Storytelling
Her name was Nyqa
She was 101 years old
I do not know why she would share her life story with me. But, in doing so, I was inspired to strive for heights I had only ever imagined.
“Nurse, could I have a pitcher of ice water, please?” The old woman’s eyes were closed as she spoke. There was no nurse in the room.
Those were the first words I heard from the ancient woman in the next bed. She had arrived two days ago and had slept soundly ever since. An IV pierced one of the protruding veins in her thin, black, wrinkled arm. A drainage bag filled with urine hung from the side of her bed.
Her hair was pure white. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles like a walnut. It was as if inside this small, ailing woman lived another woman with a story to tell.
I was lying in the adjacent bed; my leg was in a cast and in traction due to an accident when I was hit by a jeep driven by escaping poachers. It was just a matter of time before the pins in my knee became one with the underlying tendons, muscles, and skin. Soon, I would be back flying.
But this dear lady was already a dying ember, so I wanted to fan the air and make the flame last longer.
“Ma’am, I can call the nurse for you,” I said.
The harried nurses had ignored my call light, and the lady was parched with thirst in a hospital room with no air-conditioning.
“Please, sir, don’t trouble yourself, I can wait,” she said politely. “I think I have at least that much time left.” She chuckled from the driest throat I ever heard.
“Call me Nyqa, (Nia) please, what is your name?” She said, continuing the struggle to prop herself up.
“I’m Harry, love,” I said, laying my book down. “Are you sure I can’t call the nurse? You look thirsty; even with IVs, you need water,” I offered.
As luck will sometimes have it, a male nurse arrived. He carried a precarious load of starched white towels, a pink water basin filled with soapy water, a plastic toothbrush and a pitcher of drinking water. Carefully, he sat on the edge of Nyqa’s bed after placing the entire pile of towels on the adjoining metal table.
“Well, Nyqa, praise be to the Lord, you have come back to us. I have brought you some special things. But first, let me pour you some water. Take it slowly, your stomach won’t cope,” he added, holding the cup to her lips and watching carefully.
Nyqa drank the water, and he bathed her forehead.
“Do you want to know what I have special for you,” he asked.
He was a big charge nurse, giving kind orders to other nurses as they came to him offering information about other patients. He was calm and kind. I thought about him, that if I came upon him out there, in the bushlands, my life would probably end.
“You have 2 cards; one is from Paris, France, the other from Hanover, Germany. Do you want me to bring a volunteer to read them? I want to, Nyqa, but my supervisor insists there is no time today.”
Sensing an opportunity, I blurted out, “I can speak both German and French, if I can be of any assistance?”
The big guy looked over at me. It was a look that confirmed my earlier suspicion. But then, no, his eyes radiated warmth, and his broad forehead wrinkled as his eyes lifted, wondering in surprise if I had offered my services. He looked back at Nyqa.
“I guess you have a volunteer. Would you like your roommate to read your cards, Nyqa?”
Nyqa’s smile turned from a raw walnut to a roasted one.
“Well, Mr. Hogg,” he said, looking at my name above the bed, you have a job. But first, Nyqa must have some sleep. I’ll put these cards on your bedside table when she wakes.”
Five minutes later, after he had combed her hair, the nurse gently kissed Nyqa’s forehead and then left. She had already fallen back to sleep.
For a small white person, there was something physically troubling about a black man standing robustly tall and having a solid physique that gave me a sense of guilt. I did not catch his name, though it was on his hospital uniform. Maybe it was because of the kind of work I was in that made me feel threatened this way.
His demeanor did not exude approachability. But, that wasn’t his demeanor in the end; it was mine. His nature was as kind as one could imagine and respectful, courteous, and although with great muscular strength so that instead of a nurse, he might be a laborer, he was gentle.
Around three hours later, Nyqa woke up. I let fifteen minutes elapse and then asked. “Nyqa,” I whispered, “are you ready to hear your letters now?”
She answered immediately, staring up at the ceiling. “Yes, I’m dying to hear what my children are doing. Vicki, my daughter, lives in Paris; she is a professor at the Sorbonne, and Thomas is an engineer in Hanover, he married a German model. They want to fly out with their children to see me.”
Nyqa thought a moment, and a tear leaked from her prune skin-covered eyes. “I know I’m probably never going to see them again, but I don’t want them to go through the expense of the trip. They are extravagant enough already,” Nyqa said with a particular pride.
“They both send money every month for my medical costs. My teacher’s pension is paltry, and their father’s estate was nothing but unpaid bills,” she said with a hint of veiled sarcasm. “Not his fault; it was the system that got us both, not his fault at all,” she said with tones of deep love and respect.
I started to open the card, then paused. “Do you have a preference for which I should read first, Nyqa?”
“Not at all,” she said. “My husband has been dead for 20 years, he died when I was 81, and I still think of him with love,” she coughed a little.
I was dumbstruck. “So, you are 101?” I asked incredulously.
“To be precise, tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be a 102. Can I hear my cards now?” She asked quietly. I opened the card. It was written in English.
Dear Mother,
My mind is made up; I am coming soon and have booked a flight. I love you. I will be there soon. Thomas
“Typical of an engineer,” Nyqa responded quickly.” Thomas is lacking literary skills. However, I tried to encourage him. My grandchildren have the gift,” she said and indicated that by raising a feeble arm in the direction of a massive stack of letters near her bed.
“Those are from Sarah and Marissa, my two grandchildren. They live in Germany too and are schoolteachers. And my grandchildren, well, the pendulum swung back, both girls are doctors and the only things they write are prescriptions,” Nyqa sighed heavily.
“Do you mind me asking a personal question,” I interjected. Without waiting for an answer, I continued, “Why do both your children live abroad?”
Nyqa’s face became serious, “They hated the racism here. I guess I learned to live with it, but they knew a black African, even with the finest mind and education still won’t be respected and earn an income above the average white. From the letters I have gotten through the years, I guess they succeeded outside their own system.”
Nyqa’s last remark left me momentarily speechless. I could visualize this energetic woman in front of a classroom. I could see her cajoling, coaching, and encouraging her students to study and learn.
“The second card, Harry, can you read that to me? It was diabetes robbed me of my vision, and the arthritis has made it hard to open letters,” she said, bereft of any self-pity, and knowing of her infirmities did not diminish my sense of her inner fortitude.
“Sure,” I fumbled to open the card from France. It, too, was written in English.
Dear Mama,
How are you? The doctors are amazed you survived the last stroke, but we all knew you would pull through. My plane leaves on the 19th, and I should be there for your birthday. All my love, Vicki.
“I wish they wouldn’t spend so much of their money, Harry. Knowing they’re happy, receiving their letters, and them paying my bills, they don’t have to prove their love for me.”
“They don’t have to, Nyqa, they want to. I’m absolutely certain they want their children to know and love you, too,” I said as the rumble of the lunch trolley rolled into the room.
When I took the lid off my lunch, the plate was piled with meatloaf, a baked potato, a carton of milk, and a dish of green Jell-O. It was a most unappetizing mixture on a hot day.
I asked the trolly attendant if she could pull a chair up to Nyqa’s bed and if she would help me into it, I could feed Nyqa.
The truth was both of us had little interest in our fare.
“Nyqa, I have my phone. What if I call a buddy to get us something good to eat? What would you like? It would be my treat,” I added.
“Spinach salad sounds good,” Nyqa said back promptly.
“Got it,” I was ashamed of my unintentional prejudice; I had been ready to ask my pal to stop by the African version of KFC.
I put the phone down. “Done deal, Nyqa. It will be here within the hour.”
Quite literally, I watched Nyqa fall asleep. My leg was beginning to hurt, having removed it from traction. The plaster cast chaffed my skin, keeping me awake last night. A nap was a good idea.
By 1 o’clock Paul arrived with a salad and a veggie burger for me. He was on duty, so he left after some small chat.
When Nyqa woke, I buzzed and asked to be put back in a wheelchair so that I could help her eat. She continued to tell me about her parents and her life. Her stories of lynched relatives and friends, African homes and churches burnt to cinders… the relentless prejudice transfixed me. I had never been so mesmerized by the words of another, and I would never again be.
That night, I had a series of phantom-like dreams about Nyqa’s complicated life. I saw her as a quiet, competent, intelligent, and vigorous young girl in those dreams.
Early the following day, we were awakened by a team of doctors and residents armed with clipboards and pens, who were briskly conducting rounds. My orthopedic surgeon told me I had at least another week in the hospital. Following that, I would need a month of physical therapy. They estimated I could be back flying in 3 months.
Nyqa’s prognosis was less definitive. All her major organs were failing, and her cardiologist knew it was not medical science but her unique blend of tenacity, intellect, and sheer will keeping her alive. All her doctor could do was monitor and keep her hydrated and comfortable. Some EKGs and tests were scheduled, and her doctor left.
I sensed she needed strength to make it through today, her 102nd birthday. I vowed to let her get some rest. I just had to ask one more question.
“Happy Birthday, Nyqa, what gift can I give you? I will get you anything you ask.” I promised.
“Just promise to make this a better world. That is all I want. Tell me you will be the best you can be, and you will encourage others to do the same. Say you will set the highest personal standards, and that you will live up to those standards. Promise me you will always be kind to those in need. That is all I want for my birthday.”
I sat up in my hospital bed, dumb with respect. Then Nyqa added. “Harry, tell my family, when they arrive today, how much they meant to me. Let them know their love kept me alive. Please tell them they are my legacy of learning and love.”
Before I could promise Nyqa I would carry out her words, that I would endeavor to become part of her legacy, Nyqa left us for good.
“Happy birthday, Nyqa,” I said tearfully, bracing myself for the challenge of fulfilling my promises.
More from Harry:
Adrienne Beaumont, Alan (AJ) Autistic Widower, Brett Jenae Tomlin, The Sturg, Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles, Trisha Faye, Karen Schwartz, Nancy Oglesby, Katie Michaelson, Bernie Pullen, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Amyy, Julia A. Keirns, Pamela Oglesby, Tina, Pat Romito LaPointe, Ruby Noir 😈, Brandon Ellrich, Misty Rae, Karen Hoffman, Deb Palmer, Susie Winfield, Vincent Pisano, Marlene Samuels, Ray Day, Randy Pulley, Michael Rhodes, Lu Skerdoo, Pluto Wolnosci 🟣, Paula Shablo, Bruce Coulter, Ellen Baker, Kelley Murphy, Leigh-Anne Dennison, Jennifer Marla Pike, Carmen Ballesteros, Patricia Timmermans, Keeley Schroder, Jan Sebastian 🖐👩🦰, James Michael Wilkinson, Whye Waite, John Hansen, Trudy Van Buskirk
(No offense will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
Thanks for reading!
Catch up with and follow our WE PAW Bloggers contributors here on Medium: Andrea Hewitt, Carrie Ann Golden, Bob Metivier, My Alter Ego and Me, Deon Christie, David Perlmutter, Suzanne Hagelin, Harry Hogg, Kelly Santana Banks, Brian Lageose, Maryan Pelland OnText.com, Mason Bushell, Michael Embry, Samantha Bryant, Patrick Metzger, PJ Mann — Author, Pjmaclayne, Subhasinghe SPS, My mind, PhilAndMaude, Priyanka Priyadarshini, Jason Provencio, Stephen Providenti, Janerisdon, Robert Trakofler, Shoreditchpoet, Nikolaos Skordilis, Stuart Aken, Dr.Titus Varghese, Tomas Ó Cárthaigh, Author, K.D. Thorne: brutally raw life stories
This e-zine is an umbrella publication for members of the Facebook group of the same name. All writers for this publication are members of the group on Facebook. WE PAW Bloggers group is a writers forum — it is a family of writing creatives supporting one another through networking and reciprocal interaction on our journey of growth as writers.
If you wish to contribute to this ezine, please join the group on Facebook. Be sure to answer all the membership questions when you apply to join. All writing creatives are welcome.
If you enjoyed this reading, join Medium and support all the contributors you love. That’s how Medium works: our membership fee is shared with everyone we read and theirs is shared with everyone they read.
D. Denise Dianaty, Editor and Graphic Designer for the WE PAW Bloggers E-Zine. Administrator for the writers forum “WE PAW Bloggers” group and its sister group “Pandora’s Box of Horrors” on Facebook. In addition to being a self-published author and poet, artist, art-photographer, and administrator of the group, “WE PAW Bloggers,” Denise is a graphic designer with 25+ years experience, predominately in print media.
