VISITING HOURS

VISITING HOURS


It is only the second time in my memory that my mum had been admitted to hospital - the first time having been occasioned by the birth of my younger sister. I am anxious to see her and it seems to me that the matatu driver is proceeding at a deliberately slow pace. However, he eventually deposits me at the entrance to the hospital, and then drives off in sudden haste.

Walking through the long, wide corridors leading to the female ward, it strikes me just how uncannily similar all hospitals seem- the omnipresent smell of disinfectant hanging in the air, pastel colored walls and terrazzo floors that had been scrubbed and trodden to a dangerously smooth finish.

I approach the nurses clustered together at the entrance to the ward. They glance at me in a disinterested fashion and swiftly dismiss me with just a glance, returning to their apparently riveting chit- chat. I’m forced to hover about, unsure of where to go next, until a uniformed female G4S security guard comes to my rescue with the appropriate directions.

“Visiting hours are almost over, you have only 15 minutes” She politely reminds me. As I walk away, I ponder at how odd a uniformed guard looks in a place full of people confined to their beds by one illness or the other. Is she meant to keep mischievous patients in or unwanted visitors out?

Bed number six happens to be the first in that particular section screened off from the corridor with a curtain. My mum is seated on the side of her bed, watching the going-on in the ward.

“Sasa Mami.”

Her face breaks into a smile of pleasant surprise. She wasn’t expecting me.

I settle next to her as we exchange pleasantries. She’s feeling fine and is not in pain. My dad had just left, after keeping her company since she had been admitted that afternoon. The operation is scheduled for the next day and she has been put on medication in preparation.

“Are you nervous?” I ask her.

She hesitates for just a moment.

“A little.” she admits with a shy smile. I catch a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as I contemplate her words.

A stocky nurse with a face of granite interrupts our conversation to bring my mum some medication. She shoots dagger-eyes at me, seated on the patient’s bed, and I hastily scramble from my comfortable perch. The hospital not having seen it necessary to provide a visitors’ seat, I stand awkwardly at the side of the bed as ‘sister’ plumps up the pillows. She then leaves, after icily informing the patient that the doctor will be by to see her shortly. The patient and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“I don’t think she likes visitors sitting on the bed.” My mum comments with a wry smile. Tell me about it.

By now the ward is full of animated conversations, albeit in muted tones, as the patients and their families and friends catch up on the latest happenings in their respective lives. Opposite us, a young man stands at the every edge of the small crowd of visitors surrounding the patient’s bed. He seems restless and detached from the group, as if wishing the visit was already over. A draft of cold air blows in from the open windows and as my mum reaches for her sweater, I suddenly notice the thinness of the standard issue hospital blanket. Clearly, it was not designed with comfort in mind.

Shortly, the ever- helpful G4S guard walks in and proceeds to remind each patient and her visitors that time is up. The young man at the opposite end of the room seems to come to life.

I am forced to conclude my visit, though I am not yet ready to leave. The thought of leaving my mum ’alone’ in this clinically charmless and foreign place to face the surgeon’s knife has me feeling more than a little jittery. I enquire on whether she has everything she needs. Yes, she says, although she could use some reading material. I promise to bring her some magazines on my next visit, but somehow, that doesn’t sound good enough.

The goodbyes don’t come easily. We’re both unsettled…what to do?

Throwing all caution against ‘sister granite’ to the wind, I sit beside her on the bed, put my right arm over her shoulders and take her left hand in mine.

‘Mami, let’s pray”.

She looks at me with surprise, as we have never done this before, but humbly complies. As we bow our heads, I notice ‘Madame G4S’ who had undoubtedly been on her way to throw me out, beating a hasty and respectful retreat.

And as I proceed to present my earthly mother to my heavenly Father, I suddenly become aware of how small and fragile she seems, in the striped hospital pajamas. This gentle, sweet lady who gave me life is now in a situation of need. And as we pray, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of compassion.

Afterward, I notice that the uncertainty in her eyes has been replaced with a calm confidence.
‘Thank you for visiting, Muthoni. And for the prayer. Its the first I’ve had” She says.

I bid her goodnight and walk away, my heart feeling much lighter.

Waiting for a matatu in the dark outside the hospital,I ponder the events of the night and am amazed at the changing seasons of life. Life does indeed come full circle. I wonder whether my mum had realized that tonight, the seasons of life had changed, for both of us.. For as I prayed for her that night, I had the eerie feeling that I was praying for my daughter.