Make me a miracle
She was so eager to tell her story. I had hardly closed the door to take my seat when she sat forward on her chair looking me straight in my eyes, “Can you make me a miracle?” Her long black hair was combed back into a ponytail. On the side of her head a pink hairclip adorned her shiny hair. Her neat white round-collared blouse was tucked into her well-worn denim skirt, fastened in front with blue buttons. Her waistline bulged slightly into a comfortable motherly round abdomen. She wore open sandals, well worn on the heels. “My priest told me about you, you know. I don’t want an operation to my womanly parts. He told me you would fix me.” She was absolutely confident in her priest’s recommendation and proceeded to tell me about her prolapsed bladder and uterus.
She was in her late 40s, but looked much older. She had given birth to many children, her youngest being 6 years old. At present, she was also looking after her eldest daughter’s children who were nearly the same age as her youngest. All the lifting and carrying of babies had taken its toll on her medium-sized frame. Although her body looked tired and worn-out, her eyes shone with pride when she spoke of her children and grandchildren. When I cautioned her not to pick them up, as it would aggravate her prolapse, she became very protective towards them. “But they are only small children and all, I have to pick them up to bath them, you know.” Her love for her family was palpable. Her complete trust in my medication and promise to try not to pick up heavy objects and children, to leave the digging in the garden for the men in the family, was loudly proclaimed for all to hear. She left, clutching her little bag of pills, in full expectation of the miracle she so wanted. Never once did she doubt that she would not be fine.