Between the Sheets

Sindi

Tuesday, March 3, 2015; 6:10 PM

The ceiling became faint as tears of anguish flooded my dull and sunken eyes. I didn't wipe them. Instead I used the last reservoir of strength left in my body to pull the sheets and covered my face. I didn't want the other patients in the ward to crowd my bed and sympathize with me, telling me 'it's gonna be okay' when they didn't know how the torment was going to end. It was a fact too big to be ignored - the morgue or home, were the two possibilities staring at my face. But the morgue was more promising. Actually, it seemed inevitable. Being hopeful about home was the right thing to do, but it could be destructive too – for me and my little ones if things took the ugly turn. I was really afraid to hope.

The darkness under the sheets brought flashes of me in a coffin. Even the smell of the sheets didn't give me a break. They stunk terribly, but I had no choice. It wasn't a smell of rottenness or bad odor though. It was a smell that was neutral in a hopeless way – like feathers of a dead chicken. I wished to remove them from my face, but I couldn't since the tears were still pouring, running down my cheeks, down to the bed.

I cried with attentive ears though. I didn't want Mrs. Dube, the social worker that took care of me, to find me crying. My plan was to quickly bring myself together when I heard her chatting and greeting the other patients and their relatives. She was a kind and loving woman, so she always greeted them. But if she could decide to be mean then I didn't know. I didn't know what I could tell her – why I was crying. Was it because I was dying and didn't know what would become of Thandi and Musa? Or because I had no parents and was a mother to my young sister and brother? The volume of tears increased when I recalled they even called me Mom, yet I was still at high school. My crying worried me, it threatened being loud and hysteric – I quickly enveloped my mouth with my right hand.

Awkward as it was, but it pleased my heart that my parents never lived to see me diminish in front of their very eyes. The magnitude of my anguish would overwhelm and kill them.

My father always gave mom and us hope for a better tomorrow. It would be an awful experience for him to see that I had run short of hope to see tomorrow – hope to play with Thandi and Musa again – hope to finish my final year of high school. It would kill him more than me. More than all of us. He would run from pillar to post, soliciting money for a private clinic. He would act strong, of course, but it would be eating him inside. In no time, he would be admitted in the male diabetes ward down the concourse. The diabetes that ended up taking them one by one would seize him. That would make my heart terrible.

My loving mom would sleep in the congested and stuffy ward with me, on a small camping pad, next to my bed or under. She would cry day and night, praying for my recovery.

So I was glad they were gone. I was glad I had no one to upset. Thandi and Musa were still too young to comprehend the magnitude of the monster facing their big sister – their mom technically.

I wished it was possible to shut my ears. The other patients talked about sad, hope draining stuff. They were talking about some lady who died in our ward in the morning. I wished they could shut up or talk about something positive. Their kids, maybe.

Their negative topic pushed me to a slippery road of thinking about who could take care of Thandi and Musa if I could die. I tried to pinch myself for losing hope, but I failed. My system failed to send enough strength to my fingers. Tears filled my eyes the more. I felt like I was facing death but I didn't want to admit.

The biggest source of my doubt and fear were the facts the doctor gave us two weeks ago. Dr. Mavuso told Mrs. Dube and I that they failed to establish the problem in my body. No possible test they haven't done. Then he said if they consider the rate at which my body was deteriorating, I only had two weeks to live. That was it. Two weeks.