I was startled awake by hurried footsteps echoing through the house, like there was stampede. I checked my phone for the time, It was just 4:00 a.m.—far earlier than anyone in my home ever stirred. Confused and alarmed at the same time, I jumped out of bed and headed towards the direction of the sounds. What I saw made my heart almost stop, Aunty Joy, was being rushed out, from the house, gasping for breath. My mother was screaming.
"Hang in there please, just hang in there."
"Aunty Joy!" was all I could whisper, tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks.
She was my dad’s younger sister who had moved in with us so she could be better cared for. Her health was fragile, and as a sickle cell warrior, frequent crises meant regular hospital appointments and medications. Two days earlier, she had complained of feeling unwell and so had started her medication routine.
That afternoon, I had returned home from visiting a friend. My parents were out working, and my younger siblings weren’t back from school yet. I went straight to Aunty Joy’s room. The moment I stepped in, I saw it—the strain in her eyes, the tension on her face, she wasn't looking well at all. I just knew it because we shared a very deep bond, right since when I was a toddler, following her every where she went.
As I walked into her room, she managed a smile—something she did often, especially when she's trying to disperse any kind of concern or worries. I knew her too well!
"Aunty Joy, good afternoon ma. How’re you feeling?"
"You’re back already? I’m just fine," she said, managing a weak smile.
"I made pineapple juice. It’s in the fridge—take as much as you want."
I knew she was trying to deflect. "You're in pain. Please don’t pretend you're okay," I said, frustration creeping into my voice.
She sighed. "I’ve taken my medication. I’ll be fine soon, don't worry about me."
I wasn’t convinced, I took some pineapple juice and sat with her, just to be close to her. But by the next day, her condition worsened. Panic set in. The family doctor was out of town, and though he prescribed some medications over the phone, he wouldn't be able to see her until the following day.
Dad and I rushed to the pharmacy to get the new meds. She took them and seemed better—well enough that everyone sighed in relief and went to bed. I fell asleep beside her, comforted by her calm breathing.
Then came the footsteps.
I awoke, confused once more by the noise. I hadn’t even noticed she was no longer beside me. Within a few minutes, we were at the hospital. The doctor said emergency surgery because her condition was critical. I held her hand tightly, whispering through tears, trying to reassure her. But she was unresponsive as they wheeled her into the theater.
The waiting was agonizing. I sat silently, praying for a miracle.
Then the worst came.
“She’s slipped into a coma,” the doctor announced. “Her chances are 50/50. We’ll keep monitoring her and let you know of any changes.”
My world tilted. I couldn’t breathe. Everyone tried to stay strong, to cling to hope, but I was crumbling. Three whole days passed and she still hadn’t woken up. Three days were like three years or was it like eternity? My heart was breaking.
It was a rainy evening, on the fourth day, I was overwhelmed with emotion, I stepped outside the hospital and walked into the downpour. I cried under the rain until I felt like it was washing away the heaviness in my chest. Something about that moment—the tears, the rawness of my pain and fear—the coolness of the water cleansed me.
When I finally walked back in, I was drenched, but lighter.
And then I saw them—my family gathered, the mood joyous, voices ringing out in laughter. Aunty Joy had woken up. Disbelief! Then one of the most wonderful moments of my life!
The miracle I had prayed for had happened—just in time. The rain that washed my pain away was indeed magical.
It was a slow but steady step towards recovery. Then she was strong again, completely, strong and full of life, as though the clouds had parted and returned the sun to us, in that magical moment. And just like that, our home was filled again with the warmth of her laughter and the sweetness of her wonderful pineapple juice.
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