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.”
“We cannot legally accept that choice without consulting your husband,” the doctor said, his face twisting with discomfort. “We require his presence and signature on the consent form.”
The nurses tried calling Chukwudi’s phone repeatedly, but there was no answer. I took my own phone and dialed his number thrice as the heart monitor beside me beeped erratically. He refused to pick up. Later, I texted him to update him on the situation.
At exactly 3:00 AM, my phone vibrated. It was a WhatsApp voice note from Chukwudi. I pressed the phone to my ear, expecting words of comfort. Instead, his voice filled my ear—loud, distorted, and dripping with exhausted malice.
Source: Original
“Folasade, listen to me carefully,” the recording played. “I am tired of this. I am not coming back to Lagos, and I am not spending any more money on your cursed womb. For fifteen years, you have made me a laughingstock among my peers in the village. People see me as a weak man whose lineage is dead. This current sickness is the final proof that your body is broken. If you die in that hospital, you die. I will not travel to the city to pick up a corpse, and I will definitely not bury another child in my oko. Don’t call my phone again.”
The voice note ended with a sharp click. Chukwudi had abandoned me completely. He had left me to die in a city hospital room, inside a body that was actively destroying itself. About an hour later, a night nurse hurried into my room, looking uncomfortable. She held a medical chart tightly against her chest.
Source: Original
“Folasade! You husband just called the main hospital administration desk downstairs,” she said. “He told the medical director that you are completely mentally unstable. He claimed that the grief of your past losses has caused you to lose your mind and that you are unfit to make any decisions. He is formally demanding that the hospital perform an immediate medical termination of the pregnancy to save your life, so that he cannot be held legally or financially liable for your bills.”
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