Facing The Past
1345 Words
I stepped into the doctor’s room with Nhlanhla beside me, my heart pounding slower than my steps, but heavier than my breath.
The doctor looked up as we entered — a middle-aged man with tired eyes and glasses sitting low on his nose. The kind of eyes that had seen too many stories like mine, but still cared enough to listen.
“Good morning, Tebelo,” he said gently. “Have a seat.”
I lowered myself into the chair, my right leg dragging slightly, my hand curled tight against my chest because it refused to open fully.
Nhlanhla sat next to me, hands folded neatly, as if preparing for an exam.
The doctor placed my file on the desk, took a deep breath, and looked straight into my eyes.
“How have you been since your last visit?”
I hesitated. My voice felt trapped in my throat again.
“W-worse…” I managed to say.
The doctor nodded slowly, not surprised. “Tell me exactly what’s been happening.”
I swallowed. “My hand… and leg… stiffening. Sometimes I can’t move them. And… I had a seizure yesterday.”
The doctor’s pen froze in his hand. His eyebrows lifted slightly — not in shock, but in concern.
“A seizure?” He leaned forward. “Did you lose consciousness?”
I nodded.
“Any shaking?”
“Y-yes…”
He wrote quickly, flipping pages, reading notes from weeks before.
The room felt too quiet, like everyone outside the clinic stopped breathing at the same time.
“Let me see your hand,” he said.
I lifted it slowly. My fingers twitched without my permission.
He pressed lightly on my wrist. I winced.
Then he raised my arm — it trembled violently, like it was fighting against some invisible weight.
“Mmm,” he murmured. “Does this happen often?”
“Every day,” I whispered.
He looked at my leg next. He tapped lightly below my knee — the reflex was late, weak, almost absent.
I felt Nhlanhla glance at me nervously.
“Doctor… is he… okay?” he asked quietly.
The doctor didn’t answer right away. He stood up, walked around the desk, and crouched so he was eye-level with me — a gesture that told me whatever he was about to say was serious.
“Tebelo,” he began, his voice slow, careful, carrying weight.
“The injuries you suffered… the trauma… the blood loss… all of it affected more than just your body.”
I swallowed hard.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
He sighed — the kind of sigh people give when they wish the truth was kinder.
“It means your nervous system was damaged,” he said. “Your brain and body are not communicating properly.”
The words hit me like a hammer.
Nhlanhla shifted beside me, eyes wide.
The doctor continued:
“The stiffness… the seizures… the dragging leg… the tremors… these are signs that your recovery will be longer, and more complicated… than we originally thought.”
My heart dropped.
“What… what must I do?” I whispered.
“We’ll need to run more tests,” he said gently. “And you must start physiotherapy immediately. If you don’t… your hand and leg may stiffen permanently.”
The room spun. My ears buzzed.
Permanent.
The word stabbed deeper than the knife that had nearly killed me.
I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe. Tried to imagine a life where I couldn’t run with my kids, couldn’t hold them normally, couldn’t stand without support.
A tear rolled down my cheek without warning.
The doctor placed a hand on my shoulder.
“You survived something many people don’t,” he said softly. “You’re strong. But now you need help. And you need support at home.”
I nodded, trembling.
“At least,” he added, “you came today. That decision might save your life again.”
As we walked out, my legs felt heavier than ever.
Nhlanhla held my arm tightly.
“You heard the doctor, grootman,” he said. “You gonna get better. You just need time. And help.”
But I didn’t feel strong. I felt broken.
Not just physically. Inside.
When the clinic door closed behind us, the sun hit my face and I suddenly felt like a stranger in my own body.
I couldn’t escape the doctor’s words:
Permanent. Complicated. Damaged nervous system. Seizure. Stiffness. Long recovery.
But one thought cut deeper than the rest:
What if Joyce never unblocks me? What if I never see Angela again looking the way she remembers me?
By the time we reached Rebecca’s yard, my legs were burning.
Not from distance — from fear.
Fear of my own body.
Fear of the future.
Fear of telling her what the doctor had said.
Nhlanhla opened the gate for me, and I stepped inside slowly, my breath uneven. Rebecca was standing outside, folding laundry under the weak afternoon sun.
The moment she lifted her head and saw me…
She froze.
Her hands stopped mid-air, the cloth falling from her fingers.
Her smile faded instantly.
Her eyes locked onto mine — searching, scanning, reading the truth written on my face.
I didn’t say a word.
I didn’t need to.
She stepped forward once… then again…
then she ran to me like someone running toward bad news she already felt in her bones.
“Tebelo…” she whispered.
Her voice cracked.
Just my name — but it carried fear, heartbreak, anger, confusion, and love all at once.
She touched my cheek with both hands, gently, like she was scared I would collapse if she pressed too hard.
“What did they say?” she asked.
Her eyes were already filling up — shiny, trembling, desperate.
I opened my mouth… but nothing came out.
My throat locked.
My chest tightened.
She saw it — she felt it — she knew before I could speak.
“Tebelo… no,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly.
“Please tell me it’s not… tell me it’s not bad.”
A tear slipped down my cheek.
Then another.
Her hands dropped from my face and moved to hold my shoulders, steadying me because I was starting to sway.
I finally forced the words out, my voice breaking like something inside me had given up:
“Babe… the doctor said… my nerves… they’re damaged…”
Rebecca gasped.
Her hand covered her mouth.
Her knees weakened like she might collapse.
“W-what does that mean?” she whispered.
I swallowed hard.
“Means… if I don’t get help soon… my hand… my leg… they could stay like this… permanently.”
For a moment the world went silent.
Even the kids playing in the street sounded far away.
Rebecca stared at me — not blinking, not breathing, just absorbing the blow.
Then tears streamed down her face uncontrollably.
She grabbed me and pulled me tightly into her arms — so tight it almost hurt — but I didn’t care.
She cried into my shoulder, shaking, broken.
“Tebelo… why you?” she said between sobs.
“You’ve suffered enough… God, haven’t you suffered enough?”
I held her, my own tears falling onto her neck.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us spoke.
We just clung to each other like two people standing in the middle of a storm with nothing left to hold onto except each other.
Nhlanhla stood a few steps away, silent, respectful.
Rebecca pulled back slightly, wiped my tear with her thumbs, and whispered:
“We’re going to fight this. Together.
I don’t care how long it takes.
You are NOT doing this alone.”
Her voice was firm now — trembling, but fierce.
Still, when she looked into my eyes again…
She saw it.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
The pain.
The doubt.
And before I could stop myself, my voice cracked again:
“I’m scared…”
Rebecca placed her forehead against mine.
“I know,” she whispered.
“And that’s why I’m here.”
- Writer
