My own exhaustion and ignorance of what she is experiencing turns into aggravation. The resentment I feel towards her makes me feel like a monster. I am helpless. There is nothing I can do to stop this train that is about to end in a horrific crash. She is relying on me to save her, but I can’t, and with that admission, a magnitude of guilt comes crashing down all around me.
I make a panicked call to her doctor, and he says it’s time to bring her in. It is five days before Christmas. I can’t move her, and even if I could, she wouldn’t go. He solves the problem by sending a non-emergency ambulance for her. All I have to do is keep her comfortable until they arrive within the next few hours.
Eventually mental exhaustion sets in and I lay beside her on the floor. I am unable to sleep with the rush of fears racing through my mind as reality sets in.
She, too, is wide-awake. I wait for her to speak, to say something, anything, but the silence thickens between us like a brick wall as it always has.
“I have cancer.” It was only a few months ago she was diagnosed. In that second, life changed forever. It would never go back to the way it was. Regret strangled me as I repeated her words. There were so many things I hadn’t said, so many things I hadn’t done. I thought there was time. I thought she would always be there, she was my mother, she had to always be there. She will outlive everyone one of us, we use to say. She was untouchable, or so I thought.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t a good mother,” she finally whispers.
“Please don’t say that.” I try not to cry myself as I wipe her tears away with a tissue.
“I’ll never be back at this house again.” Her words are heavy with sadness.
“Yes you will.” I try to steady my voice, but deep down I know she is probably right.
This time the monster is devouring not only her strength, but mine, too. It is relentless, and I have never hated it more than I hate it right now, for I finally realize I have no control over this disease that already killed my father and is now killing her.
Cancer isn’t just a monster; it is an epidemic that no weapon, poison, or even an army can destroy. One never thinks it will invade their family, and that is exactly when it strikes. I didn’t think evil could be this ruthless but it is, and its torturous rampage has just begun. Soon, it will take not only a life, but my innocence too.
“I’m scared, I’m so very scared. Please protect me.”
“I will always protect you, Mum.”
“I feel so alone. Can you hold my hand?”
“I’m already holding your hand.”
I wait until early morning to call an ambulance to see if she will regain muscle control, but she hasn’t. She is getting worse. Her hand has become cold and transparent as the blood has long since stopped circulating through it. I squeeze it hard trying to draw the life back into it while praying for the sound of sirens.
Back on the game reserve in Africa the contents of my safari survival kit have proven to be life-saving after all. The chocolate brownies satisfied the beast’s appetite for fattening treats; morning is here, and Melanie and I are still alive. We never did see the wild animal that ravaged our tent camp and kept us awake all night with its snores, and for that we are grateful.
Melanie says she left her light on all night. She asks me if I slept with mine on, I tell her I didn’t. My secret is safe because our heavy canvas tents block all incoming and outgoing light.
“You are so brave!” she exclaims.
I can never admit that I too was terrified and slept with my light on. I must at least appear to be fearless; after all, it’s no good if the two of us are afraid.
I’m confident that the rest of my nights at “the Ritz” will be much less eventful now that I know not to bring food into the tent camp.
2
Mud Bath
Neither of us slept much last night, and what little we did get was shattered with the wretched screech of the Hadeeda at sunrise passing over our tent camp. It’s not like this is some giant bird, in fact it’s not much bigger than a seagull. It’s white with petrol sheen-covered wings and a long curved beak. The call of the Hadeeda is unmistakable, and some say it can even wake the dead. I believe it. Thankfully, there are no other birds on earth that share their high-pitched squawks. When they fly, it sounds like they’re saying “Oh my Gawd, my Gaaaawwddd, Gaaaawwwdddd, Gawwwwwwwddddd,” with each shriek higher, longer, and louder than the last. The locals claim it’s due to their fear of heights.
They are supposedly a close relative of the Egyptian Ibis that are often depicted on ancient temple walls. However, I can easily claim that there is nothing sacred or worship-worthy of these birds’ shrieks.
After our rude awakening, we have a simple breakfast of porridge and instant coffee in the common area that lies on the edge of our tent camp. It has a basic kitchen, a few lounge chairs and a shelf full of field guides. We eat quickly, expecting a ranger to arrive at any moment and whisk us away on a great adventure. Maybe we’ll learn how to dart wildlife, wrestle crocs, or herd elephants. The possibilities are endless. But no one shows up. With a quickening, pace we circle the perimeter of our tent camp, trying to get a glimpse of what lay beyond its borders. Our search is fruitless, nothing but a bored buffalo and some scrub brush. We take some pictures, do several more laps around the camp and re-organize our tents. Still no one shows up.
By this time the sun is high, and it’s too hot to stay in our tents, so we drag our sleeping bags out in the sun, next to a large mud pit in the middle of our camp. Melanie is journaling, and I’m searching the horizon for any sign of a ranger. Nothing. I’m hot and as bored as the buffalo watching us, so I get the brilliant idea to take a dip in the mud pit.
The cool mud squishes in between my toes with a delightful shlop. I pull my foot out and cautiously step forward. A sudden jolt forces my leg deeper into the black mud and it disappears below the knee.
“What the hell are you doing, woman?” A loud voice bellows across our quiet little tent camp disrupting our lazy Sunday morning.
“I said, what the hell are you doing?” The voice comes at me again, this time louder and angrier. I try to turn around to see who is yelling at whom,
“Don’t move! If you move, you’re dead.” His tone reeks of rage.
This time I recognize the voice. It is that of the lead ranger, Gerrit, my boss for the next several weeks. The first time I saw him, he nearly took my breath away. Out here in the vastness, one could easily get lost in his deep green eyes, or be distracted by the brown locks of soft curls that dance around his neck. But unfortunately, he doesn’t have a personality to match his good looks. Instead, he is rude, and getting ruder by the second.
My legs sink deeper into the mud pit.
“Why are you yelling at me?” I shout back, as Gerrit runs toward me.
He skids to a stop and yanks me out of the mud with such force, he nearly dislocates my shoulder. His piercing green eyes are lit up, and a Y-shaped vein bulges in the center of his forehead.
“You city women are the stupidest species on this earth!”
Where does this Neanderthal get off insulting me? “How dare you talk to me like that!”
“You think you can come to Africa and do stupid things. You think you’re untouchable, and when you screw up you think someone will always be there to save you!”
“Save me? From what? The mud?”’