Jingles Of Hope... (CNF)

On the 25th of this month, which was Christmas Day, just a few days ago, I stepped into the hospital room. In my hand were some packs of food and drinks I had gotten along to share. I had also planned on getting a few pills and injections for some of the patients.

I went to the nurses stand first. As I was approaching their desk, I heard the quiet jingle sounds those nurses used in calling everyone to order and prepare for the arrival of the doctors who came for rounds. That jingle brought back certain memories I always want to throw away. A few minutes later, I was attended to, I told them the reason for my visit, and they gave me a go-ahead. As I was thinking of who to go to first, I heard the sound of the bell; the nurse quickly stood up, and I followed her. I didn't even think much about it. As we got to the man's door, the nurse pulled the bell strings on his door; it's a signal for him to know someone is coming in so he could cover up or something. Immediately she pulled the string; everything changed. I was no longer the one who came to visit; I became the patient in the bed. I was lying down on the bed, sick, tired, stressed, and lean, wondering if I would ever be able to live a good life.

It was a time I couldn't do anything for myself anymore; I've become so mean from endless surgeries and fastings. My stomach has bandages all over it; the pain I was feeling was one that words can't really comprehend. My parents had spent every kobo; they've sold everything they could, and they are even in debt as it is, yet they refused to give up on me. I would look at my dad and see him still acting strong while reassuring me, and my mom on the other end won't stop praying and encouraging me. But I knew they were just trying to make me feel good; they were also breaking inside as well.

One night, I really did not know where my dad, mom, and brother went. It was unlike them to leave me all by myself; the ward I was in was dark as well—there was no light. I had been scheduled for another operation the following day, so that evening I just sighed, tears dropped from my eyes, and I said to myself, I would just let go. I had done enough, my parents had done their best, and I can't keep going anymore. Not only that, but I'm tired of fighting, and it's time to just let go. I was still lost in thought when the bell next to my bed rang, jingling.... I've come to be scared of the sound, as it mostly signals another operation, another injection, another test to be carried out, and such.

Not only that, but I didn't want to turn, but then I heard the nurse's voice.

"Toyosi, turn a little. Someone is here to see you."

I was confused to see me or to see my parents. It wasn't easy to turn due to the burning pain and the loads of bandages I had in me, but with the nurse's help I was able to turn and face the man. I couldn't see his face because it was dark, and believe me, I can't recognize that man to this day.

"Good evening, dear, how are you feeling?" He asked.

"I'm fine, sir." I managed to respond.

And that was all he said. He just stared at me as if he was studying me. He seems to see beyond the me lying on the bed; he seems to really see what I'm going through and what's going through my mind. Then he smiled, placed a small envelope next to my pillow, and said, "I'm sorry I couldn't do more, but don't lose hope. You will survive this, and you will tell your story."

"Who are you sir." I asked.

"I'm someone who believes in you." He said, smiling as he stood up.

The nurse just rubbed my hand in a kind of way to, you know... I heard the plastic chair he sat down on make a sound as he stood up to leave. And he went his way; I didn't even get to know his name or see his face.

"Please tell me his name" I told the nurse.

"He didn't say; he only said, 'Eni ti Olorun mo." (Meaning—he who God knows.)

I didn't know the best word to appreciate him; I didn't even know how to say thank you. When my mom returned and the nurse told her, she was speechless. She just looked at me and smiled as tears dropped from her eyes. That was one of the nights I slept best since I've been on admission, knowing that someone somewhere sees and believes in me. Then I must not give up; I must live to see him, and I must live to do the same. And sincerely, it was an experience, I must say. I healed, I learned, and I regained my strength.

And it happened that the jingle that usually scares me became the sound of life, of hope, of a new beginning. Years have passed since then, and I now find myself drawn back to people who are in situations I was once in. That short story of mine led to the first two paragraphs of this piece. I didn't have plenty to give when I went there this Christmas; that wouldn't be the first time I would be paying such visits, though, but this happened to be somehow different. I was able to really take my time to listen, to encourage, to reassure, and to also pay for little things like drugs, drips, and injections for a few patients.

As we entered the man's room, where the nurse had pulled the strings earlier to announce our arrival and intervention. I noticed as the man turned in pain to check who came in, and it kind of reminded me of that night as well. It happened that the man wanted to harm himself, and since the wife didn't know what to do, she rang the bell to call for help. The nurse calmed him, and I asked if she could allow me to have a little word with the man, which she agreed to. I greeted them, and just like I didn't return the man's greeting that night, he didn't return the greeting as well; he just asked, "Who are you please."

"Someone who believes in you." I said, smiling.

He blinked and studied me from head to toe. I wasn't wearing anything flashy. Just a short knicker and a round-neck shirt. I told them the reason for my visit, and his wife, who was there, offered to give me the plastic chair she was sitting on, which I refused politely. I just sat near the man on the bed, reassured him, told him little of my own story as well, and asked him to never give up. As I was about to leave, I dropped an envelope by his pillow and asked the wife to kindly help manage the little in it to get pills and injections.

The wife blinked as she was moved to tears, she hugged me, and it reminded me of my own mom that night as well.

I stepped out and did the little I could for a few patients as well. There are some that didn't even get to see me; I just asked for a few of their drugs from the nurses and paid for them. And I'm even glad about that, since I wasn't doing it to be seen, take pictures, or trend, or anything. The rice and soft drinks I went along with were shared with the nurses on duty. It's to celebrate not just the season but to celebrate them as well; they are seen and valued. While others were somewhere enjoying themselves, they were here busy taking care of others.

And as I walked out of the hospital ward, I heard the soft, quiet jingle of the bell again, one that signals arrivals, surgeries, and all. It was the jingle I was once scared of, but at the end, it gave me hope. As I stepped out and heard the jingling sound again, it reminded me that someone else is in there trying to fight for his life and that it's not yet time for me to stop as well.

We all hope and ask for a miracle; we often forget that miracles are not always grand or loud. We often think that an angel will just come by, forgetting that we're our own angels. Mine came then and didn't even leave his name behind, just the sound and words of hope.

So, it happened again that just two days ago, I was reminded that the reason I survived was so I could become that which once saved me.

And that's it for me. As long as there are people in the hospital wards and as long as the bells still ring in the hospital wards, I will keep trying my best to show up.

Merry Christmas To Y'all 🎄

Images are mine.

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