And Then Life Happens (31 page)

“We can't say exactly, but it looks as if something might be wrong with her kidneys.”

“Her kidneys? What do you mean?”

The doctor described my mother's symptoms, spoke about the medical diagnosis, and told me how critical her condition was. Though he didn't want to frighten me, he finally said it would be best if I came immediately.

When I had Ben on the phone again, I explained to him that we absolutely needed a second opinion. That evening, I would give him the address of another doctor to whom he should bring our mother. I also told him that I would come home soon. Yet I had no idea how I would pay for the trip. And then something else occurred to me.

“Does Abongo know about this?”

“I've tried to reach him, but so far it hasn't worked.”

“Okay, I'll try, too. Now I have to go. Talk to you this evening.”

My thoughts raced as I returned to my workstation. I was terribly afraid that time could run out for my mother. I could already see myself as an orphan—even at my age, I needed my mother, and Akinyi should not lose her grandmother, whom she was only just getting to know. I had taught her Luo so that she would be able to communicate with all her Kenyan relatives without any difficulty.

However the second medical examination turned out, I knew that I would fly to my mother. That was the only way to be sure that everything necessary was being done for her.

I ultimately took out a bank loan, not only to pay for the plane tickets for Akinyi and me, but also to cover my mother's hospital bills. Ben had no money, and he also had no idea where to get any. He still had no job. Disappointed, I wondered where my mother's many brothers and sisters were now.

*   *   *

“Look at this!” Harris exclaimed. We had all crowded around his computer. He was the only one who dared to surf the Internet during working hours—probably because, of all of us, he had been project manager the longest and was practically part of the establishment.

“Who would invent such a macabre game?” asked one of our coworkers. On the screen, a BBC News site was open, on which a video showed a plane that had just hurtled into a skyscraper. The building seemed to be one of the Twin Towers in the New York financial district.

“It's not a game,” Harris said, suddenly very serious, and read the accompanying text aloud. At the same time, we observed in horror as a second airplane hurtled into the other tower.

“Oh, my God! This can't really be happening!” someone cried. The rest of us stared silently at the screen and could not believe what was unfolding before our eyes. It must have been some digital animation; a sick joke that a bored computer freak had put on the Net to shock the world. But why were all those people jumping out of the top floors of the two towers? And what did all the commotion down on the street mean? Helplessly, we followed the horrifying event, which, as we later learned, incredulous eyes all over the world were watching over and over again. My stomach turned at the sight. The air in the room suddenly felt cold, and shivers ran down my arms and back as I looked at the screen clouding up with smoke and dust. And those screams of the people fleeing in panic! Just the day before I had bought our tickets for the impending trip to Kenya in two days.

In the airport, I was immediately struck by the low level of activity. Two days after the horror of September 11, 2001, no one wanted to fly. The plane to Nairobi was quite empty, too. But I was too worried about my mother to let that deter me. That was the price of living abroad. If I was needed at home, a long-distance flight was part of the deal.

I wasn't sure whether Abongo would come, too, but I really hoped so. Before September 11, I had sent him a telegram, in which I had informed him of my upcoming arrival in Nairobi. But I hadn't heard from him since. His presence was important, however. In the meantime, I knew that my mother had a kidney ailment, and we children had to decide together how her treatment should be handled. I had already paid the hospital, and hoped that my brother would reimburse me for some of the expenses.

*   *   *

“This is your responsibility. You take care of it.”

I couldn't believe my ears. We were in Nairobi, in the Kileleshwa neighborhood, where I had put my mother up with my friend Diana. From there, she could undergo further medical examinations as an outpatient in the hospital. Akinyi and I were also staying in Diana's large, two-story house. Abongo, who had finally arrived and had just come to visit our mother, was now standing in front of me and explaining that, because I had initiated our mother's treatment without his prior consent, he would not share in the medical expenses.

“What was I supposed to do?” I asked, dumbfounded. “You couldn't be reached. Was the illness supposed to wait for you to get in touch?”

“This is your affair. As I said, you independently made decisions about our mother's treatment, so now you can see this through on your own.”

I stared at this brother, who had never done anything for me in his whole life. I felt nothing but profound sorrow. He was still competing with me, as always, but now at the expense of our mother's health. I turned away from him, went upstairs without a word, and returned to the room in which our sick mother lay.

Abongo was already on his way out again. Why he had undergone the long flight at all was a mystery to me. He had visited his mother but done nothing for her. Later, I found out that he had actually only come to check on his children. At the time, they were living on my mother's compound in Alego and were temporarily being looked after by her.

“Mama! Mama!”

I pulled myself together and looked down at my four-year-old daughter, who was tugging on my skirt.

“Mama, Uncle Abongo forgot my gift for Little Auma,” she cried, holding a rag doll in her hand. We had bought the doll at the airport in London for my niece, Abongo's daughter. I took the toy from her. Aunt Agnes, who was sitting with my mother and had been taking care of her since her release from the hospital, said bitterly, “He's Muslim now and probably won't accept something like that.”

I gave her a confused look.

“I've heard that according to his religion, it is forbidden to worship an image of Allah. A doll is regarded as a copy of a human being and therefore of Allah, too. Do you understand?”

“No,” I replied dryly. “Since when is he so religious anyway?”

My mother answered with a weak voice. “Since he came back temporarily from America. He not only rediscovered his African roots, but also found Islam. In his view, dolls are an attempt to copy the image of Allah. And that's a sin for him.”

“What nonsense,” I said, annoyed. “He's crazy!”

“Akinyi can give it a try,” said Aunt Agnes. “Maybe he'll accept it from her.”

I gave Akinyi the doll and waited as she went downstairs. My brother was already standing at the open door.

“Here, Uncle Abongo, you forgot the doll for Auma.”

My brother took it. But judging by the way he held it, by the legs and with the head dangling, my niece would probably never set eyes on it.

“He took it, he took it,” Akinyi rejoiced, when she was back upstairs with us. I smiled and took her in my arms.

“Well-done, Muu,” I said, using my pet name for her.

*   *   *

With a heavy heart, I flew back to England. My mother had been able to stay with my friend Diana for only a short while. Her condition had worsened again, so that she had to return to the hospital. Although the stay there was very expensive and I had no idea how I would pay for it, there was no alternative. She had suddenly had difficulty breathing and needed an oxygen mask.

I learned that relatives visited her at the hospital every day to check on her. This meant that at least she was never alone. In the summer of 2003, when she was doing considerably better, I invited her to Bracknell along with my brother Ben. Akinyi and I had not seen her for over a year and were looking forward to her visit. Because other family members arrived with her, too, my small house was suddenly filled with people, laughter, and chitchat. Every morning I had to weave my way through the living room, where some guests were sleeping, before I could leave the house and go to work. Akinyi, who had just started school, enjoyed coming home after classes to a house full of people who gave her a lot of attention. She liked to dance and now always had a large audience in the evening and on the weekend.

Before I was really aware of it, the time had come for my mother to fly back to Kenya. However, for several days she had been complaining that she didn't feel well. We suspected a case of the flu and gave her medication. On the day before her departure, however, she felt particularly bad.

“We're going to the doctor!” I said resolutely, although my mother was against it.

“It will be all right, I just have to rest,” she protested.

I remained firm and called my family doctor.

*   *   *

“I'm sorry,” he said with a serious voice, “but your mother cannot fly under any circumstances.”

“What?”

My mother lay completely exhausted on the examination table. She had taken off her blouse and the doctor was listening to her chest. I sat on a chair next to his desk.

“I cannot responsibly condone her flying. Something's wrong with her kidneys. She has to go to the hospital immediately,” he went on.

Suddenly, my secret fears were confirmed. Over the past few days, my mother had barely gotten out of bed, hadn't eaten much, had suffered from pain and facial swelling, and incessantly had to go to the bathroom. Now it was unavoidable. She had to go to the hospital.

“Everything's going to be all right,” I said to her, clasping her hand. She smiled faintly and closed her eyes. She believed me. She, too, had at some point gotten used to me taking care of everything.

*   *   *

Wexham Park Hospital, the largest in Berkshire County, had the necessary equipment to examine my mother more closely. But after a few days, it turned out that that was not enough. It lacked an important machine needed for her treatment.

“We have to transfer your mother immediately to a hospital in London,” said a young doctor. He stood in front of me and looked tired. His blond hair looked disheveled, as if he were constantly ruffling it with his hand. He was doing so now, too. “We have to connect her to a dialysis machine, and we don't have one here.”

“A dialysis machine?” I asked, alarmed. “Isn't that used to clean the blood?”

“Exactly.” He again tousled his hair with his hand. That irritated me, because it gave me the impression that he was not entirely confident. I wanted him to tell me clearly where things stood with my mother.

“Without this intervention she won't survive,” he went on. “Her blood has to be cleansed.”

I had to sit down. Over the past few days I had once again had to face up to the fact that my mother was seriously ill. Every day, after picking up Akinyi from school, I had driven to the hospital to speak with the doctors and make sure that my mother was receiving the proper treatment. I shuttled back and forth between work, child, and hospital, always in the certainty that she would soon recover. Now I was confronted with the fact that her life was in danger unless she was brought to a specialist hospital in London. But Wexham Park Hospital was already far away from Bracknell. In rush-hour traffic, it took me almost an hour to get there, and I would hardly be able to drive to London every day.

“Shall we arrange for the transfer? We need your signature for it.” I just nodded. In my head, my mother was already in London.

“She is being put in the intensive care unit.”

“Why?”

“It's not certain whether she will survive,” he said matter-of-factly. As he said that, he no longer ran his hand through his hair.

*   *   *

I accompanied my mother to London, where I was housed in an apartment on the hospital grounds reserved for family members of critically ill patients. Fortunately, school break was just beginning for Akinyi. I had brought her to her father, so that I could devote myself entirely to my mother.

It was a terrible time. Every day I sat at her bedside and watched nurses and doctors stick needles in her skin and administer various medications to her. In the background the dialysis machine worked around the clock.

*   *   *

“Can I please speak with you?” Once again a young doctor stood in front of me—this time, however, one whose short, pitch-black, neatly combed-back, and pomaded hair suggested extensive grooming. “It's about your mother.”

I might have guessed as much—the words were on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed the comment. I had seen the young doctor in the unit a few times. He seemed to be always in a hurry and was clearly fully aware of his position of power as a doctor in the midst of the many nurses.

“When would you like to speak with me?” I asked politely instead.

“Now, if you have time.”

My mother was asleep.

“I have time.”

“Good, then come with me.”

He turned around and left the unit. I followed him with a sense of apprehension.

The room to which he led me was actually reserved for family members who spent the whole day with their sick relatives. It was comfortably furnished and had a pleasant color scheme. Later, I learned that people were only brought there when a doctor had bad news.

Now I stood in the small room by the window, where I had fled from the words of the young doctor.

“Are you really trying to tell me that you intend to shut off the dialysis machine, even though you know that my mother might die?” I asked, after the doctor had finished speaking.

He was unfazed by my tone of voice. He had shown not the faintest trace of sympathy as he had explained his plan.

“And on top of that, you want to tell my mother?”

“Yes, I think we should tell her. If her condition has not stabilized from the medication by the end of the week, we have to shut off the machine.”