CHRISTMAS DATING
Episode 13
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Something happened. It taught me to never give up so quickly.
You know, death has no mercy. It doesn’t understand the language of humanity. Oh, and it doesn’t even care in the first place; whether you’ve just found true love and would not want to lose it, or you’ve just been joined in marriage with the love of your life.
Death knows nothing but to take. And when it comes for what belongs to you, it does so with the speed of light.
One of the nights I was so weak that I couldn’t control the fatigue that had held me by my hands. I had had to stay awake with Jojo’s inhaler in hand for too long a time. I stayed awake, I tell you the truth, like I was a watch night guarding over a gold dump.
His asthmatic condition worsened by the day. His breath always stopped short. Then he would gasp and struggle to breathe. It was painful to watch. I had cried many-many barrels full of tears as I held the inhaler close up in his mouth. He would groan in pain, like a wounded elephant, like a baby drowning into the depths of a sea.
So I had to stay awake just so there could be any chances of survival for him. But that night, sleep came from the yonder parts of life, overwhelmed my personality of naturalness, and carried me on its shoulders to a land far away from my subconscious.
I woke up to a trance that flashed before my face. It was not a dream. It was short and seemed real. My Sweet Jojo’s burial was happening in that trance. Men and women gathered from far and near. An image of Jojo — the one just above my bed — was sitting next to his casket. And the priest was asking us to say our final good byes to him when I woke up.
Jojo was there on the bed. I squinted as I gradually opened my eyes. The bright lights in the ward were as strong as the sunlight. It was proof that my eyes were used to that brightness, and that I had had a really long sleep. I rose up and moved closer to Jojo, examining him. A short wave of impulse rushed my heart as I felt his chest with my palm. He was not breathing.
Fear gripped me. I placed my head, my left ear on his chest to check his pulse. He heartbeat was gone. I took a step backward and staggered forward again. I held his right hand and shook him gently, calling his name. But he didn’t as much as lift a finger.
My heartbeat trippled. A shiver of coldness descended upon me. My legs were suddenly becoming chilled. My knees knocked against each other and a river of hot tears descended on my face. No! Jojo couldn’t be gone just like that? He couldn’t be dead? Where was he going? With who was he leaving me behind?
I began to yell on the top of my voice. Calling the doctor and nurses and Jojo intermittently. I was begging him to wake up. I was pleading and pleading, as if to say he was awake and only trying to prank me. But no. Jojo was cold and gone.
It was past 1A.M in the morning. The nurses on duty ran in to check on him. I saw her place the stethoscope on his chest. She removed it and placed it beneath his left mammalian gland. She moved to his wrists and felt both of them with her fingers. Then she shook her head and turned to give me that “We tried all our best, Madam” kind of look.
Darkness was quickly encircling me. The bright lights in the ward was losing their brightest even in their abundance of glow. I was screaming. I was begging Jojo to wake up. I was shaking him vigorously. I knelt by his side and held his head in my hands and spoke into his face.
I pleaded with him to remember all the promises he had made to me. How he had promised to love and cherish me all the days of his life. How he had promised to be by my side every morning. How he had promised to play with my hair every slightest moment he had the opportunity.
I was begging him to wake up. I was pleading that he would say something, just one last time. I wanted to hear him tell me a story. About legends. About nations. About kings and their kingdoms. I wanted to hear him speak Spanish one last time.
“Jojo, please wake up. . .” I was crying like a child. “Please, I beg you. . .wake up!” I shook his hand as I pleaded.
Death had won. My Sweet Jojo was going home. My Shakespeare was returning to the place where he originally came from. To a kingdom where he would not have to use inhalers ever again. To a country where cancer had no power to undo him a second time. To a place where only those who loved with all their heart were welcomed.
The other nurses came to take him away and prepare him for embalming. I stopped them. I spread myself over him and was still begging and pleading that he should wake up. I cried, and cried, and cried. . . But Jojo kept sleeping, kept his eyes closed, didn’t say a word to me.
I then held his hand to say goodbye. But I found myself muttering what seemed to be prayers instead. I knew I had heard stories of miracles happening to people. I wanted one myself. So I prayed, silently first. Then loudly, sobbing and chuckling.
“Sweet Jojo. . . My hero. . . My Shakespeare. . .a bouquet of sweet roses, love and humanity, it’s me, Sugar. Baby, are you really leaving me like this?” I asked after I had prayed. I had given up. I let go. I knew it would be a lonely world without him. But I was willing to try to live with his memories.
Then, all of a sudden, like a ship engine that had just steamed up for a voyage, My Jojo jerked back to life. I tapped the nurse immediately and pointed at him. They immediately put a drip on him. His breathing returned gradually. He fingers and feet were moving. And then he threw his head from his right to his left.
Joy from the highest heavens gripped my soul. I didn’t know whether to cry or to rejoice. It was a mixture of emotions for me. I held my breath in thanksgiving unto God. I knelt and was waving endlessly while singing one of those worship songs Jojo used to sing during devotion.
God had heard my mutterings. He heard those words I spoke. After I had thanked enough I turned to Jojo and thanked him a million times more. For choosing to stay. For keeping to his promise. For coming back to me.
You may not understand. Jojo meant the world to me. He was my ocean of joy and happiness. Even in his illness, the thoughts and joy of him being my husband was nothing to compare to what a baby felt when gifted a wrap of chocolate.
I was watching Jojo breathe normally. The pains seemed to have gone away. He was still weak. But he was alive now. I held his hand tightly. I didn’t want to let go. I kissed him and sang him a lullaby even in his unconsciousness.
Thoughts of how I could have quickly turned into a widow filled my mind as I caressed Jojo. Thoughts of not having him by my side. Of not seeing his fine face ever again. Of not having his fingers cuddle my hair. Of not hearing him say those romantic words in Spanish. Of living one second on earth without him by my side.
Heaven was smiling upon us again. My Sweet Jojo lived to see another day. . .
Typing episode 14. . .
— Michael Ituma
