Source: Original
Yet against all odds, the pregnancy grew fiercely. By the seventh month, I felt sharp, aggressive kicks that woke me up in the middle of the night. I would lie awake in the dark, pressing both hands against my skin, whispering, “Please, just stay this time.”
But as I entered the eighth month, the nightmare began. It started with bone-deep fatigue. Then headaches. Then swelling. Then bloating. Then dizziness so severe I collapsed while feeding the pigs.
Chukwudi rushed me to a local clinic where the nurse looked alarmed the moment she checked my blood pressure.
“Folasade, your system is entering total failure,” she said. “Your blood pressure is high enough to cause a fatal stroke. You must get to a major referral hospital in Lagos immediately. If you stay in the village, you will be dead before sunrise tomorrow.”
Source: Original
Chukwudi begrudgingly emptied our final savings to pay for private transport to the city. The moment we arrived at Lagos University Teaching Hospital, I was admitted straight into the HDU. Beeping monitors constantly flashed red numbers above my head, and several doctors in white scrubs surrounded my bed.
The official diagnosis was nothing short of a death sentence for my hopes. The attending doctor spoke of a severe, life-threatening immune-rejection complication.
Liver enzymes spiking.
Platelets dropping.
Kidneys shutting down.
Infections.
On the third afternoon, the chief consultant walked into my room and stood at the foot of my bed. His face was a somber mask of professional dread.
Source: Original
“Folasade, we need to talk,” he said. “Your kidney function has deteriorated significantly, and we’re seeing early signs of fluid accumulation in your lungs. If we keep you pregnant to try and gain a few more weeks for the baby, the toxicity will cause a fatal seizure. You will die within twenty-four hours. If we perform an emergency delivery right now, your body will recover. But according to our scans, the fetus is under extreme distress and is far too weak to survive the trauma of an immediate delivery. You must choose your own life, or the life of your baby.”
The words bounced off the white tiles, heavy and suffocating. My life, or the baby’s. I looked down at my massive, swollen stomach. I thought of the seven graves back at home. I thought of the tiny, cold body of Ngozichukwu under the avocado tree in Awgbu.
Source: Original
“I choose the baby,” I whispered. My voice was calm, but it carried absolute finality. “I have buried seven children, Doc. I will not bury an eighth and walk back into that village alive. I would rather die trying to become a mother than live another twenty years with empty arms.”
