Marshmallow

Let your guard down. You're allowed to show signs of strain. It's okay not to be okay. 

All words that I held in contempt for some time in my elderly youth (30s).

Then I experienced a shift and I love it. 

I now pride myself in being a soft, chewy-centered person who openly cries with and for others. 

I pride myself in allowing the rain in and letting my feet stand in stagnant water while I becry my minor inconveniences.

I refuse to be a ‘mbokodo.’

I am not a strong black woman, I'm a soft marshmallow baby. 

With frequent hospital visits, due to a dramatic heart, I have had many opportunities to lay my spirit at the feet of friends and loved ones who just want to make me smile. I have gone through my own walls to allow myself to be shown love. Still believing that I don't deserve that much affection, I downplay my pains. Something that even my doctor commented on.

It's been two months since I was in hospital, and now I'm here again. It is taxing.

I've found that the best way for me to keep the sunshine is by spreading some of my own to others. It comes back multiplied. So I do that. 

When I ended up at the back of an ambulance at my place of employment, I made a little vow inside of me. I promised myself not to act strong, but to let my tears flow freely. This was a sad situation, afterall, for lack of fancier words. It was just after 17:00 and there I was, on a stretcher, leaving the building. 

We were all baffled because a few minutes prior I had been monkeying around at the office, clearly over the day's work. 

I just wanted to cry. Bawl my eyes out!

But you know what? My mind wouldn't even give me the option. I immediately started making jokes with the paramedics, who were already in stitches because of something silly that I had said.

The way to the hospital was not short of comedy as the driver got lost. LOST TO THE HOSPITAL! In his defense, they responded to a call outside of their usual area.

When I got to the hospital it was a game of hurry-up-and-wait.

Finally, after multiple pricks and shy moments, I had an initial diagnosis. The ER doctor was so sure that I'd be going home that evening because I “looked good enough.” 

I wasn't “good enough.”

Rewind to those moments while waiting. In had time to myself. I forced myself to process what was happening. I said to myself, “got m you have to cry this out and leave the grief right here.” 

I managed 2ml of tears, until a funny thought distracted me.

Around 21:00 that night, I was in a high-care chamber.

Both my doctor and I couldn't believe it. 

Surely I need to be sad about this. 

Surely. 

I was sad, but it wasn't showing. 

As usual, my doctor was optimistic that I'd be out in two days. Today marks day seven and he's fighting to get me out.

Day 4 was lousy, mentally. I welcomed that, because I got to feel and reflect. 

But now, I feel fine again. I'm sitting here hearing about my strength from friends.

And I want to scream and argue that point with them. I'm not strong. Please. Coddle me. I'm a baby. 

When attempts are made to coddle me, I run away because I don't want to be a burden and I can accept so much love. 

I'm self-centered, clearly. I've made the whole experience about myself.

What about my mom who doesn't want to lose her first born child? My son who just wants a mom? My friends who no longer know how to comfort me? My doctor who wants success stories from patients? 

I will go home today. I will rest. Tomorrow, I will cry.

Still, I insist: I am a marshmallow.