward me. Her hair was pulled up with a band to form a ponytail. With a smile on her face, I observe that she’s coming in my direction. Subconsciously, I turned around to be sure she wasn’t coming to meet me but the person behind me, only to discover that there was no one behind me. Unsure of what to do, I act oblivious. But deep in my mind, I got this feeling that the lady looked familiar, and for some weird reason, seeing her reminded me of Mama and the time we spent here, just like the families surrounding me, with a mix of hope, worry, and fear.
“Nneka,” a voice I know all too well. One I had not heard in the last six months that I have been away from the hospital. A voice I am not ready to hear again as it’s linked to my mama. Ignoring the voice, I busied myself by tugging at the loose threads on my dress, silently praying the caller would walk away or at least not come any closer. I looked down, taking in the intricate floral print. Painted in lavender, gold, and blush pink, the petals seemed to bloom across the fabric, making it look delicate and stunning. This dress has always been one of my favorites, though I can’t say why. Perhaps it's the softness of the fabric? No, that’s not it. This is my confidence dress. I feel wrapped in nature’s embrace whenever I wear it, as if it’s lending me strength and quiet courage. Today, I needed that courage more than ever as I returned to where Mama and I spent the last year of her life together.
Still playing with my dress, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I am immediately engulfed in the cloak of defeat. The feeling I always have whenever Mama catches me lying to her. It's like an indescribable feeling of guilt. Though I’ve felt this way since Mama’s death, the feeling grows stronger now with this stranger's hand resting on my shoulder.“You’re Nneka, right?” The stranger’s voice breaks through my silence. Receiving no response, she continues, “You’re Madam Ngozi’s daughter, if I’m correct.” It’s not a question but a statement, delivered with a finality etched into every word.
Curiosity got the best of me. Eager to know how this stranger knew my mama, I turned around with my heart pounding. The moment my eyes met hers, recognition washed over me. It was the smile. The same kind, reassuring smile and the warm, gentle eyes that had been imprinted in my head through out Mama’s treatment. At that moment, I understood why she felt familiar. She wasn’t a stranger after all. She had been part of those heartrending and precious months with Mama.
Dr. Chima was not only mama’s doctor but also became mama’s friend over time. She and Mama became close friends during the months she spent in the hospital. She was heartbroken when Mama’s cancer returned. She had pleaded with Mama to remained in the hospital for close monitoring, but Mama, ever determined and resilient, had refused. She didn’t want to spend her final days confined to the hospital bed, regardless of how thoughtful the suggestion had been. Despite losing that argument, Dr. Chima remains deeply connected. Her heartbreak evident when Mama’s condition worsened.
“Yes, madam Ngozi was my Grandmama. Hello, Dr. Chima,” I respond with a smile. Ever since my parents died in a plane crash when I was twelve, grandmama had been the only parent I’d ever known. It had been just the two of us against the world. And now, it’s just me. How have you been?” I inquire. Staring at me with a sad smile, she responds, “I’m doing great.” Still smiling, she beckons me to follow her to her office.
Noticing I made no move to follow her, “When the Nurse gave me the hospital card for my next patient, I knew I had to come down to see you myself.” observing, I wasn’t still convinced, she added, “You can request for a different doctor if you are uncomfortable with me, but that will take a lot of time as I am the only one currently available for the next few weeks. The other doctor is on his annual leave.” I contemplate my options and choose to go with Dr. Chima. She was Mama’s doctor and confidant, making it easy for me to be in her presence as she must have already known some family history if there would be any need for it. But it’s mainly because I do not want to wait for weeks to know exactly what’s wrong with me. “The earlier, the better,” is what is always said.
Hesitantly, I stood, brushing down the floral folds of my dress as if smoothing the wrinkles could smoothen the emotions tangled in me. Following Dr. Chima down the corridor, I notice her pace is steady and purposeful but light as if she is carrying a memory instead of the weight of her daily verity. It is comforting to know she had carried Mama’s story, too.
Her office is welcoming and neat. Just like how it has always been. A contrast to the simplicity of the hospital. Looking around, I notice the bookshelves, filled with thick medical books, lined one wall. On her desk, next to her computer, is a small potted plant–a purple African violet in its full bloom.
She gestures for me to sit, taking the chair across from me. Her gaze is gentle but searching. “I won’t lie, I was surprised to see your name on the list of expected patients. I never imagined you would come back here so soon, Nneka. What’s wrong?” she asks.
Clasping my hands tightly in my lap, I reply, “I didn’t know I would be back so soon either.” Taking a deep breath, I continue, “I... I’m here for a consultation.” My voice, lower than I had intended. I watch her brows knit slightly, concern flashing across her face. “A consultation?” she asks gently. “For yourself?”
Playing with my fingers, I nod. The words feeling heavy in my mouth, as I struggle to let them out: “I’ve been quite sick for a while now. Fatigue, pains... I just want to check. You know, if…if it could be something more.” Her expression softens into understanding. “You are worried about cancer?” she asks softly.
Tears fill my eyes as I nod, trying to blink the tears away quickly. “I just don’t want to wait until it’s too late, just like Mama.”
Her voice is soft and steady, as if trying to anchor me. “You’re taking the right steps, Nneka. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.” Her words offer some relief, but they also open up the dam. The tears I’ve been holding back come pouring out, and my voice becomes a whisper. “I miss her so much that whenever I think of the state I’m in, I remember her last words to me—together forever and I begin questioning if this is what she meant. I ask myself if Mama knew I’d follow in her footsteps.” Staring directly into her eyes, I add, “In the midst of all the chaos that goes on in me and in my head, I miss Mama so much. I miss her a lot, Dr. Chima.”
In a voice full of emotions, “I know. She was an extraordinary woman, Nneka. I’ve seen many patients in my career, but your mama…was special. Despite everything she was going through, she constantly laughed and took each day with courage. She was an inspiration to everyone here.”
Listening to those words feels like a salve to my old wounds. Mama’s memory isn’t just a gnawing ache in my heartbeat; it’s alive in the lives she touched. Dr. Chima gives me a tissue, allowing me a moment to compose myself before we continue. “We’ll run the necessary tests,” her tone is practical but kind. “But I want you to remember something. Your mama’s legacy isn’t in what she endured, but in you. You are her light… a strong light.”
Her words stay with me as she leads me to the lab to start the test. For the first time in months, I feel a spark of hope in me—a hope that I can face whatever lies ahead with Mama’s courage guiding me. Mama’s courage is mine now, her voice a steady whisper in my heart. Together forever isn’t a curse but a promise—one I will carry forever.
