Lit eZine Vol 8 | p-15 | FICTION | To Be Sickled

SHORT STORY

TO BE SICKLED
by Tormhen Ivan David

“Health is a crown that the healthy wear but only the sick can see it.” — Imam Shafi’ee.

It was at dusk when he started to feel it. It was only at dusk, after he had overworked his body the entire day, that he started to feel the gentle heat on his back. He recognized the gentle heat that travels all over his body, growing inside of him like a turmoil.

Of course, he recognized it any day and anytime, the heat that always turned to aches, then to throbbing pain. It ground his bones to dust. The familiar bone-deep heat had become a part of his life. He made peace with the searing heat that lived within, a torment as sharp as a knife in his flesh. 

He felt and recognized it, but took no action. Unlike his lifelong habit, he didn’t take several ibuprofen pills. He didn’t run to the bathroom to bathe in water hot enough to pluck chicken feathers. He didn’t. 

Neither did he forget the ibuprofen nor the soothing hot shower to ease the pain. No one forgets things like that, especially when a rising heat seeps into your bones and threatens to destroy your peace. He was simply tired. 

Yes, he was. He was tired of it all, tired of fighting. He was weary of the excruciating pain so great it could render him immobile. He was tired of the emotional and psychological toll. And that was why, when he felt the heat on his back, right over his spine, he did nothing about it. Despite knowing how to ease his pain, his mind was too weak for the hassle. All he wanted all day was to close his eyes and rest.

His eyes closed, but his body refused to rest. His body failed him again, as it had for the past twenty years. The night was young, but the pain in his bones and joints was too intense, forcing his eyes open. Even in sleep, the agony continued, his dreams haunted by red blood cells contorting into the shape of sickles. 

A gentle breeze rhythmically swept across the starry night sky. As he reached for his phone, a sharp pain shot through his body from his elbow and he yelped. Amid the yelps, moans, and groans, he snatched up his phone, pressed the power button hard, and the screen’s light shone into his face. He squinted, checking the time; it was 10:23 PM.

Unable to move because of the excruciating pain ripping through his bones and joints, he lay back down, his body and mind tormented. He was desperate for help; he needed his ibuprofen, a hot water therapy, and something to eat. In his mind, he considered who among people around him could help.

He could call Stella, his neighbour, two blocks away, or Sarah, his colleague. He was open to a call, eager to extend his hand to be discovered. But fear rapidly replaced his vulnerability as he worried about his mother’s reaction. 

She lived a 2.5-hour drive away, both distant and near. He could hear her denial of his condition to Marie, the old lady next door, who had asked if he was a sickler — a term that had never sat well with him. He could still see her hiding him behind closed doors, afraid of what people were going to say. She was ashamed of who he was, who he still is.

And now, it was his turn to lie there, ashamed of his vulnerability, his pain. He was too ashamed to call for help, too scared of what people would say. He feared their judgment upon learning of his frequent and unpredictable sickling cells. It could have been shame or fear, or both. Weighing his choices, he succumbed to shame and the fear of living. 

Maybe he could call Dozie, his cousin who lived only thirty minutes’ drive away from him. But Dozie had done so much already. It would be the fourth time in a month he was going to call Dozie for help. Dozie was too polite to say anything, but he saw the weariness in his eyes. He realised he was a burden, and that was the last thing wanted to be. So, Dozie was out of the question. Once again, he chose guilt over life. 

But the night was still young and sleep was still a longing so distant from him. His body was still a battlefield. Pain, a relentless drumbeat, pulsing through his veins. His mind was a jumbled mess, and his thoughts swirled like a tornado. 

Maybe tonight was the night. The night his body would succumb to the flaming heat of pain that had threatened to end him over the years. Maybe it was this night that he would find the peace he had always longed for. 

The image was clear in his mind: the news headline, “Sickle Cell Patient Found Dead in Apartment,” plastered across newspapers, TV, and radio. He let out a self-mocking laugh, fuelled by his desperate desire to escape and end it all. He laughed, because who was he kidding? 

He couldn’t remember how many times he’d felt the pain intensify and course through his body since he was born. The number of times the pain had almost killed him was simply too many to count. He no longer remembered how many times he’d been rushed to the hospital, gasping for relief. The sheer number of blood transfusions and pain pills he’d needed was staggering.

His struggles were too many to keep track of; too many to remember. He’d been through so much, and yet, there he was, lying on his bed again. He battled not only physical but also mental struggles, overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions threatening to consume him. Once more, he was enveloped in despair, struggling to find hope. 

But he would not see the little light at the end of the tunnel in his room, on his bed, and with no one in sight to reach out to. He needed to extend his hand through the darkness to be found. 

He needed saving. Though he was strong, yet he recognized his dependence on a support system. He had to overcome his shame, guilt, and fear. Because he needed his ibuprofen and his hot water therapy. 

He reached for his phone beside him again, tapped the power button on and scrolled to his call log.

“I was about to call you. How are you doing?”

A hoarse voice echoed through the phone after three rings. He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.

“I need you.”

He whispered a response to the person on the other end of the line.

He had always worn a mask, a fragile veneer of calmness that hid the turmoil within. He had learned to conceal the pain and the tears. But he was unlearning and relearning. It was alright to be vulnerable. His tears and pain were not a sign of weakness; his inner strength included vulnerability.

As he walked through the hospital corridors, the fluorescent lights above seemed to mock him, their brightness a cruel contrast to the darkness within. Every step felt like a betrayal, his body rebelling against him with each laboured breath. The doctor’s words, a distant hum, barely registered.

“We’ll need to run some tests… manage your pain.”

He remained silent, too weak to reply. Instead, he reached for his phone from his pocket and tapped the power button; it was 6:57 AM.

In the hospital’s silent room, the mask shattered. Tears flowed freely as he at last confronted his long-buried fears: fear of the unknown, fear of the pain, fear of being trapped in this never-ending cycle.

As he wept, the storm within him slowly subsided. The pain, though still present, became a dull ache, a reminder of his vulnerability. Yet, in that vulnerability, he discovered an unexpected, quiet strength.