Life laughs. You will one day sleep soundly as one filled with peace because life is unfolding as you intended. The man who sleeps beside you, you couldn’t have made a better choice if you had the power to mould one into existence. Your belly has his seed growing, and it fills you both with great pleasure. While others seek several jobs to supplement each other’s income, you only tend to one, which pays you more than you imagined possible at your age. Capitalism isn’t breaking you. Then you wake up and the reality of yesterday is nothing but a distant memory, sometimes feeling unreal.

The day started like all the rest that week, with an uncomfortable gas situation in your body. It’s uncomfortable but doesn’t yet feel alarming. You try to ignore it and file it under yet another change that’s arrived with the growing life in you. Martin, your fiancé, rubs your belly and suggests a doctor’s visit if the issue persists. You agree, as you also remind him of the dinner plans later in the evening. You’ve heard of how a child affects its parents’ relationship, so you’re intentional about enjoying each other’s company more before arrival.

At dinner, you settle for plain water as you can no longer indulge in alcoholic pairings with your meal. Seeing as you still feel bloated, you’re in no position to fully enjoy the meal, so you pay the water no mind. Then the first pang hits you. It’s so strong that you feel it in your stomach and on your shoulder blade. You’re in so much pain that you can’t accurately pinpoint which part of your stomach hurts most. Then you remember your precious cargo. You rush to the hospital.

“My baby! Is my baby okay?” You ask the doctor.

You see the look on his face and suddenly become aware of the wetness between your legs. The dread on Martin’s face confirms your suspicion. Another intense wave of pain engulfs you. A feeling of lightheadedness follows, and you throw up. So much is happening in your body that you stop trying to pinpoint each feeling. You let it all consume you as you come to terms with your loss.

A couple of weeks pass by, and you’re still feeling sickly. They said that sometimes it can take a while before your body returns to normal, but you can tell there’s more to it. You go to a nearby clinic, and they brush off your concerns. Though not convinced, you hope that you’re overreacting.

Things between you and your fiancé are weird. Loss will do that to couples. Your sick leave is over, and you go back to work, but you can hardly get anything done. You frequently rush to throw up. It’s worse than when you were actually pregnant. Certain foods leave you feeling unwell. It’s like your body has developed a sudden intolerance for certain foods—you who could eat even stones. The hospital becomes a frequently visited place, yet all you have to show for it are the numerous anti-acid bottles and a depleting allowance on your health cover.

Your energy is in the pits. You become afraid of eating, fearing your body’s reaction to such attempts. Martin becomes restless. While once a source of comfort, it begins to feel like he’s blaming you for not doing enough to regain your strength. After your mutual loss, he’s also of the opinion that you should get back to trying for another one as soon as possible. His touch becomes unbearable.

You soon become an object of pity everywhere you go. It’s new territory. You do your best to mask some of the discomfort you experience. As a master at recognising patterns, you discover that some foods are tolerable. You’ve also observed that pain increases when you eat at certain times or when accompanied by certain activities. Eating at restaurants or anywhere else but your home is out of the question because you can’t predict your reaction. Having shivers and occupying anyone else’s toilet for hours is as intrusive to them as it is to you. So with every ounce of energy left in you, you start preparing your own meals. Sometimes your best friend comes by to help, but she lives on the other side of town, so she can’t do it daily.

The man you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with is busy seeking comfort elsewhere. The loss and your illness are too much to handle, he says. By the fourth month of your illness, your circle has shrunk, you’re also tired of telling people you’re unwell, and your work suffers a significant blow. Your position is hanging by a thread. You hear rumours of downsizing and you suspect your head could be served on the guillotine.

You change hospitals, and this is occasioned by more tests. Finally, in the sixth month of living in agony, there’s a different diagnosis. You call your mother and best friend because you require surgery. It’s not too far-fetched to imagine you’ll not wake from the operating table. You make peace with them without disclosing your fears. Your mother, bless her soul, is soft-hearted. This is why you hadn’t fully disclosed the extent of your misery to her, because you would have had the added task of managing her worry.

You contemplate telling Martin, who has since moved out of the apartment, but decide against it. Your mother only mentions him once with utter disgust and disappointment. She had approved of him and thought him a worthwhile match. You have not spoken to your ex-colleagues since the firing. You, however, tell one more person about the surgery, the guy who just moved in next door. He has a balcony full of plants, which you find fascinating and calming. The few minutes you spoke to him as you watched him tending to them were also soothing.

The surgeons do their thing, and you wake up one organ less.

“Everything went well,” your doctor tells you.

You force a smile, wondering how often chopping off people’s organs constitutes a good day in their books. Then it occurs to you that you’re not in pain or discomfort. It’s a strange feeling. Then you remember the anaesthesia and your excitement fades.

“Don’t engage in anything strenuous for a couple of weeks to allow for healing and come back for check-ups on the scheduled dates, and if anything arises,” says the doctor as he releases you.

You get a full breakdown of your nutritional needs and a bag full of medicines. After a week of tending to you, your mother and family leave once they’re satisfied that you can take care of yourself. They call you daily after that to ensure you’re fine.

You can’t eat too much in the first week, but you can consume more with time. It feels strange not to throw up or have a runny stomach after eating. It’s like your body is a new vessel. Your prescribed painkillers run out, and you realise that you’re no longer in pain. It’s astonishing how pain has become part of your existence—the unwanted, invisible companion who clung on to you.

Your body readjusts slowly. It’s like you’re learning yourself afresh. As you begin to enjoy some physical reprieve, the impact of the events of the last couple of months hits you. You would have been a mother and a wife by now. Your career trajectory was predictable, and now you were back to polishing up your CV and knocking on doors.

A knock on your door cuts short your painful reflection. The calming man from next door with a bunch of plants shows up. He is a great conversationalist. You appreciate that he doesn’t look at you pitifully, even when you finally disclose the past year’s events in great detail. Maybe you need to see yourself through his eyes to find your footing again. He’s a welcome addition to your life.

As though life wants to torment you further, Martin shows up. He shows up with some of what used to be your favourite foods. Audacity is something he’s never lacked. You look at him and his gifts, and instead of feeling the loss, you are overwhelmed with acceptance. You are comforted, knowing you are ready for whatever lies ahead alone, not with a man who left you during your time of sickeness.

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