10/07/2020
I dream of simple things, everyday.
I dream that love, would come my way.
~ Dreamer Girl by Asa
Fortis hospital, New Delhi, India. 26th of March 2013 ~ Queeneth's first surgery
Oh my....
I am so very sure that y'all must have been so annoyed whilst reading chapters thirteen to eighteen. I'm sure you all must have been annoyed as to how foolish a person Mustafa can be? Or let me put it this way, I'm sure you all must have been felt bad for how much of a short sighted person he is.
In your head, you must have been like:
"Dude!!! Can't you see clearly that Cassandra doesn't love you???" Then you probably grit your teeth in annoyance, wishing you could be inside the novel to knock some sense into him.
Because damn, while he was trying so hard to stay so loyal to Cassandra, she on the other hand didn't give a hoot neither did she appreciate his loyalty. All she wanted was her ex boyfriend. The stupid wench was still crazy about the guy that cheated on her like she meant nothing to him.
Can you just imagine that?
Why would Mustafa chase after a girl like that? I mean, he should have given in to Zoe's sexual advances don't you think? Because, damn! She's such a sexy, ambitious and determined woman.
She would not stop until she gets what she wants. Ain't that goals?!
Don't you think Mustafa deserves someone better? Isn't he being foolish by devotedly keeping to vows that were never even fulfilled by his own spouse?
Well you may deem him as being foolish, because really though, it's fine to call him foolish. He was very much oblivious to the fact that Cassandra wasn't in love with him.
But on the other hand, what do you think is the concept behind loving someone passionately?
Don't you think it's about taking risks? I mean, love in itself can be a risky thing, not so? Of course, yes. It truly can be.
Or am I the only one who thinks so?
Because I'm sure we all as humans have at a point loved someone we were not supposed to love and then we got our hearts severely broken and battered. We have felt betrayed and dejected. Unwanted and unimportant. We gave ourselves to the people we thought would ride with us till the end of time only to have our hearts crushed, with little or no blood left to keep it beating.
Yes, we have made such silly mistakes and sometimes when we cast our minds back to the extreme things we did for the people we thought loved us in return, we cringe terribly and regret our actions very bitterly.
But all of these things still do not give a room for hatred in our lives. It should not. Because you know why? Love is a risk we have to take. It is the essence of living and the essence of life in itself. I mean, we would not be in existence as humans if someone did not love us enough to create us. What would life amount to without a little outpouring of love? If loving is truly worth it, shouldn't it actually be a risk?
I mean, it's mandatory for us to love as humans but at the same time, it's more of a "You love at your own risk" kind of thing.
Controversial.
So is the same situation with my bow legs. I knew for sure that my parents could not let my legs look the way they look, with me experiencing so much pain in my bones almost every day and night simply because of fear of me getting into the hands of the wrong doctor or surgeon.
Because really, what was the essence of performing a surgery on my bow legs without taking a little risk?
It's something that just has to be done just like we humans can not live a good life without the element of love present.
The surgery I had undergone in Nigeria while I was six years old might have not gone perfectly well; at least the after effects but it did not put an end to the possibility of getting a much better corrective surgery else where. Because for sure, my legs couldn't remain the way they were.
I mean, my legs are like the figurative expression of the fact that we have to love as humans; what would my life look like if I became totally crippled?
It definitely would look like a heart enshrouded with vileness and pure hatred; you can't see the world beyond where you are, because that hatred would just not let you. When you see a kind person, or someone who shows you love, the act automatically irks you. You begin to wonder why that person is so stupid as to choose an element such as love.
From your own perspective, love is a tiresome and dangerous thing simply because you've tried it before and it broke you.
So was the same thing for my legs. I don't want to ever see people who can walk with their two legs as kings and queens simply because I can't use my own legs. I mean, the ability to walk is a free gift endowed upon us by God that should be appreciated.
Why would I ever wish to see the ability to walk as something so enormous?
It's painful especially when something can be done to correct it. Honestly, if you don't do your best to find a way out, it's literally an insult to those who were born crippled or with no legs at all. I mean, if they could find a solution, they would have gone to the ends of the earth to get it. If there's a way out, go for it regardless of how much risk it comes with. Just like love is worth the risk, so are my legs.
The riskiness of getting another surgery done on my legs made me a little scared in all honesty. I mean, even the Indian doctors already made it look like there was absolutely nothing they could do to get my legs straightened because I could remember my dad telling me about how they said my own condition was something they had never stumbled upon in their lives which made it a hard nut to crack.
They made my fear worse by making it look like the biggest problem in the world, making me feel like there was a ninety percent chance that all things could go completely wrong.
Then I began to understand why my mother was crying so much at the airport while she saw my dad and I off. She knew best, the concept behind the word "risk". Even if I knew she had faith that all things could go well, the underlying fact that things could as well go disastrous was very much imminent particularly when you know you've gone through a lot with that particular thing.
I mean, it really was okay for my mum to cry now that I think about it because she struggled a lot especially during my infant stages. As early as she noticed the defect in my legs, she had continuously been taking me to the hospital for medical check ups as early as six am in the morning.
Yes, she woke up earlier than that to take me to the hospital because the government hospitals in Nigeria have the craziest of staffs and you can in fact go to the hospital as early as five am and still not get attended to till probably nine am in the morning. So you literally spend four hours waiting on a bench that isn't even butt friendly.
But my mum went through all of these stress just so my bowlegs could be corrected on time. Now that I think of it, I can't even imagine how sad she must have felt seeing those bowlegs resurface again, a few months after I had my very first surgery.
It must have broken her heart; she must have felt like all of her efforts were vain. She must have wondered what exactly was the reason behind my bow legs. She must have had countless of questions.
But of course, she couldn't give up on me. She had to keep going for my sake and had to selectively choose a better option for the sake of my legs and even when the better option came, the probability was still there.
It's the same thing with deciding to love. When you've gotten heartbroken a whole lot of times, you become very scared when some one else comes to your life but because you want to know what true love feels like, you go for it nevertheless, even when the probability of still getting heartbroken or maybe even suffering from the worst heartbreak ever is still present.
The synopsis of life in one word is: risk.
And whether we take it or not, ascertains what would eventually become of our lives whether good or bad. It's the explanation behind the words, "The choices we make determines the results we get"
My corrective surgery took place immediately the day after my twelfth birthday. The doctors said they were going to operate on both legs on different days. They said if they were to operate on both legs the same day, it would be too much pain for me to bear. So the following day, they said they were going to operate on my right leg first since it looked physically worse than my left leg and truly it was. The second surgery which consisted of them operating on my left leg was going to take place two days after.
The day before, I was sad that I couldn't even leave the hospital on my birthday simply because I was a patient and had to be confined to the wheelchair but on the day of my surgery, honestly I was pretty scared.
Now, I actually might never walk again. What would become of my life if that happened?
The morning was chill, and the hospital, moderately quiet. The environment was friendly to be honest but I mean, the section where I was, was cold, everything was blue in color, and for some reason, it intensified the subtle fear I was already feeling.
My dad was with me all morning, as I lay on my bed, dressed in a blue hospital gown but when the time for the surgery struck, the nurses came into my ward to take me to the theatre room.
I lay on the stretcher, hoping for the very best for my life. I had no idea how the surgery was going to go so the little things I knew became a figment of my extended imagination. I was imagining all sorts of things that were very typical of the things my mind would usually imagine; how it would feel like in my body if they tore a pound of flesh in my legs just to have access to the bones underneath, how the needle was going to feel like piercing through the open part of my legs as they seam every pound of flesh back together, muscles, and tissues complying forcefully to the strokes of the needle. I even tried to imagine what my legs looked like without any flesh.
Yes, I was delirious!
Anyway, my dad followed the nurses as they wheeled me on the stretcher till we got to the surgery room and my dad had to stop following.
Because sadly, he could not be in the surgery room with me. I became sadder. I didn't expect him not to be allowed to enter the surgery room with me. The reason why I wasn't freaking out completely was because I knew I had my dad and he would be there with me through it all; he would be there when I was feeling the pain the most.
At least, the pain would be a lot easier to bear.
But now, I really am alone. Seeing my dad halt back in his steps as the nurses signified for him to stop following us, really shattered my heart.
"You are not coming in with me?" I could remember asking my dad that day.
"No my dear. You know I can't enter into the surgery room with you. I just kept following because I didn't know where the surgery room was." He said.
My heart did a large thump as the nurses wheeled me further into the surgery room; the doors drawing closely shut, separating me from my father. Nausea dominated my oesophagus and my head just seemed to do this spin which made me very cold and dizzy.
How am I supposed to feel without anyone by my side during the most intense moment of my life? Who or what shall I depend upon? God? I mean, I didn't even have a proper relationship with God because I felt I was still so young to know so much about God.
But I guess, I could try depending on God this time because what other choice do I actually have at this point?
The atmosphere in the surgery room was not as intense or tensioning as I initially thought it would be. I mean, the doctor who was going to perform the surgery looked so handsome and was all smiles at me. In fact, I could still remember his name: Dr Singh.
I didn't know what to do or say so I just lay still on the surgery bed, as intense fatigue washed over me and afterwards, it began to feel like I was really floating, completely unaware of when the anesthetics had found it's way into my body, doing its job by forcing every working organ possible in my body to a temporary break...if my body was starting to shut down, who was I to forcefully try to keep my eyes open?
Of course, I had to obey...
**
The surgery was honestly ridiculous. I mean, I could remember mumbling some words in the middle of the surgery while I was absolutely numb to what the doctors were doing on my legs during the surgery. I could remember mumbling about how I wanted to go to heaven in my sleep and I could even remember the doctor laughing at me.
I mean, I really didn't want to sleep. For some reason, I wanted to see them perform the surgery on my leg. Maybe I even saw it. But honestly, I didn't understand why I actually wanted to see them perform the surgery. It was a mission I wanted to accomplish badly ever since I learnt that I had a surgery when I was six years old.
I didn't even know I had a surgery. All I could remember was that, I was admitted at the hospital. It made me wonder how numb I really must have been during the surgery so I tried to stay awake for this one.
I was actually so restless. I mean, why was I being so stupid, when I knew clearly that the anesthetic was definitely more powerful than my willpower? It was a battle because it honestly felt like a draw.
I still managed to stay awake during the surgery even if it was for a few seconds. Honestly, it was so funny, thinking of how I actually really wanted to see the surgery being performed on my right leg.
I saw my dad again. I was very happy. My right leg was now covered by a thick, blue P.O.P (Plaster of Paris) as my dad sat beside me in another cold, blue room. I could not go back to my ward immediately for reasons I could not understand but it was completely fine so long as I could see my dad now.
"How do you feel?" He asked me.
"I feel okay. My leg doesn't hurt." I answered. I was surprised too, because I had heard so many tales of the after effect of surgeries and how painful they usually are especially when the anesthetics have lost their effect on the body but I wasn't feeling anything at all.
"You are so strong and courageous." My dad told me, clearly very impressed to see how I was handling the whole thing.
Little did he know how genuinely silly I was. It seemed like a funny thing to me and I found it funny that he was looking at me like he was expecting me to say something negative, like "ouch, my leg is really hurting" or "I don't feel good." So the worry could wash over his face completely.
But I could not blame him for feeling that way. He just wanted to know if I was really okay but I was not taking it seriously. I was just feeling good for some reason. I knew he felt good too to see that I was doing okay but we couldn't rejoice fully yet since my left leg was yet to be operated on.
But I was acting as though the surgery was completely over because of how fulfilled I was feeling until he spoke again.
"Let's call your mother on the phone so she can hear your voice." He said.
Then fear washed in again. I knew I couldn't be too happy when speaking with my mother in the phone because the worry that always seemed to be laced in her voice was pretty contagious. It's not like I hate speaking with her but the idea of doing so was going to put me in a very solemn mood.
And that was the least thing I wanted at the moment...