TWO WEEKS

Two weeks of tossing and turning in bed, two weeks of insomnia, two weeks of anxiety, two weeks  of tears, two weeks of the fear of the unknown. Or maybe I did know. It was the fear of death. Two weeks is just fourteen days. It is just 336 hours. But it was a bit too long a time to be in a state of despair and regret and wishing to be in her place instead.

She is beautiful and loving, committed and dedicated, generous and forgiving. She is so many things; I don’t think the inventors of the English language had enough adjectives that I could use to describe all that she is. Every time I look at her, I feel content. I smile because I know for sure that she will never leave me. I know that she will always stand up for me. Trust me, we have had our share of problems and disagreement but guess what? We have pulled through and come out more victorious than any single character you would know. But it took two weeks for us to get here.

My hatred for her was so real, or so I thought. There was always some fault in all she did. In the way she dressed, the way she spoke, the way she walked and probably even the way she ate. I know, I know, it doesn’t make sense right? But you know that moment when you always look for reasons to hate someone, for no apparent reason? Well, it was one of those. I remember telling my father to tell his wife to stop stressing me. I did not want to imagine that she, of all other women, could be my mother. It took me two weeks to realize that I could never have asked for a better mother, and if I was to be born a second time, I would not choose any other mother.

April 1, 2010, I came from school for midterm and I was so excited because I would get another sibling, hopefully, a boy, to add to the two younger brothers I had. I wanted to be the only girl. The attention from my father was amazing. That of my mother did not really matter. After all, I was my daddy’s little princess. When he got home later that night, he broke the news that I had a baby brother. I don’t know if I was excited that my prayers had been answered or that it was a chance to prove to her that I was right and she was wrong. I know what you are thinking, what an ungrateful brat I was right? I am thinking exactly the same thing. But after two weeks, it was going to change.

We went to the hospital the following day and I thought that we would go to the maternity ward but to my surprise, my mother was in the Intensive Care Unit ward. I wondered what had happened to her, and as my father slowly explained what had happened during the caesarian procedure, my hard heart began to melt, and when I walked in there and saw her lying there helpless and swollen all over and immobile, all I could do was cry. As soon as she saw me cry, she started crying and at that point, I realized how much I loved her. I am not sure what magic had been performed to turn my hatred into this feeling I did not understand. This is where my two weeks began.

Two weeks of tossing and turning in bed, two weeks of insomnia, two weeks of anxiety, two weeks  of tears, two weeks of the fear of the unknown. Or maybe I did know. It was the fear of death. Two weeks of regret and wishing to be in her place instead.

What if she had died? What if I had lost her? It is after these 336 hours of visiting her in hospital that I realized what she meant to me.  I learnt that you never miss the waters till your well runs dry, well almost. Today, we look back to those days and just laugh. She has become my best friend, my confidante and my sister. Do you appreciate Steve Jobs for creating the iPhone that you brag with? Do you appreciate that friend who has to sleep late listening to you talk about how cool you think you are? Or that parent who calls you thrice every hour to check up on you (typically my mother).How many times do you wake up and thank your parents for being there for you? Maybe all you need is two weeks without them for you to realize how important they are. Your two weeks could be a year, a month or even a day. But all you need is your two weeks.

XoXo with love,

Sheerow

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