Mama

I stepped outside and took a long, deep breath as I shut my eyes, feeling the cool breeze against my face. I had just walked out of a business meeting at this beautiful golf and country club located on the outskirts of Nairobi. The grounds were spectacular and the air was crisp and clean. It was too bad that I had to go back to the office before I could wrap up for the day.

As I got into my car and pulled out of the parking spot, I decided that I would come back on a weekend – and perhaps bring my dear mother along for one of our mother-daughter dates. My mother, whilst struggling with her own health problems as she aged, cared for my disabled father and didn’t get out of the house much. Occasionally, when my father would join his fellow senior citizens for a community-organized outing, I could steal my mother away for some quality time together and have a good girly gab. She would definitely love this place, what with its plush gardens and peaceful ambiance.

I made my way through the snail-paced traffic back into the city. The roads were being constructed and the numerous diversions caused major snarl-ups. I turned up the radio, bobbing my head to the rhythm of one of my favourite ‘80s songs. I could see my exit just up ahead to the left which, fortunately, seemed to have flowing traffic. As I belted out the lyrics to the Stevie Wonder song, I realized that the passengers in the stationary bus beside my car were watching me with smirks on their faces. Thankfully, the car in front of me moved forward and I hit the accelerator.

Just as I negotiated the corner onto the clear road, I heard the sound of my cell-phone ringing. I switched gears and looked briefly at the phone. It was my mother. I was not generally in the habit of answering phone calls whilst driving, but I turned the volume of the radio down and hit the speaker button on my phone. “Hello?” There was no answer. The phone display indicated that the call had ended. I hit the call button and turned on the speaker again. I wanted to tell my mother about the golf and country club.

“Mama?” My mother had picked up the call but wasn’t saying anything. “Mama, can you hear me?” Then I heard her quivering voice on the other end say something that I couldn’t make out. My body tensed up as I responded in a firm but steady voice, “Mama! What’s wrong? What happened?” I had grown somewhat accustomed to receiving panicked phone calls from my mother about something or the other happening to my father. I would invariably rush home to them, keeping level-headed and calm so that I’d be able to deal with the situation swiftly. My father had already suffered two strokes and I was always terrified that one day I would receive the dreaded call from my mother to say he had had another…or worse. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was what I was about to find out.

Her words were punctuated with erratic breaths… “I f-fell… hit m-my head… bleeding s-so m-much… p-please… p-please c-come quickly…”

Some of what transpired between then and the time that I got my mother home after four hours at the A&E is a blur. These are the things I do recall: I remember driving like a maniac, overtaking cars that seemed to move at a sluggish pace. I remember calling two friends to see if they could get to my house before I did. I remember calling my mother back, screaming hysterically on the phone for her to stay with me, sobbing in horror as she sounded like she was fading away. I remember getting home and somehow managing to calmly but swiftly get my mother into the car and speeding off to the A&E. I remember my mother clutching my hand as the doctor sutured the nasty gash on her head. I remember smiling reassuringly at her as she lay on the hospital bed, watching me for signs of panic at the sight of the wound.

That night, after I got my mother all cleaned up, I sat with her until she felt calm enough to fall asleep. I then got her into bed and kissed her forehead, telling her that all would be well. As I settled down under my own warm duvet, all I wanted to do was fall asleep and forget that this day had ever happened. But as I shut my eyes, I started to feel an uneasiness set in and the images began to reel through my mind… the look of terror in my mother’s eyes when she looked up at me as I flew into the house… the sight of blood dripping down the side of her face from underneath the towel that she clutched at the side of her head… her navy-blue dress, soaked in the dark liquid… the splotches of red glistening all over the terrazzo floor… the water that just didn’t seem to run clear from a washcloth that I used to wipe my mother’s face and around the stitched up wound…

As my body began to convulse beyond my control, I knew that these were images that would lay ingrained in my memory forever.

Touch

The following short story has been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul - Family Caregivers (2012)

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Touch

We all yearn to return to those days when we were completely taken care of --
unconditional love, unconditional attention.
~Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

It was a gloriously sunny Sunday morning. Even the thick drapes in my bedroom couldn’t completely shut out those beautiful golden rays. I lay in bed, reminiscing as I did on most occasions when I had the luxury of a lie-in. On this lazy morning, my mind drifted randomly to a night more than two decades ago.

There were always certain memories from my childhood that resurfaced more often than others. That night in particular would replay itself in my mind quite often. I remember pulling the soft white pillow over my ears and sobbing hysterically as I lay in my bed, wishing that the shouting would stop. It was like that most nights. They would be downstairs in the living room. He would be yelling at her, and she would be crying silently as he did. I couldn’t understand why he was so horrid to my mother. She was such a gentle soul.

I remember my bedroom door suddenly being swept open, and my brother barging in. He flipped on the light switch and stormed over to my bed, looking enraged. I had stopped sobbing and was trembling in fear. At seventeen years, my brother was just as scary to me as my father was at that point. “Get out of bed,” he said in a gruff voice. He grabbed my hand, roughly pulling me out of bed. I started to sob again as he dragged me unwillingly down the stairs and toward the shouting. I remember my father whirling around in mid-sentence as he heard my whimpering sounds coming from behind him. My brother then shoved me in front of my father and yelled, “Look at what you’re doing to your daughter!”

I guess as I grew older, I forgot what happened after that. Maybe things got better. Maybe worse. I couldn’t remember feeling hatred for my father. Perhaps I stopped hating him after a while. Or perhaps I never did quite hate him. He was, after all, my father. In the past eight years, he suffered two debilitating strokes and was reduced from the alpha male he once was to a meek man with an almost childlike disposition. The roles between us switched. I was now the caregiver. The breadwinner of the family. My father had been emasculated.

I yawned and stretched my arms as I sat up in my bed. I reached over and pulled a book that I had been reading the night before off the nightstand. It was a book by Mitch Albom called Tuesdays with Morrie and had been highly recommended by many friends. I opened the book to where my bookmark lay and began to read. A couple of pages later, I stopped and went back a page to re-read what I had just read.

Mitch, the author, was talking to Morrie about how he managed to stay positive in spite of having lost his independence and needing a nurse to bathe him, lift him and wipe his behind. Morrie’s response was that, strangely enough, he had begun to enjoy his dependency. He said it was like going back to being a child again. I read that section over and over again as the tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I had hugged my father. Truth be told, I didn’t enjoy being too close to him. He always smelt like medicine and something that reminded me of a nursing home for the elderly. It made me uncomfortable.

I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. As I washed my face and brushed my teeth, I thought about this some more. My father and I had never been that affectionate in the past either. He had been revered and feared before his present condition. What was I to do? Completely shock him with an embrace out of the blue? What would he think? How weird would it feel for me? Did I really even care enough to try it?

I could hear my mother bustling about in the kitchen as I walked toward the living room, where I knew my father would be watching TV. Sure enough, there he was -- in his comfy single-seater couch with the clicker in his hand, staring blankly at the moving images on the screen before him. He barely looked up at me as I walked into the room and mumbled good morning. I settled onto the loveseat at the far end of the living room, watching my father’s lack of response to the comedic actions of the characters in the sitcom.

Suddenly, I felt a surge of emotion run through my body as I stood up and walked slowly over to my father. He continued to look straight ahead at the TV screen, seemingly oblivious to my movement. I knelt down beside his couch, with my arms resting on the cushioned right arm of the sofa, and softly rested my head on his shoulder, my hair nestled in his neck. What was probably seconds felt like an eternity, but then I lifted my arm and placed it over his other shoulder and held him as tightly as I could. If I had had any doubt in my mind about whether I loved my father, they were obliterated in that moment -- when I felt his body trembling under my head as he began to sob uncontrollably.

The Boys

Adrianna hated it when they referred to her as ‘one of the boys’. She may have taken pride in it when she was younger, but now it irked her that they didn’t recognize that she was a woman and needed to be handled more delicately. They were there to be insensitive when things were rough for her, and they were there to make fun of her when things were good. But they were always there. And in spite of their annoying behavior when it concerned Adrianna, she loved them unconditionally. When she spent time with them individually, their bullying facades dissolved and their rather lovable personalities shone through. They were her boys, her friends, her family.

Earlier that week, Adrianna had stopped by the bank after work to see Darren. Darren was probably the most gentlemanly of the boys. He was thoughtful and considerate and the girls adored him. He had bought Adrianna her first bouquet of flowers on her fifteenth birthday even though he caught flak for it from the rest of the boys later. That day, Darren had looked particularly sharp in his pin-striped suit and pink shirt. He always dressed really well, even when he wasn’t working at the bank. He had been in a particularly great mood that day and had managed to convince Adrianna to join him for dinner at a nearby bar and grill. They had talked for hours over dinner about many things and by the time Adrianna had gotten home, it was past ten o’clock.

On this day, there had been whispers about riots breaking out in the city centre so Adrianna had headed home early. She had contemplated swinging by the bank again to see Darren who had promised to give her a book she had been wanting, but decided against it as she was exhausted from working late two nights in a row.

Adrianna threw her car keys on the mantelpiece and collapsed onto the couch. “Just a little TV before I get something to eat,” she thought as she pointed the remote control at the television and swung her legs up onto the couch. Before long, she had fallen asleep, curled up on the sofa.

She woke up with a start to the sound of her cell phone ringing. She reached out and grabbed it from the coffee table to look at the flashing caller ID on its display. It was Mike. Adrianna groaned and turned the phone ringer on silent. Tonight was movie night and the boys were probably calling to ask if she wanted to join them. She closed her eyes yet again, but just as she was drifting off, her cell phone rang again. “Damn you, Mike,” she muttered angrily as she pressed the ‘accept’ button on the phone. “Hello,” she said in an irritable voice expecting Mike to chide her for not answering the phone before. “Adie?” Mike didn’t sound like his normal self. “What is it, Mike?” Adrianna asked, sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Mike replied in a soft, calm voice, “I don’t want you to freak out, okay? I need you to stay calm but I need you to get to the hospital. Darren’s been shot.” “WHAT!? What happened?” Adrianna yelled. “I’ll tell you when you get here, just come to the hospital.” Mike answered.

Adrianna hung up the phone, grabbed her car keys, slipped on her shoes and bolted out of the house. A million questions were running through her head. Had thugs attacked the bank while Darren was there? Had the doctors already taken him in to surgery? Was he going to be okay? What if they weren’t going to be able to repair the damage from the gunshot wound and he was somehow disabled for the rest of his life?

Adrianna’s cell phone began to ring again. It was Denise. Why was she calling? Adrianna didn’t usually hear from Denise. “Hello?” Adrianna answered as she drove like mad through the dimly lit streets towards the hospital.  “Adrianna, are you okay?” Denise asked uncertainly. “Yeah, but listen, Darren’s been shot. I’m rushing to the hospital now to see him so I can’t talk,” Adrianna answered. “Okay – call me if you need anything,” Denise said. As Adrianna hung up the phone she thought to herself how bizarre that phone call was. Denise did not seem surprised about the news. Maybe she already knew. But why would she be calling Adrianna? With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Adrianna sensed that things were more serious than Mike had let on. She decided to call Kevin and ask him what was going on. As she deftly switched gears with her left hand, she dialed Kevin’s number with her right, leaving the steering wheel unmanned briefly. Kevin answered right away. “Kev, what’s going on? How badly is Darren hurt? Kev? You have to tell me the truth! Kevin?” Kevin remained silent for a few seconds. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “He didn’t make it, Adie. He’s dead.”

The words echoed inside Adrianna’s head as the phone dropped from her hand and she stared blankly into the night ahead of her. Streetlamps whizzed past as she tried to assimilate the news she had just been given. And then she began to wail as the tears came streaming down her face. She was in complete disbelief. Not for a moment did she consider that she was going to the hospital to find him dead. Kevin had to be joking, right?

She turned into the hospital gate and immediately saw the shadows of people standing in the dark of the night, heads drooped. She parked the car and calmed herself down. She got out of the car and walked towards the group. She could hear silent sobs coming from a few people. “Adie!” someone called out to her. It was Jeremy. He walked towards her, crying as he put his arms around her. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” he whispered as Adrianna buried her face in his jacket and wept. With one arm still around Adrianna’s shoulders, Jeremy began to lead her away from the group and into the building. Adrianna didn’t realize what was happening until she looked up from Jeremy’s chest and realized that Darren’s body was lying right in front of them. There was a white sheet pulled over the top half of Darren’s body, covering his face. She gasped and began to howl as Jeremy tightened his grip on her.

As she trembled in Jeremy’s arms, Adrianna stared at the black, dress shoes that lay on the feet of the dead body in front of her, thinking that she could have seen those shoes anywhere, and known that they belonged to Darren. It was then that it hit her. She had known this man for most of her life… and now he was gone. There were other people walking into the room now. Adrianna was so glad that the body was covered up – she would not want to remember Darren in any other way than as happy as he looked the last time she saw him. It was at that moment, without any warning, a man in a white lab coat had pulled back the white sheet and Adrianna had shrieked with terror, shutting her eyes tight as the image of what she glimpsed was etched in her memory forever…

Coming Home

I stood there, watching the conveyor belt as all kinds of suitcases appeared on it from behind the vinyl flaps. Occasionally, a guitar-case or an oddly-shaped boxed package would break the monotony of the mostly rectangular-shaped bags on the belt. Every few minutes, someone would hastily lurch forward and awkwardly struggle to pull a bag or two onto their waiting trolleys. All around me, people chattered away as they waited for their luggage. I looked around me, taking in the myriad of faces that surrounded me, at the mercy of the jerking, groaning device that dictated how soon they could leave the busy airport. I watched as one young woman looked over to the crowd of people waiting just outside the airport customs area and began to wave excitedly, a big smile on her face. Sure enough, three hands from the throng of people behind the large window waved furiously back at her. I looked back down at the conveyor belt as the knuckles on my fists that gripped the trolley handle went white. I was usually ecstatic to come home to my family but this time, things were different.

Finally, I caught sight of my trusty navy-blue suitcase and moved closer, ready to pull it out. Once it was securely on my trolley, I took a deep breath and pushed the wobbly cart towards the exit. I looked at the expectant faces of the people that stood behind the barrier, hoping to see a familiar one. At last, I saw Adam waving at me, beckoning me over to the side exit. I breathed a sigh of relief and wheeled my cart over to the right. As I moved toward him, I fought back the urge to tear up. I gave him a quick hug and we began walking towards the arrivals’ parking lot.

“You okay?” he asked as he unlocked the trunk of the car and lifted my suitcase off the cart. “Yeah”, I mumbled as I leaned against the car. “Have you been to see him?” I asked. Adam turned to me and squeezed my shoulder. “Yes, I was with him yesterday. Everything’s going to be ok. It could be much worse”, he said. The tears welled up in my eyes as I nodded feebly.

As we drove down the brightly lit highway away from the airport, Adam chatted away about this and that, trying to keep the mood light. His voice faded into the background as I gazed out of my window and thought back to that fateful phone call I had made home just two weeks ago. I had bought an international calling card so that I could call to wish my father a happy birthday. I always got a tad emotional on his birthday and would speak to anybody who was willing to listen, about what a pillar of strength he was for me.

My father, the typical alpha male was always a little intimidating to most people. I think he managed to discipline me effortlessly as I was always too terrified of him to do any wrong as a child. Because my mother had a softer demeanour and was rather docile, it was my father who took care of everything for us. From attending parent-teacher meetings at school when I was younger, to fixing things around the house for my mother and even building things from scratch – like the beautiful tree-house in the garden of our first home. My father was a proud man and always loved to be the centre of attention. He would be the life of every party, telling jokes and having people hang on his every word. I only ever saw him cry once – when he received the news of his mother’s passing. I vividly remember thinking to myself how strange it felt to see him display that kind of emotion. He was this rock-solid man. It perturbed me that he was capable of sorrow.

That day, I had called on my mother’s cell phone as there was no answer on my father’s line. I had been poised to sing the birthday song in my best voice.  My mother had answered. Her voice had sounded weary and hoarse. I remember the smile fading from my face as she told me my father had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital. I remember the tears streaming down my face. I remember hearing the panic in my mother’s voice as she told me she didn’t understand the doctors when they spoke to her about what had happened. I remember hearing the silent plea in her voice that said, “I can’t do this alone”.

I snapped back to reality as Adam called my name. I didn’t realize I had been crying. “I’m okay”, I said shakily as I wiped away the tears. I looked out the window once again. We were driving through the familiar neighbourhood where I grew up. As we turned the corner onto the street that led to my house, I thought about the conversation that I had had with an old Indian man who sat next to me on the flight. I had told him that I had a friend whose father had just suffered a stroke and that I wondered what his life expectancy was now. He had said to me in a strong accent, “The ironic thing about people who have had strokes not severe enough to completely debilitate them, is that they probably live longer in their degenerated state than they would have if they hadn’t suffered the stroke. So not only have would they probably have lost motor function or their emotional state severely altered, but they have to endure it for so much longer!” This notion troubled me greatly but I was not certain of the old man’s authority on the subject and dismissed his words in my mind.

We pulled up to the house and I slowly stepped out of the car. Adam gestured for me to go ahead as he popped the trunk open to get my bag. I walked up to the front door of the house and took a deep breath. Just as I raised my hand to knock on it, it swung wide open. There stood my mother, looking tired and aged. Her once perfectly-styled hair framed her face in loose, grey wisps and her skin looked more lined than I remembered. Her eyes drooped sadly and welled up with tears as she leaned forward and held me in a tight embrace. I felt the lump in my throat but fought back the tears.

I pulled back and smiled at my mother. She moved aside and I walked in through the door, directly into the living room. It looked different than I remembered. The couches had been pushed to the wall and there were large gaps between all the furniture. As I looked around slowly, half expecting to see my father walking towards me, I caught my breath as I saw him slumped in a wheelchair in between the loveseat and the recliner. He had his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his chin resting on his open palm. His eyes were closed. My heart was beating furiously and I stood rooted to the ground, still by the open front door. “Daddy?” He looked up and took a while as his eyes focused on me. He looked older than I remembered. The skin on his gaunt face was wrinkled underneath the stubble and it drooped loosely at the sides. The little hair that remained on his head was all a silvery-white. “Daddy, I’m home”, I said as I slowly walked towards him. Then, without warning, he burst into tears, arms outstretched towards me. As I bent down to hug him, feeling immeasurable pain to think that this man who once exuded strength and pride had been reduced to this. I felt the cold numbness set in as I remembered the old Indian man’s words, “...they have to endure it for so much longer...” as my father clutched on to me, sobbing uncontrollably, almost like a little child.