October 2021 began like any other month, warm and bright with no hint of the storm that was about to come. My life felt normal, even peaceful—until the day I woke up with a fever so high that my entire body ached. At first, I thought it was just the flu. But when the test results came back, the diagnosis hit me like a slap—typhoid and dengue.
I felt weak, but the real blow came a few days later when my mother also fell sick. It wasn't just her; slowly, almost every member of my family started showing symptoms. Our home, once full of chatter and noise, became quiet except for the sound of coughs, groans, and thermometers beeping.
My mother's condition, however, was the worst. Her blood platelets dropped so fast that the numbers felt unreal. My father rushed her to the hospital, his face pale with worry. I couldn't rest at home knowing she was there, so despite my fever burning through my body, I went to see her.
I remember standing alone in the hospital corridor, my legs trembling—not just from weakness, but from fear. The smell of antiseptic filled the air, and the constant beeping of machines echoed in my ears. My father was with the doctor when I overheard the words that made my heart sink:
"Her blood pressure is falling rapidly. We need to transfer her to another hospital immediately."
I climbed into the car with her, my head pounding, my body shivering despite the heat. She was talking to me—small things, everyday things—and I clung to those words without knowing they would be our last conversation.
When we arrived at the new hospital, the doctors didn't waste a second. "She needs to be admitted to the ICU right now," one of them said. My father followed them inside while I stood frozen. I wanted to go with her, but I was too sick to stay. My fever was climbing, my vision was blurring, and I knew if I didn't go home, I might collapse right there.
The next day, my own condition worsened so much that I could barely breathe without feeling dizzy. My symptoms were eerily similar to hers—low blood pressure, high fever, and the same dangerous weakness. I collapse infront the doctor and admitted to the hospital and placed in the bed where my mother had been lying just days earlier.
Ten days passed in a blur of IV drips, blood tests, and endless nights. But what hurt me more than the illness was the silence. No one told me anything about my mother. Every time I asked, people avoided my eyes or changed the topic. I felt trapped—not just in my bed, but in uncertainty and fear.
Then, one afternoon, my cousin came to visit. She sat on the edge of my bed, her eyes heavy with something she didn't want to say. When she finally told me the truth about my mother's situation, the words hit harder than any disease could.
I went cold, my breath caught in my chest. The room seemed to spin, and my chest tightened. My fever rose again, this time fueled by shock and grief. I felt like a child, lost and completely alone, unable to change anything.
All I could think about—day and night—was one thing.I needed to see my mother. I didn't care about the pain, the weakness, or the IVs. I just wanted to be by her side, to hold her hand, to tell her I was still here.
But fate had other plans.