Sweet Mother. (Special Dedication to Mrs. Edith Nwankwo)

“Some women do not deserve to be mothers”. The nurse said to her colleague who was busy preparing the paper work for patient’s admission into the clinic. 

“All they know how to do is give birth to children that they can’t take care of”. 

The other nurse responded without looking up from the folder she was working on. “How can someone who calls herself a mother be so careless to let her child’s health deteriorate to such extent before bringing him to the clinic?”

“You won’t blame her, she probably doesn’t know what other women pass through to get just one child”.

They kept talking about her like she wasn’t there. She didn’t even bother to respond. All she wanted was for them to commence treatment on her sick son as soon as possible. She had him wrapped up in a double layer of cloth and blanket, safe for the way she clutched the bundle close to her chest and rocked him from side to side, he could easily be mistaken for a bundle of clothes meant to be laundered. 

Even if she wanted to respond to the nurses, what was she going to say? Who would believe her if she told them they had just been discharged from another clinic three days earlier, having spent over two weeks there? She looked at the little bundle in her hands as he let out another whimper that shot her like an arrow in the heart each time he cried. She would do anything in her power, even give her own life, to make him better. But she felt powerless watching her only son suffer, not being able to do anything about it. 

Another whine from him; this time sounding more like the meow of a dying kitten. She couldn’t wait anymore, she walked to the reception desk. “Please nurse what’s happening? My son is dying, where’s the doctor? How long do I have to wait?” 

The first nurse looked at her with such disdain like she had seen the first nurse looked at her with such disdain like she was beholding the worst sight imaginable. It was the second nurse who responded without raising her face for the desk she was writing on. “madam we’re done with the admission procedures, you’ll be admitted soon. Just that there is no vacant bed in any of the wards, you’ll have to wait till morning when we discharge some others patients”.

Her heart skipped at least 10 beats as a myriad of thoughts chased themselves around in her mind. She looked at her baby boy; so frail, so fragile. He didn’t look like he would survive the next two hours. Each painful breathe he drew looked like it would be his last. It was a quarter past 2 in the morning, that meant they would have to wait another 4 hours at least. But this boy’s doesn’t have 4 hours. She thought to herself. Something has to be done, I can’t watch my only son die. 

“Nurse you don’t understand”. She said frantically in between sobs. “My son won’t survive till morning, look at him. Please you have to help me. I can’t lose my boy”. 

As if on cue the baby let out another cry of pain, she held him closer to her chest as the tears ran down her cheek. Just then a third nurse stepped in haven completed her rounds. She looked older and of a higher rank thank the other two. She enquired to know what was going on. After she was filled in, she did a physical examination on the child then ordered the first nurse to prepare the operating room; which was the only available room, immediately. “We will admit him there until there is a free ward”. She said. “Get it ready and move them there, I’ll get the next available doctor”. With that she left the reception, but not before she had taken her turn to chasten the woman for being complacent about her son’s health. Saying she ought to have brought him in earlier. 

She just nodded in response, there was no need delaying the nurse with her explanation. Finally her son was going to be attended to. That was all that mattered. 

Fifteen minutes later they were in the operating theatre. The doctor on call that night was checking him and calling out some prescription to the older nurse. Moments later they both left the room. The nurse however, returned shortly after and administered ORS drip without saying a word to the mother. 

“What’s going nurse”?. She asked apprehensively. “What did the doctor say?” 

“He has prescribed some drips and medication for the boy, that will help stabilize him while we observe his progress. By morning proper treatment will commence”.

“No nurse”. She cried, grabbing the nurse by the collar. “You must begin treatment now, my boy is dying. I know what you people are doing.” She turned and look at her son lying helplessly on the operating table, her voice turned somber. “I can’t let my son die”. She wailed. “Please nurse don’t let my son die”.

The nurse was close to tears herself, she couldn’t speak. She simply wrestled the mom’s hands off her shirt and left the room. 

The drugs she heard the doctor call out to the nurse were routine multivitamin drugs and the drip being administered was just to supply glucose and energy since the boy couldn’t eat. (She knew these because she had been a medical officer once, she only resigned shortly before her son was born). This isn’t going to make my son well, he needs proper medication. She thought as she walked slowly back to table were her son laid and knelt at the foot of the table. The sight of her son in such pitiful condition tore her heart in shreds, it felt like dying a hundred times over. “Oh God”! She screamed at the top of her voice. “He’s only a child, what has he done to deserve this suffering? Please take my life instead, let him live”.

She bolted to her feet like she had suddenly been possessed by some strange spirit. Walking straight to the door she didn’t even turn back to look at her son. She unlocked the door, stepped on to a long quiet passage that looked deserted. Turned right and headed straight for the doctors office at the end of the passage. Without bothering to knock she opened the door and badged into the office.

The doctor opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it when he saw who it was. Before he could drop the pen he was writing with and usher her in, she was already in front of his desk standing akimbo. She tried to speak but all that came out were sobs as the tears flowed uninhibited. The doctor came around to where she stood and put a comforting hand on her shoulder and made her sit.

“You swore an oath to protect lives”. She finally spoke. “Why then would you sit and watch my boy die?” The doctors head dropped. “I know what you’re doing, you think he doesn’t stand a chance, you think he won’t last till dawn. That’s why you’re delaying”.

“The doctor took a long deep breathe before responding. “Madam your son’s case is critical”. He told her frankly. If he makes it through this night it’ll be a great miracle”.

“So you won’t do anything? You’re just going to watch him die in pain?”

“I’m sorry ma, but I can’t start what I can not finish”.

The statement hit her like a canon ball right in the gut. But she was not ready to give up just yet. 

“Starting and failing is better than doing nothing and watching him die, all the while knowing you could have done something to help”. “Please doctor, don’t let my boy die. He is just 3 years old and I have nowhere else to take him this night”.

“OK madam I'll start treatment”. He struggled to hold back the tears that stung his eyes. “But if he dies, the blame is not on me”. 

“Thank you doctor”. Muttered under her emotion laden voice. 

What happened in the 6 hours were a blur to her. All she knew was that the doctor had began treatment, the nurses kept coming in and out of the room with trays of drugs, intravenous syringes and other medical instrument. All the time she never took her eyes off her valetudinarian son, fearing he might just give up any moment. That was not to be the case. Slowly the pain seemed to be giving way, before long he was fast asleep as the heart monitor beeped away. She felt so relieved that for the first time in 2 days he could sleep, yet there was this fear somewhere in the back of her mind that he could suffer a relapse and pass on in the sleep. So after the doctor and nurses had left, she held his tiny bony hand and placed her head on the bed close to his chest as if to monitor his heart beat; she didn’t trust the heart monitor. A while later she fell asleep herself. 

She awakened with a start by the soft low cry of her baby. It wasn’t the usual pained suffering cry, but that of a hungry child. How long had she slept? She couldn’t tell. All she knew was the indescribable joy that filled her as she looked her boy in the eyes, she could see some life returning to them. She grabbed his little face and kissed him repeatedly on the forehead. He looked back at her and spoke the few words he had learnt. “Nana, mamor”.

She couldn’t believe her ears nor eyes, he’s actually awake, not crying and most importantly he’s calling for his favorite food mamor (Golden Morn). 

That was the beginning of his recovery. Though he suffered a relapse from time to time, he continued to make steady progress until he recovered fully. The doctor who didn’t want to start what he wouldn’t finish became their family doctor until his retirement from practice. 

Today the little sick boy is a grown with a wife and 3 lovely kids, living happily. 

And his mom... Well let's leave that to the imagination.