15/07/2020
Baby, baby close your eyes,
Life's a dream.
Maybe someday, one day
~ Dreamer Girl by Asa
Royal holidays hotel, New Delhi , India . 1/04/2013 -14/04/2013(~ Queeneth's stay at the hotel
There was no use, having high hopes for a splendid stay at India because all I got in return was a restriction to a room; both the hospital room and the hotel room. All I yearned for was the slightest feeling fun in India but I guess I took the meaning behind the description, "medical purpose" leniently.
It was clear that I had no idea how strict a medical trip is and I also wasn't very aware of the fact that medical trips are entirely different from vacations. What I was looking for was an iota of a vacation in a trip that is strictly meant for medical purposes, little did i know that I was a jokester.
Imagine me, I had even thought I would get to see Taj Mahal, India's top centre of tourism. What a joke!
I was glued to the hotel room, unavoidably and I never went past the hotel's reception and at times staying at the hotel's reception was pointless and I eventually got bored because the hotel staffs who we made friends with could not keep my company all the time since they mandatorily had to perform their hotel duties as employed staffs.
My dad could not stay with me all the time because sometimes, he had to go the market to get me food and a few nice sandals that I really loved. I could not wait to wear them again with my brand, new operated legs.
On some other days, he was enjoying the best of India, freely. India is a country that takes so much pleasure in hosting festivals. I knew of the Festival of Lights that was traditionally called the Diwali. It was my favorite because I had seen an artistic illustration of what the festival looked like in a textbook at my school's library but we happened to travel to India during the Holi festival period; The Festival of Colors.
My dad, of course was lucky. He had the best time with the hotel staffs and a few other neighbors who lived around the hotel's vicinity; everyone emptying bucket full of various colors on one another, drenched in colors of blue, yellow and pink paint; mirth, unity and pureness circulating round the faces of the people like life was anything but problematic.
But I stayed glued to the hotel room; trying to keep myself busy with drawing ridiculous looking characters in villages and ghettos in my notebook. I had a name for each and everyone of my characters and it gave me life, thinking about my character's stories. It made me feel a lot less lonely or bored.
On some nights, all I could feel was strikes and juts of pain coursing through both of my legs. It made me sleepless because I could not even sleep in any precise position I wished to sleep because my legs would hurt sorely. Sometimes, it could be as a result of me sleeping in a particular position longer than necessary and I could not possibly change my sleeping position on my own.
Because of that, my dad had sleepless nights too because I could wake him at any hour of hr night to help me change my sleeping position so he would have to carry me a little above, the best, twisting all over and trying to adjust my body to the position that would be best for me and my plaster covered legs and it was usually difficult to know. Sometimes, the sleeping positions that seemed the best always turns out to be the worst so it was tough for the both of us.
He had to carry my heavy weight body in his hands when all he wanted to do was sleep and enjoy the warmth of the bed against his body. He was restless for my sake and I felt very sad about it. I did not want him to suffer or be sleep deprived because of me but I was very uncomfortable as well. It made my heart swell, seeing the amount of sacrifices my dad was beyond willing to make for my well being.
Honestly, not being able to walk for that period of time made me go through a lot. I had even bed-wetted once. It was so annoying and embarrassing. Not like I could help myself and I guess my dad wasn't in the hotel room at that moment to help me and I could not walk either. I knew not of what to do. I despised it all and it made me sick, emotionally.
Sometimes, I wanted to cry but I could not because I kept telling myself to hang on and be strong even when I was going through unease, pain and sometimes, loneliness. I'm not the type of person who ever wants to be depressed or lonely. Even when I am, I can never admit to it because I hate being in that state of my life but on some evenings, my heart felt sore. I could not push that aching feeling away from my mind.
Staring at my legs alone as I lay on the bed, lonely and bored, made my heart so laden with worry and impatience, fear and sadness tugging at my lungs making it mentally difficult for me to even breathe; My inner woman, wailing loudly and muttering painfully; "when would I get to walk again??!!" Because I desperately wanted to walk again.
Sometimes, I wished I could tear those thick plasters apart with my bare hands just so I could even have a glimpse of what my legs now looked like underneath. At times, I made minute attempts to walk. I would shift my butt slowly away from the bed with the strength I had, the right cheek of my butt still on the edge of the bed, the left cheek, hanging on bare air and then I would put one leg on the floor, trying to see if I could least stand. It never worked and even when I thought it would, I was too fearful that I might do a terrible damage to my legs by trying to walk before my time.
But I really wanted to use my legs again before leaving India because staying glued to one place wasn't any fun. Even the most introverted people on earth would never be able to withstand such. I was not having any fun asides from the day I got to eat a spicy, tasty park of goat meat that my dad had gotten from the market. The deliciousness of it made me dunk my teeth into every piece, relishing in its suckling, juicy flavor.
It made me forget my sorrows, boredom and loneliness for that moment. At times, food can do a lot in curing someone's bad day. Good food to be precise.
There was this Muslim man we met with as well, Mr Abass. He came from time to time to check on my dad and I because he had to for some reason. Asides from those things that still made me happy, I was beginning to desperately want to go back home because I was tired of being restless practically every night, in pain and unease and worse off, not being able to go anywhere.
But about a few days later, we met a Nigerian woman in the hotel. She had a son who was suffering from bone cancer. I don't know who else can attest to this thing I'm about to say but there is nothing that gives a Nigerian in a foreign land more joy and happiness than meeting with a fellow Nigerian especially in the first few weeks of their arrival at the foreign place.
My dad and the woman became friends quickly and even before I could meet the woman and her son physically, my dad already told me a lot about the woman and her son; her son was also a patient at Fortis Hospital so he went there weekly for a check or chemotherapy and they were staying at the same hotel with us since it wasn't far from the hospital.
Nurses from the hospital would usually stop by to dispense medical supplies to the boy as well. They had to keep in touch with this hospital because my dad had spoke about the boy in a way that looked as though he was dying.
"When I saw her son, I was in GRIEF." He told me, placing emphasis on the word, "grief" and the sound of it terrified me because then, I didn't know what the word meant so it seemed very terrible a word to use.
It made my heart thump loudly against my chest in anticipation and fear for the boy because I really wanted to see him with my eyes to know what exactly my dad was talking about. I had never really seen a patient suffering from cancer before so I really wanted to meet with this boy.
Then one evening, while I was alone in my hotel room again, my dad was not too far away from me as I could guess he had gone to spend a little time with the woman and her son because my dad had told me that I was going to meet with the woman and her son that day.
I really did not know what to expect and I was surprisingly very nervous about everything, then I heard a creak at the door. I knew it was my dad and the woman who were behind the door. Thump. Thump. I could hear my heart's hurried movements in my ears vividly now.
Then the door stood widely ajar; my eyes met with a dark skinned, beautiful woman in a green top but I was not graced to study her features properly because something negatively marveling had caught my eyes; the view of her son sitting on the wheelchair, his skeletal frame very clear that it was only the fragile pound of his dark skin that was shielding the white skeleton beneath from coming to an open view.
I didn't know what to say. I knew I was supposed to greet them because they'd came to visit me but my emotions stole my vocals completely. The least I could do was nod my head, smiling a smile that didn't even reach my eyes. Smiling had never been such a task but it was at that painful moment.
The boy smiled back at me, making a better effort to say hi to me. He looked hopeful; like the least he could do was to live the rest of the life he had well and happily. My heart swole up, and I knew if just a tiny part were to crack open, I would not be able to control the streams of tears that would flow down my eyes because it was really the most pitiful sight.
I could feel his pain just by staring at him, from where I sat on my bed. Looking at his hands alone, ninety percent of the meaty flesh, diminished and sunken, collections of bones vivid instead as they clasped on to the seat of the wheelchair. I tried to imagine the amount of pain he was wallowing in just by seating on that wheelchair then I realized that I could not even picture it properly.
All that I kept feeling was heaviness in my heart and in my eyes but the woman and her son kept smiling at me and I didn't even know how to feel. Sadness or joy. I didn't know how to treat or welcome them. My emotions reigned over. I was very downcast and unhappy and even helpless.
But the boy spoke to me and somehow, it has helped; it helped me focus on what he had to say instead of how pitiful he looked. It even surprised me that he could talk despite how weak he looked. He looked like he would die any minute; his head lying limply and lifelessly on the seat of his wheelchair.
"What is your name?" He asked me.
"My name is Ojuolape." I told him. "What's yours?" I asked, genuinely interested in knowing.
The room felt so eerie and unwelcoming.
"My name is Boluwatife." He said.