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.

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