The Therapist.

The American shifted in her seat, staring seriously at me. These people don’t have manners, I thought to myself as I eyed her blonde hair carefully. It was most likely dye because the hair color was a blonde. Her pen was poised in her hand right over her clipboard and her legs were crossed expectantly. I hissed inwardly. This is part of what we’ve been saying – this authoritative aura they put on. The chair groaned as I made myself more comfortable.

“Rita...”

“It’s Mrs Okolo.”

“Mrs Okolo, I can’t help you if you don’t help me.” I sighed. She butchered my name again. I must insist on Rita next time. She launched into a tirade, probably to incite me to speak but I was long gone.

I sat in front of my laptop with various articles of cancer, sorting and sifting. Ever since Fred was diagnosed with cancer, I had become obsessed with the disease. I began to find out everything about lung cancer. We had just gotten back from the hospital. Fred had finished his second chemotherapy session and was asleep upstairs.

“The cancer has spread to a lot of areas, Mr Okolo. You need to begin chemotherapy immediately.” The doctor had said with a blank expression on this face the day we found out. Fred was shocked into silence. I, being who I am, began to question the doctor.

“But my husband does not smoke, doctor. How can he have lung cancer?”

Still expressionless, the doctor looked at and replied. “It’s not only caused by smoking. It can be caused by exposure to asbestos fibers, inhalation of smoke or air pollution. It could also be inherited.”

I could barely swallow the lump in my throat. Fred’s Dad had died of lung cancer. I wanted to hold Fred’s hands but they were balled into fists. That was Fred’s way of trying to shake off shock.

“So what is the solution?”

“Ma, there’s no cure exactly but chemotherapy has been proven to be very effective. He should begin immediately.”

“What are his chances of surviving?”

“I can’t say anything for certain. His cancer is already quite advanced, Mrs Okolo.”

“He’s going to die?”

The doctor must have been asked this a million times because his face was still blank. “I’d advise you start praying to whatever god you worship.”

After Chemo.

I turned the article I was reading to the next page. Good sleep had eluded me since the day Fred was diagnosed. That day, after the diagnosis, I had gone into planning mode. I tried to reassure Fred. I showed him stories of those who had beaten cancer. I told him we had all the money in the world and whatever care was available to cancer patients, we would get him the very best.

He never said a word. My mind flashed to the night before his second chemotherapy session. He smiled at me for the first time in weeks as if Chemo would sap him of all his strength to smile and suck away all his joy. It did. Bringing him home, my husband was the shadow of the man he used to be. His hair was beginning to fall out and he had lost weight terribly.

I glanced at my phone. He’d been asleep for several hours today. It was time for him to eat. Hurriedly, I brought out the chicken soup in the freezer and placed it in the microwave. Within ten minutes, the soup was steaming hot. My stomach grumbled as the aroma of chicken soup filled the kitchen. My mother had always said my food could wake the dead. I dished it out, placed it on a tray and walked gingerly towards our bedroom. Fred was still sleeping.

“Fred. You need to wake up.”

I placed the tray down and I pulled off the blankets. I was about to tap Fred when a folded piece of paper flittered down. The unusual way in which it was folded was what caught my eye. I smiled. A love letter.

Love Letter.

Rita,

The moment I saw you, I knew there was something about you. No, not something, my love, . You’ve filled my life and my home with so much love and joy. Making you my wife is the best decision I’ve ever made. The moments we’ve shared, the we’ve made and the life we’ve lived thus far, I can’t describe with words. Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for pushing me. Thank you for rescuing me. If there are other lifetimes after this, just know that I’d come for you…

Fred’s words brought me to tears when I finished and I sat down beside him, holding his hand as he slept on.

“Are you listening at all, Mrs Okolo?”

Silence.

“Mrs Okolo?”

“Have a good day.” I reached down for my bag. I brought myself up and walked out without a glance at my therapist.

…Forgive me, my love. for giving up so easily, for not trying to be brave. Please do not remember me as a coward. I do not want your last memory of me to be one filled with pain, fatigue or sorrow. I want you to remember me at Lekki beach. I want you to me dancing with you in the rain when we were in 400 level. I want you to remember how I carried you on our and how I kissed you on our wedding night. Do not remember the shell of a man I was before my . I want you to live for me, Rita. Live the life I could not.

Written byOyeleye Ooreofeoluwa.

Oyeleye Ooreofeoluwa is an avid reader, a music lover and a Lawyer in the making. Born in the 90's , she hopes to leave footprints in the sands of time. theblackwordsmith.wordpress.com and articulture99@gmail.com