illness Archives - The Sentinel by Yuvoice

And, just like that, he was gone.

…

It was New Year’s Eve, and Jace was spending the holiday at the hospital again, for the third year in a row. He had become a nurse to “help others heal,” but, at 37, realized that he was the one hurting. No significant other, no kids, and not even a dog (although only the last being really piqued his interest); he had been going through the motions at work since the pandemic because that was all he could do. Medicine had changed. He had changed. He was still hopeful, and honest, and worked hard, especially on those holiday nights when so many were home with their loved ones. He had a family that cherished him– a doting mother he spoke with daily, a brother who still sent heartfelt greeting cards for every holiday, just as he had when they were still in college, and his best friend, Khalil, who always graciously told him, “Come to the house for New Year’s,” before he inevitably turned down the invitation because he “had to work.”

It wasn’t that Jace was avoiding his family, but, rather, that he felt for those who didn’t have any. That was something he had witnessed in 2020 to disastrous degrees. Families had been separated because of COVID, among other maladies, both physically and metaphorically. When he was the on-call nurse seated at the front desk of the waiting room, he remembered watching multiple people, dozing, until their heads snapped up, a look of tremendous pain etching them in gray, just as the doctor emerged to inform them that, tragically, their loved ones had succumbed to the virus.

He recalled watching a mother with twin babies who did not even have the strength to cry after losing her husband, simply because she needed to process what she was going to do next, how she was going to care for two one-month-olds on her own. Another man, older, with a worn tweed flat cap resting on his lap had used it to conceal his face while he softly sobbed at the news of his wife’s passing.

These traumatic tableaus played in Jace’s head often, but they were not the ones that weighed most heavily upon him. It was those individuals who flickered out of existence, with no one but him to remember them, that made him keep coming back during the holiday season.

Even though he was fully vaccinated, Jace had had COVID twice, but that came with the territory. He thanked his lucky stars that he had survived what so many others hadn’t, but he would risk it again, if he could be there to listen or even just to make sure another person didn’t burn out like a toppled candle left to pool on the table. Jace would support them as best he could, even if that meant saying “You’re alright. It’s going to be alright,” when he could see the monitors’ oscillations declining.

Jace knew that lying to his patients in those final moments was wrong, but so was having them suffer silently in isolation. If he could ease their worries, fray their pain at the edges, for just a few moments, then he would.

…

Tonight, things had been relatively tranquil, even with the holiday. Jace was seated in the front lobby taking his fifteen. He made a point to at least observe the celebrations happening around him, and he would call his mom, brother, and Khalil to make sure they were enjoying themselves. His mom asked him to make a wish for the New Year and waited for him to blow a kiss into the sky (a family tradition), while his brother asked if he received his holiday card. He had; it was filled with paper confetti that he was still vacuuming up days later. His brother laughed heartily at the success of his harmless prank and reminded Jace to eat something before the end of his shift the next morning. Khalil screamed, “Happy New Year, Jacey-Boy!” into the receiver as she playfully swore off alcohol and chocolate for the umpteenth year in vain. Talking made him feel a bit better, and, every once in a while, the double doors of the hospital would slide open, and he would spy revelers celebrating the fleeting moments of the year. A woman in a sequined dress, with bright red legs from the cold, walked past with a kazoo, and the low quack actually made Jace grin. Then the chime of his alarm sounded.

He took the elevator up, waved to a fellow night nurse, and grabbed his charting cart before quietly swiveling it down the hall, hoping not to rouse anyone. So far, his patients were soundly asleep and stable. He made sure to whisper, “Happy New Year,” while he updated their vital readings and checked their fluids. Jace had to wake one little girl to give her some scheduled medication, and he had remembered to bring a packet of foil star stickers as a gift. The child was thrilled, and Jace promised not to notice if one or two stickers made their way onto the railings of the bed.

When he entered a Mr. Sweeney’s room on his rounds, he noticed the man’s chart was devoid of emergency contacts. He had checked himself into the hospital after testing positive. He also seemed to be asleep. His hair was gray and sparse on top of his head, and his eyebrows were a bit too wooly. He had stubble on his face to match them, which made a slight scratching sound against the nasal cannula wrapped around his face, and a modest belly that rose and fell alongside his chest. Jace whispered good wishes once more and was slightly startled when one of Mr. Sweeney’s eyes opened, focusing on him after a few moments. “What’d you say, sir?”

“Oh, I’m sorry to wake you. I was saying ‘Happy New Year, Mr. Sweeney,’ but obviously was too lou–” “That’s kind of ya, sir,” Mr. Sweeney interrupted him. “Please, call me Todd.” “Well, Todd, Happy New Year to you,” Jace responded, feeling the echo of a lump in his throat. “Thank you very much. What’s a young person like you doin’ here of all places? You should be out celebrating, especially since–” he lifted one arm, with substantial effort, and made a circle in the air, “we’re not exactly the best partygoers.” Todd laughed, again with effort.

“I really don’t mind. I like being he–” “I’m going to stop you right there and ask you a question, sir. Do you believe in God?” Jace bristled a bit, hoping, desperately, that this conversation would not turn into a tirade. He thought carefully for a few moments and answered as truthfully as he could, “I do believe in a higher power, but I have seen enough to make me question a lot of things.”

He braced himself for a verbal onslaught, but, instead, Todd smiled at him. “I can tell you’ve been a nurse for a while.” “Yes, eleven years now.” “And you’re still here? Interestin’,” Todd said, almost to himself. He coughed for a spell before continuing. “Sir, I can understand questioning everything in your line of work. I don’t much like bein’ here myself, so it’s nice to know there are people like you around. However, I’m goin’ to remind you to live your own life, too.”

Todd paused for a bit, looking out the window at the streetlights. He turned back to Jace slowly, smiling warmly. “It’s really none of my business, but I don’t care much for boundaries after they stuck tubes in me.” “Are you uncomfort–” “Never mind that. I’m fine, or at least tryin’ to be. What I want to say is that, whether it’s God or someone else entirely, you’ve got to remember that we’re all in the sandbox.” “I’m sorry?” Jace said gingerly. “The sandbox. Ya see, this world we live in is basically just a big sandbox for God. He sits down, in his corduroys, grabs his shovel, his plastic pail, and a bit of water, and he starts buildin’. Trees, trucks, pups, pythons, you, and me– he builds it all. He plays, has his fun, and then he, like anybody else, has to go home.”

Jace lingered on his words, thinking not of the giant bearded figure with a booming voice that he had seen in church, but of a little boy playing in sand while his parents watched from a nearby bench. His hands were dirty, and he smiled, looking over at them while they waved back.

“Sir, I know what you’re doin’ here is really special, but maybe it’s time to put the pail away for a while, hm?” His gaze softened as he looked at the nurse, awaiting a response. Jace smiled back, nodding a few times in understanding. “Good night, Todd, and Happy New Year, again. Thank you for the conversation, and, if you need any–” “I’ll certainly call if I need somethin’. Thank you, sir, and Happy New Year. It’s been a pleasure.” Todd lifted his hand slowly and waved, his IV hose swaying like tall grass. He closed his eyes again, and Jace scooted the cart out of the room, partially closing the door.

…

Jace took the T back to the hospital at 8:00 pm on New Year’s Day, readying himself for another night. He hadn’t slept much as he continued visualizing the scene that Todd had gifted him. Except, the man on the bench was wearing a tweed flat cap, and the woman had her hand on a double-stroller while two little boys played together in the sand, one in white corduroys, the other in blue.

After calling his mom, he grabbed his charting cart and ambled down the hall once more. Jace visited the little girl, spying star stickers adorning her bed. Some glittered in an arch above where her head was positioned on her pillow. When he reached Todd’s room, he walked in quietly, not planning to wake him this time. His head was turned towards the streetlights again, and his eyes were half-closed. Jace immediately noticed Todd’s chest and soft belly were still and rushed over to his bedside. “Mr. Sweeney? Todd!?” He reached out to touch him, noticing that his skin was the same shade of gray that those individuals, overcome with grief and worry, always had in the waiting room. He was cold.

Jace called his fellow nurses and the on-duty doctor, who reported to the room as swiftly as possible, vials of medication and resuscitation equipment in tow. However, Todd had been gone for a while. Jace stared at him, as he continued gazing out of the window, while people in blue scrubs and white coats swarmed around him. Jace still hoped that Todd would turn towards him with the same gentle smile he had the previous night, and he imagined him, laying in a sandbox, eyes towards the sky, sand falling between his fingers as he clenched his fists.

Amid the flurry of activity, he went over to Todd, closed the man’s eyes as best he could, grabbed the rubbish pail near the bed, and emptied it before leaving the room.

I still remember the night my father died. The years before were a blur of lavish parties with older men shrunken with age and tall bottles of wine and beer. They visited often, these rich men with their families.

Sundays saw my mum and Aunty Nneka, barely a teenager herself, in the kitchen pounding soft yams in our large brown mortar until the ground shook. Laughter could be heard for many hours. They spoke boisterously in loud voices over peppered chicken that made their noses run. It felt like the excitement would never end. Until it did.

I am five

We were a typical Nigerian family. My father attended the men’s meeting and the community meeting, and he donated rather too generously to the church. My mum would tug on his white kaftan as he called out hefty sums like five hundred thousand naira or when he volunteered to finish the church building single handedly. He walked with a poise that oozed pride. His gait was daunting and my mum complemented his look, sitting beside him in a pretty embroidery that radiated affluence. Her headscarf did not make crunchy sounds like the biscuit-like wraps worn by other women in the church. Her gold did not tarnish, nor did her lipstick wane. Her skin was as radiant as day, fresh from the beauty products my father bought her. I ran around the church in my pearly white gown and ponytails, and Aunty Nneka chased me, pulling me by one hand and dusting off my dress when I fell on dirt.

Everyone clustered about our Peugeot after mass and greeted my father, but even as a child, I knew most of their overcompensating pleasantries were borne out of their desire to ask for money. Many carried me high on their shoulders. I was five, but I remember it all. They said I was turning into such a lovely and plump child even though I was scrawny, for my age. My father would dip his long fingers with perfectly manicured nails into his pocket and pull out a wad of crisp notes, giving it to them. He dropped two hundred naira onto the enamel plates held by people begging by the church’s gate when others dropped torn ten naira notes.

(Image courtesy of Adi Goldstein via Unsplash)

I am six

My sixth birthday was bright and festive with balloons floating in the air and children running about our compound. I stepped on my gown and the lacy extension got torn. My mom scolded me by tugging my ear, so my dad reprimanded her.

As usual, he was clinging tightly to his phone and would hurriedly pick it up at the first ring. Mum was pregnant with my little sister then, and since she was a full-time housewife, she worried over things that ordinarily should not be a concern like when Aunty Nneka put the stew in the yellow bowl instead of the white one. They were both large enough but with my mum, details mattered. No one worried that her nagging was becoming unbearable because she was pregnant. She alone knew, however, that it was not the pregnancy that made her so quick to anger. My father had been cheating on her.

***

He is coughing

Our lives changed a few months after the birth of Chidinma, my baby sister. My father fell ill. He coughed more often and ate less. He shrunk, looking shriveled on the bed. My mother worried about him even more when the hospital could not figure out what ailed him.

The parties became few and far between. Friends rarely visited. My mother dug into the last of my father’s savings and discovered, rather later, that we had fewer assets and more liabilities. We were drowning in poverty as she pumped money into different hospitals, hoping he would get better. He did not.

Aunty Odinaka called rather abruptly on an early Sunday morning. My mother sat with a drooping breast stuck into Chidinma’s ready pink lips. She had stayed up all night to attend to my father, who had remained motionless on his back, struggling to breathe. Aunty Odinaka was my father’s younger sister who had lived with us when she was a student. She referred my mum to a spiritualist in the village, and for what seemed like several hours, my mum refused.

“Ekwu Zina, don’t say that,” she said over and over. She pointed out how diabolical and fetishistic the practices were, how the bible was strongly against them, and how she could never take my father there.

She changed her mind, however, when my father deteriorated to the point that he stopped moving. My mum tried reaching out to Alhaji Muhammed, my father’s best friend and business partner, who had a round belly and white stubble across his chin. He had given her an envelope heavy with cash, greedily consumed by the hospital in a single day. When my mother called him again, he cut off all communication with us. Even I, now grown and fully able to grasp the gravity of always asking for help, understood why he did that.

My mother was flustered. The very people she threw lavish parties for now ignored her calls. At first, our house still looked the same with the central gold table and a low chandelier that glowed gently with warmth. It burned my eyes when I stared for too long and the tiny bulbs hung like mango fruit. Then in a few weeks, the golden center table had been sold, and the family car and everything that smelled of luxury had been removed.

I watched butter leave the table as my mum told me that it tasted sour so she stopped buying it.

(Image courtesy of Ravi Kant via Pexels)

Later, she would stop buying my favorite treats: Sugary Capri-Sonne drinks were no longer at our usual shops, she explained. I had stopped going to school, because she was no longer satisfied, it seemed, with the teachers.

***

I am present

The spiritualist was a short man with white material wrapped over his shoulder and under his arm. He often had a leaf frond between his lips and hummed on it fervently. I came to watch the healing magic at the spiritualist’s request: he said that I was a major connection to my ailing dad and must be present.

I stared in disbelief as I watched him pace about the lanky remains of my father and dunk him into the shallow river. He picked up a gourd from a calabash — its edges so poorly cleaned that tiny bits of wood stuck out — and he ran it over father’s face three times.

After an hour passed and we were sure that no magic was going to happen, we asked the spiritualist what the matter was. His eyes burned a painful red, the kind gotten from downing tall bottles of alcohol, as he urged us to be patient. He proceeded to apply a mild cream over my father’s body and towed him back to the car.

Fear enveloped us all when my mother felt his face. She could no longer feel the warm breath from his slender nostrils. Only our shifting fates.

Tag: illness

Mr. Sweeney’s Sandbox

Shifting Fortunes, Shifting Fates