He Never Left Me: My Testimony

Copyright © 2012 Christa Mayaliwa

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7534-6 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7535-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7536-0 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921220

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1-(866) 928-1240

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Scripture quotations taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

WestBow Press rev. date: 2/12/2012

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Introduction

I was walking home from school in black jeans, a yellow undershirt, a black T-shirt, and running shoes, making my way toward Orleans Boulevard on the forty-five-minute trip to 1933 La Chapelle Street. Before I went home, however, I needed to study at the Ottawa Public Library. I was in Grade 12, my final year at Cairine Wilson Secondary School, and I was determined that this year I would reach the highest stars that stood above me each night. The Lord was my strength; if I put my trust in Him, He would do what He promised: to be with me always and watch me succeed. I would be the head and not the tail. I chose not to fail.

Walking alone, the sun beat against my braids. My running shoes felt tight, and I noticed that the tightness of my bag’s straps was causing my back to ache a bit. I didn’t pay too much attention to the discomfort, hoping it was all in my mind and would go away. I continued walking until I reached St. Josephs and Orleans Boulevard. The lights turned red, but for the first time, instead of walking when the lights gave me the go-ahead (you know the white guy), I decided to rest. My heart was aching. I felt as if my head was going to explode. My body was hot on the outside, but my bowels felt cold.

I sat down at an orange picnic table nearby, trying to catch my breath. That’s when I made the shocking realization that there was a sharp pain in my chest when I inhaled. I had no money, and no one was with me. I made the decision to press on; I didn’t want to cause a scene.

Come on, Christa, I thought. You can do this. Get up and move on.

I stood up, and it was as if my knees were giving out. They felt like jelly, and it was confirmed: my back really did ache. To bypass the pain, I did something that always helped take my mind off things. I decided to sing. I pressed the traffic light button, and instead of moping around, I forced myself to stand up straight and put a smile on my face. As the light turned green, I began to sing.

My Help (Cometh from the Lord) by the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir.

I remembered the standing ovation that Sunday when the youth choir first sang that song. I continued to sing the melody out loud because in every step I took, there was pain. I kept telling myself it was probably the heat; I just needed to be in the air-conditioned facility, which finally was right within my reach.

I made it into the library and went straight to the water fountain. My lips that were once dry were finally satisfied. Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to make it through. I thought I didn’t have the strength to make it, but here I am. I give you the glory. Thank you.

I wiped my mouth with my arm and took a glance at the clock: 2:45. I looked in front of me only to see that students from the Catholic school had beaten me to the computers in the teen section. I didn’t really need to use one anyway, so I decided to look for a secluded place to just study. I wanted a head start on Mr. Anderson’s group assignment. I was no procrastinator this year; I was keen on being organized, and everything that I needed to do I wrote down.

Write the vision, Dad used to say. If you want something done the right way, write it down so that you won’t forget.

My agenda was always written in different colors. I crossed out what I had accomplished and then moved on down the list. Time is life’s precious gift, my dad would say. I did all that I could to make time worth something, for we were in the first few weeks of September and I knew the work was going to be picking up heavily sometime soon.

I quickly made my way to sit by a window. There was a small chair waiting just for me, consecrated by the sun and the beauty of nature.With a table right in front of me, I decided to take off my bag slowly, have a seat, and get to work. I also took off my shoes, as my feet were starting to really hurt. They probably just need to breathe, I thought. The socks that I’d chosen to wear that day were not the best choice for the heat. As my feet were getting accustomed to the cool breeze, I opened my books and began to read into sociology.

With my body finally relaxed, I tried to take a deep breath just to make sure my chest wasn’t feeling all knotted up. I felt just fine—at least, that’s what I told myself. I was reading and writing a few notes when I felt someone walking towards me. I looked up and saw that it was my dad.

Hi, Dad. I greeted him with a smile. He smiled at me too. He was looking down at me in his navy suit. I figured he had just come back from a board meeting of some sort; he was always nicely dressed with the right amount of cologne.

How long have you been here? he asked.

Oh, I’ve been here since 2:45.

It’s now past four. Did you want a ride home?

Oh no, that’s okay. I’ll be done in a little bit.

What are you working on? He looked at my book.

My teacher gave an assignment today. I just really wanted to get a head start on it. I have this feeling that the assignments are going to pick up, and I just want to get this one out of the way.

Good. You’re on the right track, Christa. You will succeed. Just keep doing what you’re doing. He took another glance at me through his glasses and smiled. "It’s almost 4:30. Are you sure you don’t need a ride home?"

I’ll be fine. I just want to read this chapter and then I’ll be on my way. I will be home before 5:15.

Okay, see you soon. He then walked away.

My father. He was also known as my friend. There was nothing that I wouldn’t do for him. I knew I was not a perfect child—I had quite the character when I was younger—but I tried. As stubborn as glue, I made it my mandate to make my parents proud. When I crossed that commencement stage, he would be there to appreciate all the hard work that I’d done. I knew these afternoons spent in the library would not be in vain.

As I worked away, nature called. Getting up from that armchair took a bit out of me. I was almost limping at this point; my ankles and knees felt weak.

I made it to the first stall by the door, which was the handicapped one. I used the bars to assist me in sitting on the toilet seat.

What is wrong with me? I said to myself. Why was my body aching like this? Could it have been something I ate? Many things ran through my mind, but I told myself I was probably just tired: the early morning, leaving home at seven o’clock, walking thirty minutes to get to school by eight, and then the walk home in the hot sun … That explains it. I had a lot on my mind; I just needed to get home, have a nice hot meal, and then call it an early night and lie down.

I made my way back to the end of the library and packed my books. The thought ran through my mind to call Dad to see if he could come get me this time. I really was not in the mood to walk for another fifteen minutes. I sat down and tied my shoes, only to realize that the pain in my chest had returned.

What is this? Concern swept my heart, but I refused to accept fear.

It is well with my soul, I said to myself. Christa, you can do this.

I walked past the revolving doors and off I was, continuing my journey left on Orleans Boulevard toward home. Before I left, I remember that the clock read 4:55. I would not give up, nor would I give in.

This pain doesn’t really exist, I told myself. I don’t know why this is happening, but this is just for a moment, and I will get over it.

Every step was a struggle. With every breath there was pain. Each time I inhaled my back ached, and there was also pain in my shoulders. There was no way for me to call home; I didn’t want to stop walking because by then I was close enough that it wouldn’t do me any good. Just keep moving, I told myself, and before I knew it, I was home.

Going up the two outdoor stairs and turning the front doorknob hurt. I took off my shoes and my socks and saw that my ankles were swollen. I left my schoolbag at the door and made my way upstairs. My left hand was on the railing, and trying to lift my left leg onto the first stair was like trying to step over a hurdle. Each movement took a ton of energy out of me, to the point that I found myself sweating.

This can’t be right, I said to myself. My head was pounding and my chest ached, but I had to make my way all the way down the hallway to the last room on the left, my room. I took small steps and held the wall with my hand, and I made it.

My queen size bed was waiting for me. I fell asleep, but not quite completely. I was resting, but my eyes were cold, my body was blazing and my head was spinning. There was no energy left in me. I wanted to take off my clothes and change into something lighter, but I just couldn’t do it. Everything was throbbing. As I laid there on my bed I, could literally see my body shaking. What is happening to me?

I was helpless. I was weak. I felt overworked, but how could this be?

Soon after, I was no longer alone in my room. Isabelle, my younger sister, came in with my schoolbag.

Hey, you left this at the door, she said.

Yes, I know. It was a struggle to speak. My throat was all of a sudden killing me. Saliva was trying to make its way down, and it felt like knives going down my throat. This has to be some harsh case of the flu, I thought.

So are you okay? It’s not even seven. Supper isn’t ready and you’re already in bed?

I’m not feeling well, I finally managed to say. I’m not hungry.

She went on to say a few more words, but I muted her. Listening to her caused my head to ache. I then saw her shadow right next to me.

Are you listening? she asked. She knelt beside me and touched my head, and it was like ice had made contact with me.

Oh my gosh, you’re warm.

In my dim and raspy voice, I asked her, Coke, can you call Mom?

This was what I called her. We had had always had special names for one another. She called me Esteidabest. (Esteid for short.) It was a name like no other. How she came up with such a name, I don’t know. I remember hearing it for the first time and thinking that it was catchy. I liked the sound of it so much that she made a chant out of it whenever she wanted to boost my mood. She knew that chant would always get me smiling. My name for her was simply Coke, because coco butter was all she wore. Her body lotion, hand crèmes, deodorants, body sprays … This particular scent was her trademark, and having her around was always so pleasant and warm. Keeping it to one syllable, I called her Coke. I don’t think anyone else in this world—except for the drink—can say that they have such a name.

At this point, I couldn’t swallow. Fluid had built up in my mouth and I just couldn’t let it go down its usual course anymore.

Isabelle dashed out of the room, and before I knew it, Mom was there.

Christa, she said in her sweet, calm voice. What’s wrong with you? Are you okay? What time did you come back from school? Your dad and I didn’t even see you.

Her questions spewed out of her mouth all at once. I laid there without a word. I tried so hard to answer, but by then I had a mouthful of saliva pooling against my tongue. I didn’t want to be a wimp, nor did I want her to be worried, so with all my might I told myself, It’s not that bad, and I swallowed. The knives were just as sharp as the last time. I finally made out to say, Everywhere hurts. I can’t move. I can’t sit up. My head is in pain. My heart is beating so fast it hurts to breath.

Hot tears started rolling down my face as I accidently swallowed again. My mom knelt at the foot of my bed, but I stayed in the same position I had been in when I first came in. It was after 7 p.m. Before I knew it, my mom was feeling my head with the back of her hand.

Does it hurt when I touch here? She was touching my hot back.

Mom, please don’t do that. It hurts, yeah, and my feet too. Can you help me take off my shirt? I’m already warm. Mom, gently, please. It hurts.

I could feel her cold fingers against my warm limbs, pulling my shirt off slowly, inch by inch. She was careful, and I was grateful that Mom was able to help me do this as we were alone in my room.

I lay there, still in tears, crying gently. I couldn’t help it. Usually I don’t like to cry Mom, please, I whimpered. You’re hurting me.

But I’m not doing anything! Are you sure I’m hurting you? Your feet are swollen; that’s why I’m observing and touching you. How could this happen? What happened today at school?

Nothing, I said.

Mom, I can’t really speak. My throat is killing me.

She made her way to my bedside again, looking troubled. I had nothing to say; there was not much I could really say or do.

Let me get you some Tylenol. Did you want something to eat?

No, I replied in a raspy voice. I’m not hungry, especially with my throat acting like this. I don’t think I can eat anything.

What do you mean?

My throat hurts. I can’t swallow.

Okay. I’ll be right back. She made her way out of my room. She went downstairs and left the door wide opened. I could hear my brothers and youngest sister in the living room, watching TV. I would have bet my dad was there, waiting to watch his 8 p.m. news. I closed my eyes, trying to hold my breath and swallow at the same time. I didn’t want to think about the pain. I opened my eyes again to see that my mom was back. She had a plate of cantaloupe, apple juice and some extra-strength Tylenol. This time she didn’t visit me alone. Isabelle and my father came in as well.

What is going on here? My dad moved towards me, and I managed with all my strength to make eye contact with him, tears in my eyes that I couldn’t hide anymore. I know I responded with the four most crucial words that pierced his soul.

I’m not feeling well. I can’t move; if I do I am in so much pain. My heart hurts when I take a breath. My back, ankles, everything hurts. I’m in so much pain. I also have a headache. I’m cold but also warm—I can’t really explain. It hurts to swallow.

Cutting me off, he replied in his stern voice, Okay, sit up straight. Your mom brought you some food. Have something to eat; you probably had a long day.

I‘m not hungry, I replied. It’s like he ignored my complaints.

No, Christa, you have to eat something, Mom calmly replied. Her light brown eyes looked worried. I tried so hard once again not to cry, but I couldn’t hold it in. Isabelle brought some tissues and wiped my face.

Christa, get up.

I was crying in fear that he would hit me. I really can’t, I replied to him in French. You know you can’t see where we’re hiding the Halloween candies; we will give you some tomorrow. It’s late now. Go to sleep, joked Mom. I really can’t! My ankle hurts and I can’t move. Christa, go to sleep! Dad was looking at me, troubled, but this wasn’t a game. I just couldn’t do it. I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t move away from his typewriter. He was definitely pulling an all-nighter tonight. I thought he was going to come right after me and give me a spanking, but surprisingly he didn’t move from his chair. My mom made it to the stairwell before he did, and I grabbed her as she knelt towards me. She lifted me up and I held on tightly to her neck, crying. She patted my bottom and tried calming me down, hushing me, ensuring me that everything was going to be okay. She then gently placed me on my bed. I don’t think she understood my tears. I wasn’t crying because of my father’s threats, I was crying because I really couldn’t walk and because of the pain that it caused me when I tried to move. I was in excruciating pain. Other than my tears, there was not much that I could explain. With the rest of my four siblings asleep, it was just mom and me. My head was warm, and Mom already knew that I had a fever. After the walk that Halloween night, my body really had shut down. After undressing me, she gave me a warm bath and helped me change out of my Halloween clothes and into my pajamas. She left the room to get some liquid Tylenol and prayed a prayer in Swahili. From what I recall of that night, my older sister Salima was already sound asleep, and as mom closed the door to the room, I was soon off to sleep as well.

I really can’t, and I am actually trying, I replied to dad’s command. This was my second attempt. I honestly just couldn’t do it. My mom placed one hand underneath my right side, took my hand with hers and helped me sit up. My sister helped by swinging my legs to the right side of the bed, and as I sat up straight the room started to spin. I could see my father with his hands on his hips, looking at me. I knew that in his mind he was trying to fix something. I looked at him and he looked at me.

Eat some fruits that your mother has cut up for you.

I looked down at the plate. I really don’t think I can eat this.

Christa, try, my father snapped back in a stern voice.

Everything hurt. I was clammy and my body was warm. I hadn’t eaten all day, but food wasn’t what I wanted; it wasn’t what I needed. My right ankle was killing me above everything else. It hurt to breath. I just wanted something to take away the pain. Why couldn’t anyone listen to me? Why aren’t you listening to me? I just want to be left alone. My dad ordered pizza that night, hoping that would convince me. What four-year-old wouldn’t indulge in such a treat? All I remember was the pain being so enduring. I was the last of the five kids to make it down the stairs. Everyone, including my mom, was already in the kitchen, sitting at the table. My father said, She must walk. She’s a big girl. She can do this on her own. It was like my body was being nailed with sharp knives and my right ankle was being tampered with. I could feel every tendon and ligament throb with pain. Something had to come out; it just wanted to burst. It was twice as big as my left ankle, and there was no way for me to stop the hurt. No one could quench the hurt. I was crawling at this point; my right ankle couldn’t help me anymore. I remember placing my hands on the cold hardwood floor and dragging myself inch by inch.

22C Bayshore Drive. It was a small minto house, but to me it seemed like I was never going to get to the end of the stairwell. I was crying and sweating, I was alone with no one to help. Those were my father’s orders, and eventually I made it down the stairs. I don’t know how long it took me, but I made it to the kitchen. Dad was cutting the pizza with a knife, making sure we each got a slice. I wiped my tears, and my siblings just looked at me with pity. Nobody understood me, nobody knew what I felt. They were all healthy. This was mine alone, and I had to find a way to deal with it with enduring pain that was unexplainable. The plates were being passed around, but when mine came to me I couldn’t place the food in my mouth. I watched as everyone else gobbled the pizza after the long anticipation of my arrival. I just wasn’t hungry. Food wasn’t going to cure me.

My not eating got my father very upset. I felt his eyes glaring at me from the other side of the table, no smile below his mustache. Christa, you have to eat, my mom said. Mom, I can’t. I’m not hungry. I’m just tired, I want to sleep. My ankle is hurting. I began to weep. All of a sudden my father grabbed my right leg from around the table and held the knife to my ankle. Eat something or I’ll cut your foot off. You will eat something or your foot is gone! I yelled to the top of my lungs. My ankle! My mom was yelling in Swahili; I could see her trying to calm him down. Then cut it off. I don’t care! My mom yelled in desperation, Christa, just eat! I can’t! I’m really not hungry. By then I was hot, so hot that I felt nauseous, the look and scent of the pizza just made me sick. I looked around, and Salima, Joseph, Isabelle and Prospere had already gone out of the kitchen. There was no one but the three of us. Do you want me to cut it off? Yes! I screamed back. I don’t want it no more. Not that it was any good or use to me. I couldn’t sleep at night because of the pain; it would wake me up each and every day late at night or early in the morning. I couldn’t use the washroom on my own, I couldn’t play sports. I was excused from gym classes, and during the winter time I was not allowed to go and play outside.My childhood was robbed. I couldn’t have cared less. I wanted this right ankle gone. Just take it off!

My mom, holding me by the sides, took the plate and got a piece of cantaloupe on the fork, bringing it towards my mouth. With tears still streaming down my face, I decided to give it a try. I placed the cold, fresh fruit in my mouth, chewing it more than anticipated. The smaller the pieces, I thought, the easier it will go down my throat. I tried swallowing again, and I was wrong.

Why are you crying? my dad asked.

It hurts to swallow, I finally made out to say Have some Tylenol, take a warm shower and then rest. You will be fine by tomorrow. Those were his instructions before he left my room. Isabelle and Mom stayed.

Did you want me to get your homework from school? my sister asked.

She will be fine tomorrow morning. She just needs to rest.

Yeah, Mom’s right, I agreed. I just need a warm shower. I’ll rest and I should be fine by tomorrow. Not even knowing what tomorrow was going to hold, I chose to be hopeful.

How about some banana? Do you think having some will help?

No, Mom, I quietly said.

But you haven’t eaten. Christa, it’s soft. Just give it a try.

I was hungry, but at the same time I was not. I was still confused about whether I was hot or cold. I even started trembling at times.

Mom peeled the banana and broke off a small piece. She placed it in my mouth. I chewed until I couldn’t chew anymore. The solid fruit was as smooth as puree. Then I swallowed it, but it still felt the same going down, painful.

I remember my mom would just rock me as I cried. She had no reason to quiet me down anymore because she knew the pain that I was experiencing at times were unimaginable. I was complaining that my throat was in pain. She would try to massage it and the pain wouldn’t go away. Tell me what’s wrong Christa, what is it that you feel. After minutes of sobbing I finally made out to say that: I feel like I swallowed a rock. My throat is hurting. No pain medication would do, because I couldn’t swallow anything without screaming, so she just tried to rock me to sleep. She would also encourage me to spit into the cloth that she held in her hand as siliva built up. I could hear her praying for me as my sobs began to mellow as her cold breath came in contact with my wet face.

My chest started to hurt. I could only take small breaths and my heart was still beating fast. From the height of my body temperature my hair felt wet, and I couldn’t wait to get undressed and have some lighter clothes on. My mother started to undress me. I was crying even more because her hands were so cold compared to my hot body.

Am I hurting you?

I nodded in silence.

Uh uh, Christa. How? You’re so cold. Come on, be strong, okay? Do you still want me to do this?

Yes, I said.

When she stood up, she had me lean my body against her stomach so that she could pull my two shirts off my back. She took off my bra.

"Ewwww," Isabelle smirked in the background.

Hey, I whined, Close the door. The last thing I needed was to have one of my brothers walk in.

My mom asked, Can you hold yourself up as I take off your pants?

I can try.

Christa, be strong. You can do this, okay? You don’t have to give in to everything.

More tears rushed down my face.

She looked at me. Don’t cry.

Isabelle came back with tissues in her hand to wipe the hot tears from my eyes. With my breasts hanging down, I had never felt so low. I was helpless, I couldn’t do anything. My pants came off.

Okay. My mom got up from kneeling at the bedside. Stand up.

Mom, I can’t.

Christa, what did I just say?

As Isabelle and Mom watched, I sat there.

Christa, come on, get up. You can do this …

The room was empty; no kids, just a silence in which you could have heard a pin drop. The school bell rang and we were still there, me and Isabelle. It was home time; the other parents had already come to pick up their own. It was just us waiting for somebody, anybody. I was sitting there, looking at the toy brick that I had been playing with since clean-up time. As the rest of the kids were gathering their toys, putting them in their proper places, I just sat there. My ankle ached, but I couldn’t do anything. I just couldn’t move. Mrs. Vale tried to move me, but I screamed too loudly. She didn’t want to cause me any more anguish, so my younger sister was called into the room. She tried to help me up, but she too failed. Christa, come on, try getting up. You can do this. My parents were called from home even though my sister could have just run home. But the protocol in 1993 didn’t allow her to do so; the rules for children walking home alone at that age were not easy. Can you at least try, Christa, one more time? I tried, holding onto the red brick as an aid. I tried squeezing it to forget about the pain, but by the time I got up, I had already felt my weight on my ankle and it was too late. I fell to the floor once again, this generated even more pain and so there was nothing more my sister or teacher could do but wait. Your dad is on his way. My sister was occupied playing with the toy train. I just sat there, waiting.

As I sat there in isolation, suddenly there he was my father. Dressed up in a colorful blue African shirt with his worn-in sandals, he hugged my sister and told her it was time to go. I looked at Isabelle as she grabbed our lunchboxes. My father came my way and picked me up so easily, like I was a small chicken. Kuku was what my mom called me when she wanted me to do her a favor; to her it was a name that suited me. I don’t know how. In Swahili kuku means: Chicken He swung me up over his head and I sat on his shoulders and felt like I was on top of the world. We waved our goodbyes to the teacher, and then we were on our way home. Outside, my legs dangling from my father’s shoulders, I felt relieved. I was on top of the world, and nothing could touch me. The warm sun baked my head, but it was all right as I sat above my father’s head. Isabelle was telling him about her day as we walked our short journey home. At the house, my dad carefully lifted me up from off his shoulders and gently placed me on the brown loveseat in the living room. I had no energy, and I fell asleep.

I got up after holding my breath, and then there I stood in my underwear, and I didn’t care.

Okay, now walk.

My joints still felt unstable. I took one step, then another. Mom wrapped a towel from behind me just as we were about to exit the room.

Oh no, Mom, please, not to tight.

Okay, so hold it so that it won’t come off.

I couldn’t hold the towel; my shoulders felt like they were as heavy as boulders. I had my arms hanging by my side, and my mom was right behind me.

Mom, I’m going to fall. I felt so weak.

Nobody come upstairs, Isabelle yelled from the balcony. There we were, just the three of us in that hallway, trying to make it to the children’s washroom.

I could feel my mom’s presence just behind me. Don’t stop walking until you get there, Christa. You’re right there.

I kept saying that to myself. You are right there. I’d walked this hallway more than a million times, but never like this before.

Come on, Christa. You can do this.

With every step I took there was that sharp pain again. I carefully slid my ankles inch by inch in front of me on the carpet so that—and thankfully I did it—I managed. I made it to the washroom. I tried reaching towards the light switch, but it was like the towel on my back weighed a ton. I had to lean in closer with one hand on the counter, but my left hand … I just couldn’t lift it. My mom watched me, waiting for me to do it.

Tears were rolling down my face. I was beyond furious with myself. Why couldn’t I reach the light switch I hit at least ten times a day? There was silence. My mom just stood by the door and watched. I really wondered what was going through her mind. I placed my right hand against the wall and had my fingers crawl towards the light switch like a spider, and then I was finally able to get it. The light was finally on.

There I was, helpless, my eyes bloodshot red; my face, to me, seeming pink. I couldn’t even stand up straight. I needed a shower cap. Mom, can you help me? She knew what it was I was searching for, so she probably made a quick visit to the laundry room or her own bathroom in the master bedroom. I stood there. I looked at my hopeless self for a minute. My health was deteriorating fast. It just didn’t make sense to me. I was so angry at myself, so useless and confused. What did I do to deserve this? This couldn’t be permanent. This wasn’t my life; this couldn’t be.

She came back with a black shower cap in her hand.

Can you put it on me? I asked.

You can’t do it by yourself?

No, Mom, I can’t. My shoulders hurt too much.

She stood right behind me. She lifted her hands, and before she even touched me I said, Be gentle. I don’t know why but I am really sensitive right now.

Even holding my head up seemed like going out of my way. I laid my head low and she gently removed the elastic I had in my hair. My extensions fell right onto my bare skin. I could feel my scalp, all damp as if I had been sprayed with some form of liquid. She then ran her fingers through my hair, one hand from the front and the other hand at the back, causing them to meet in the middle and catch the hair in the band.

It’s too tight, I yelled.

I started to cry some more, and I started to shake.

Christa, it’s going to be okay. Try to be strong. Don’t cry.

I tried holding it in, and chills filled my body as it continued to ache. My mom made her way to the shower and turned on the water. Come here and see if the water is okay.

I can do this. This too shall pass. The Lord is my strength. Lord, help me. I can’t do this on my own. I said this in my heart as I made each excruciating step towards the bathtub. I needed to sit down, and I had to do it quick. To my right was the toilet seat.

Mom, I need to sit. She laid out her arm, and I used it as a rail since my joints hurt when they were bent. I sat down on the cold toilet seat. The water was running.

What do you think; is it too cold? My mom asked me. She waited for a reply as I slowly reached in, but I was too far away. I gathered momentum from my seat and touched the running water, which was too cold.

Can you make it a little warmer, please?

She increased the heat. How about now? she inquired.

I leaned in and it was perfect. Yeah, it’s good.

Okay, come on. She had her arms laid out in front of me. Tears continued to gush out from my eyes. This is so pathetic, I thought. I’m fifteen and I need my mom to wash me. Mind you, there was nothing that she hadn’t seen; however, my body had grown a few years. I was so ashamed. I was used to being independent, especially with things as simple as walking down the hall, tying my hair, wrapping my towel around my body and opening the drawers with ease.

I looked at her, my eyes dripping with tears. My hands couldn’t reach to where she had her arms laid out for me.

Can you put your arms lower for me? My shoulders were extremely painful and I couldn’t reach. She placed both arms right by her waist, and I was able to reach them. I placed one hand in hers, and since I couldn’t stand up with my own strength she pulled me with her other hand, and then I was up. The next challenge was getting into the tub. I had to lift my legs in, which I normally do each time I visit the shower, but this time it was different. I actually had to think about it. I actually had to think about how I was going to place one leg into the bath at a time. I couldn’t even support my own weight, let alone stand on one leg. How was I supposed to do this?

Christa, Christa, wake up now. It’s time to eat. I had to wake up and eat, but once again I had no appetite. That would explain why I had no energy, but I didn’t even want to make the effort to move. I was comfortable in my state. I was still in the living room on the brown chair where my father had laid me when I arrived from school. I didn’t remember going to the washroom or anything. Getting up, moving, going through all the pain just wasn’t worth it. No, Mom, I’m not hungry, I answered her in French. Come on, you haven’t eaten since early this afternoon at school. I still laid there, not even showing an interest in food. When my mom tried to lift me up, I whined with pain. Finally I heard the frustration in my father’s voice when he yelled, Just leave her! from across the living room. I slowly looked up and there he was, eating his fufu and stew in front of TV5 France, the French news station, still in his afternoon attire. After a failed attempt at getting me to eat, I tried going to bed on my own. I tried getting off the couch on my own, but the pain was too strong. It was dark; the sun had already gone down. I must have been asleep for a while, yet it was like I just couldn’t get enough. I was trying to place both feet on the floor, but my ankle was swollen and as tender as it had been before. I couldn’t move it. My dad saw my attempts and he heard me sigh. Finally he said, Don’t move. I’ll be right there. I could sense he was finishing up his meal. My mom was with the other kids in the kitchen, and I didn’t mind waiting. I didn’t want to be selfish; we were a big family. My brothers and sisters were away feasting and there I was, alone. I lay there, waiting until one of my parents was done so that he or she could carry me upstairs to go to sleep.

My mom came and got me. Up the stairs we went, and she carefully placed me in the bathtub. I couldn’t sit for long, so she helped me sit down. I couldn’t cross my legs so my ankles were out, and then she turned the taps on. I