Lucy had been my neighbour for close to three years. We were just courteous friends exchanging hellos and how are you doings. We would share a laugh and catch up on a rumour, a little gossip… just as neighbours would.
That was until eleven months ago when we both realised we were going to be mothers.
Pregnancy, especially for a first timer, can be trying. So many peculiar kinds of pains and emotions threaten to overwhelm you but it helps to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands. For me that someone was Lucy.
Since we had something in common, we started spending more and more time together to “compare notes”. We would share our hopes, wishes, fears, and of course challenges. If I came across beautiful baby clothes, I would report to her in excitement. She would do the same.
When the backaches became a little too much, she would recommend some “therapy” and I would do the same for her. If I learnt of something new, I would be eager to share it with her.
We would share our fears on childbirth and motherhood and talk about the myths and superstitions we had heard, and during the times when we felt we would give up, we encouraged each other.
That’s how our friendship grew. One that was built on understanding and the comfort of knowing that neither of us was alone. That made the journey easier, shorter, and more pleasant.
The other day, I came across an article in one of the local dailies in which the Health minister said maternal deaths should not occur in this day and age in Kenya.
I concurred. We are, indeed, in the 21st century. Mothers should be accorded utmost care before, during, and after delivery, given that we have all the technology and expertise at our disposal.
The article went on to recount the story of two women; one who died during delivery in the hands of a drunken doctor and the other from complications arising from delivery. One would ask why they should die while doing such a noble thing.
As I read the article, I found myself empathising with the families of the women and especially with the infants they had left, all the while thinking, like many of us do, that these things are distant from us. But I was wrong.
Even as I write this, I still cannot believe that she is gone. No one is supposed to die this way. She died of birth-related complications, just three weeks after she had given birth to twins.
There are times when I remember all the hopes and dreams she had for her children, the things she said to me, her excitement.
It’s hard to believe that she is gone. That she will not be able to share her life with her children. That her little boy and girl will only hear stories of a mother they will never know; a mother who loved them deeply and was only too happy to bring them into this world.
When we talked about our babies, such tragedies never cross our minds. All we were preoccupied with was new life, hope, and a future. Never the cruel hand of death.
Now I know that being able to share my life with my son is not something I should take for granted. It is a blessing. Sometimes death takes from us wonderful people but we must also remember that life gives us a chance to share our lives with those we love, however short a time it might be.
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