I was 34, sad and hopeless when I met her. If someone had prophesied to me that in the worst years of my life, I would meet the most radiant person in all my life, I would’ve scoffed at them. But it happened. We met in the funniest ways ever. She was a patient. I was a visitor. A friend’s wife had put to bed. They shared the same room. But then I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Even though she looked like she had been in the hospital for a while, she still looked beautiful. It’s like she was never ugly for once in her entire life. So, I began visiting the hospital, my friend thought I was such a great friend for always visiting his wife at the hospital, but he lied. I was a great friend, but I had another objective. His wife knew, first. She found me one day staring at her. That was when she told me, “I know what you’re thinking, but she’s dying soon, leave her alone unless you also wished to die.” That was a risk worth taking. After all, I was already flirting with death daily. So if this beautiful woman would bring death in human form to me, then I’ll gladly accept. Provided she brings me love, too. Something is exciting about playing with death. It makes you live without fear.
Even after my friend’s wife had been long discharged. I continued going. Then I summoned all the courage in my heart and spoke to her one day. I went in headfirst. At first, she was shocked; her voice was coarse, soft yet sweet. “Hello, how can I help you?” She asked. I smiled and told her I wanted to take her out. She scoffed, sighed, turned her back to me, and slept. I sat, waited. She woke up, turned and saw me sitting where she left me. Then she smiled, my heart melted. And she said, "Are you a coward?” I replied, "No” she sighed once more as if belching her soul away, then said, "will you leave when it gets tough?” I feigned ignorance, asking her what she meant. She smiled, rolled her eyes, pointed towards where my friend’s wife stayed, “she already told me, and I see you every day, hiding and stalking me.” I was ashamed. I was caught. Then I had the guts to reply, “I wouldn’t leave.” She then looked straight into my eyes as though she was looking into my soul for verification of the truth and replied, “Okay.” And drifted back to sleep.
From then on, it was happiness. She was the happiest person I ever met. We had fun, enough, fun. I learnt about her sickness, but I never dwelled on it. I accompanied her to doctor’s appointments. I was always present when she collected her injections. The pleasant nurses, I felt the pain she felt when the needle pierced her flesh. The way she winced in distress broke my heart. She was everything to me; seeing her in any pains broke me. Before I met her, my life was purposeless, but now, she was my purpose. We had fun, went on dates around the hospital, saw movies from my laptop through a projector screen. I cherished those moments. We also shared jokes. Her sense of humour was different. She’ll crack my ribs without any stress, she was a clown, and we had our little circus going. But in between, everything happy that was happening. Sadness lingered. We both knew it. It was the only real thing.
Her family were excited by my arrival. A bit sceptical at first, they all asked the question, “who could be crazy enough to fall in love with someone dying soon.” I was. But she wasn’t expired, and I wasn’t crazy, just crazy in love with her. My family, on the other hand, were unreceptive towards her. They concluded that I had finally gone mad. My sanity was questioned. My mother asked me, “why?” I tried giving her an objective answer, but she wouldn’t hear about it, "of what use is her to you when she’s dying soon?” They’d all ask, their eyes poking me. But they never noticed that before her. I was also at the end of my life. It was so easy for them to see her demise but difficult for them to see mine. That’s the thing about life, you may never see death in those your claim to love, but you’d be the wiser in seeing death hover around strangers.
Plenty of times, she’d try shutting me out. She’d stop me from visiting her at the hospital, but I wouldn’t stop. We’d fight, she’d scream at me, burst out in tears. And confess that she loved me, I would do the same. It was therapeutic. At the end of the whole tantrums, I’ll assure her that I wouldn’t leave, she’d slap me playfully and call me a fool, and we’d kiss till sunrise. I could feel that she was in a lot of pain. She once confessed that I made the pains less painful, and I made her life bearable. That was all the assurances I needed.
We touched each other. She was my first. I was her first. We spoke about it. I didn’t want to put her in any pains. She wanted it. She told me she wanted to feel like a woman, even if it’s just for once in her short life. We spoke to the doctor about it. He gave us his blessings. We did it. That was the first time I saw her naked, in all her glory. Her body was heavenly, with all due respect to heaven. I was thirsty immediately without any need for foreplay. Every part of her body stood out, the curves and contours. She was a beauty in every area. I objectified her. “I’m sick, not sexually disabled, she’d say.” I laughed. We drew closer. I entered her. Slow at first, then fast. All our nerve receptors awake. We got goosebumps. It was heaven, I know heaven, I’ve been to heaven; It’s between her thighs. The sex became regular.
A few weeks after, she entered a deep sleep, which she never woke from. Her last words to me were, "I promise you a gift.” I was so distraught. I visited her daily. I spoke to her as usual, pretended everything was normal. But it wasn’t. She may never wake. Then a month after, when they were about to remove her from life support, the doctor heard another heartbeat. She was pregnant.
I was elated. How was that possible? The doctor claimed it was, that it was probably what influenced her comatose state. That if she had been awake, the child might not survive. So by she in a coma, she was resting what was left of her body for the child to stay. Her child, our child, my gift. Her parents were also excited. Mine were furious, but I didn’t care. Saving the child was a priority.
Monthly, I watched her belly rise till the ninth month. Our child was born. A baby girl. She looked just exactly like her mother. Who unfortunately didn’t survive the birth. Her job had been done. She had been reborn. The day we buried her, her face had a smile and her skin radiant. Her breasts still flowed with milk, her daughter’s first milk was from her breasts. The doctors shocked, but I wasn’t.
I had a new purpose: our daughter, my gift. I took custody of the child. And dedicated the rest of my life to her. I named her after her mother, leaving her first name as Gift.
Lol. Late as usual cos I neverrrr check my emails.
This was lovely.
From the first line to the last, I was captivated all through. Wonderful write up