The Weight of Goodbye

A Story of Love, Loss, and Last Moments

Walking into the office kitchen to get water, I felt lightheaded. I decided to take a seat and calm myself amidst the developing migraine. Shola came in to get water too and asked what was going on. I was in so much pain I couldn’t even respond.

When I opened my eyes, I realized I was in the ER. My colleague was sitting beside my bed, worry written all over her face. I asked her where I was, and she said it was a hospital in Ikoyi. Shola came over as soon as he saw I had woken up and asked if I felt a bit better.

The doctor came and invited me into his office, asking if I wanted anyone to accompany me as he needed to discuss something. He looked serious, so I asked to go in alone. In the office, he showed me images from the MRI scan that had been done and diagnosed me with vascular malformations (the blood vessels in my brain were abnormally knotted, serving as a ticking time bomb and giving me a three-month life expectancy). He asked about my constant headaches, lightheadedness, and vomiting, to which I confirmed. He also inquired why I hadn’t visited the hospital sooner, but I explained that I thought it was stress or maybe PMS

I asked if there was anything I could do or try-maybe surgery, laser treatment, or even chemo but he said it was too late, as the condition had rapidly spread throughout my brain. I went numb.

He went on about improving and sustaining the quality of life, prescribing medication to make the pain bearable. He asked me to come back for check-ups with a guardian and directed me to the pharmacy.

Shola and Amaka asked how it went with the doctor, and I told them I was advised to watch what I ate and try to rest more. We all went back to the office that day. I couldn’t concentrate at all; nothing made sense. Just when I thought things were finally starting to settle down and look up, life said, “Tada! got you bitch”

How do I tell my loved ones that I only have three months left to spend with them? How do I look them in the face and break this kind of news? It would break my mum so much. I looked at my colleague sitting close to me and smiled when she asked if I was okay—the third time she’d asked since I came back from the hospital.

I got home and ordered the biggest cup of ice cream I could find, then started a new series on Netflix. There’s nothing a bowl of ice cream can’t fix or so I thought. I started eating and didn’t realize when I began to tear up and cry. Reality hit me like a truckload of water, waking me from my delusion. I had just paid for this apartment and was planning to let everyone know the next month. I had paid for my master’s degree and was preparing for classes that would start next month too. Work was finally starting to pay well, and I felt good about my life for once. I had also just met a guy who ticked all my boxes and was so excited for our first date and the possibility of a life together

Why now? I asked myself. I was alone, but I needed answers to all the questions brewing in my head. Haven’t I suffered enough? I’ve had to fend for myself since my family’s business collapsed, taking care of my siblings in the process as I stepped up. I never had time for myself because I wanted a good life and a better future for my family. Was that too much to ask? Do I really deserve this kind of pain at this stage, where I’m supposed to finally rest and take things easy?

The first time I felt the sharp pain in my head, I was in the market that day to get groceries for the house. The next thing I knew, I was being resuscitated by a bunch of market women pouring water on me and fanning me, saying I had fainted. I was so embarrassed and ashamed, but they made me feel safe and got me a ride home. When I got home, my mum asked about my wet clothes, but I brushed it off with different stories to distract her. Other times, I puked uncontrollably, and sometimes I couldn’t get food down. On some days, I had no appetite or energy to do anything, but I just thought it was my body warning me that I was overworked.

The next evening after work, I went to a Buju’s concert. There was no point moping around feeling sorry for myself, so I decided to live freely and enjoy my limited time. I called friends more often and became intentional in my dealings with them. I took extra care of myself, didn’t miss any medication or doctor’s appointments, and tried to speed things up with the new guy, hanging out more. I visited my parents every weekend, staying in to bask in their memories, unbeknownst to them.

I took short trips to nearby places and had the time of my life with the people I love. I gave away most of my clothes and wigs to friends who were always there for me. I started my master’s degree program, even though I might never get to finish it. I invited my closest friends over to my new apartment and hosted multiple game nights. I indulged in everything that made me happy, uplifting my spirits as my time grew closer

It’s my last month now, and the fainting has become consistent. Nosebleeds, general body weakness, and nausea are the order of the day. I took a leave of absence from work and stayed home all day. When friends asked, I said I was working from home and gave excuses to avoid hangouts. A certain friend consistently called to check in after I told her I wasn’t feeling well, and she asked to visit one day, to which I obliged. She came over and helped me with chores and food.

While cleaning, she stumbled upon my doctor’s note and walked into my room crying. This is exactly why I didn’t tell anyone. We sobbed in each other’s arms for a long time, and when we were done, I explained everything to her, saying I had less than a month to live. She begged to go with me to the hospital to see the neurologist and explore possible solutions. From then on, she practically moved in and watched over me like a mother, promising to keep my secret. My parents and friends called to ask why I stopped visiting, and I blamed it on work.

Every day was exhausting. The pain was unbearable, and I wanted to end it myself. I bought pills to overdose; I was a coward and didn’t want to succumb to death on this timeline. My new roommate found the pills and flushed them down the toilet, shouting and crying. I don’t want pity. I don’t want to see her looking at me with fear in her eyes. I can tell she’s scared to ask about my pain when we talk and gist. I can tell she wants more people to be here as the days draw closer and my condition worsens. She tries to smile sometimes, but I can see the tear marks on her face when she reenters the room. I know it’s a lot for her emotionally and physically and keeping this kind of secret is hard, even from my family.

It’s Saturday morning, and I feel it in my gut that the day has come. I told her to buy some groceries and asked for specific items that would increase her time away from the house. She reluctantly left, and I struggled to lock my room. I turned on the AC and the TV, raising the volume to shield my voice from penetrating through the window and alerting my neighbors. I let myself painfully slide into oblivion’s edge…

FICTION…