Melissa Haynes - Learning to Play with a Lion's Testicles

Sitting on a stack of Lucerne in the back of a beat-up truck in the middle of Africa, those feelings are still able to invade me, just as they did on that Christmas day in the hospital room. And it makes no difference that I’m here, on the other side of the world because death’s power keeps me trapped in that ugly little room. And I hate everything about it. I hate the antiseptic stench. I hate the beige walls and cheap beige laminate flooring. I hate the privacy curtain that doesn’t keep anything private. I hate the nurse with thick ankles. And I hate the stupid little ceramic mice with their stupid stockings full of gifts that litter the windowsill. But I especially hate the demon that is killing my mother and my faith.

“Please, somebody, help my mum!” I scream. But no one comes. I desperately push the nurse call button over and over but it goes unanswered.

“Mum! Mum! Wake up Mum, please, wake up!” She is unresponsive. I run to the nurse’s station just outside her door.

“Please, help my mum, there’s something wrong!” I scream again. The nurses look at each other but they don’t move. Instead they only look at me, then at each other.

“Please, she is burning up, it’s really bad. Please! Why aren’t you helping her?”

Finally the indifferent nurse with thick ankles gets up and walks across the hall to my mother’s room. There is no urgency in her movement, and that pisses me off even more. Come on, move faster, you useless woman.

Inside the room the beads of sweat have formed into rivers flowing down my mother’s face, now scarlet from overheating. She is unconscious. Her entire body trembles as boiling blood courses through her veins looking for an outlet. In any moment she will erupt.

“There’s nothing we can do for her,” the nurse says curtly. She turns to leave.

“Stop! Please, she’s suffering, please. Do something. Please help my mother!”

“I’m sorry.” The nurse leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

“How can you do nothing?” I scream at the door. “You’re a nurse, goddammit! At least tell me what to do! Please!” I turn to my mum. “You’re going to be okay, Mum. Just hold on, please hold on.”

I pull the drenched sheets off of her, they are hot to the touch. I run to the bathroom and soak a face cloth with cold water. I place it on her head, but it instantly turns hot. Her body begins to convulse.

“Please, God, please, God, please, God. Don’t do this. Don’t you do this to my family again. I’m not ready.”

I will not let you die. You cannot die. No. No. No. Screw the nurses, screw the doctors and screw death! The disgusting, untouched contents of her food tray smash against the floor. I take off running with the empty tray. Past the nurse’s station and down the hallway, I reach the ice machine. The tray is trembling. I fill it with ice and take off running again. Seconds later I am back in her room, my hands are trembling so badly I can barely pick up the ice. I place it all around her head. It melts instantly.

I take off again, this time slowing down at the nurse’s station. “Please help me! I need ice, please. Please!”

But they don’t. They won’t even look up. Back and forth. Tray after tray. I try to make an ice bath in her bed, but it’s hopeless, it melts faster than I can put it there.

“Mum! Mum! Wake up! Wake up!” She won’t wake up. I peel open her eyelids. If she could just see me, if I could just see her eyes, maybe she will wake up. I can’t find her eyes. There are just bloodshot white pockets behind her eyelids. She is not going to wake up. Surrendering, I sit down beside her and squeeze her hand. My heart is being strangled, the slowest most painful strangulation. A huge lump in my throat threatens to cut off my breath. A pit of emptiness consumes my insides. I can’t believe this is it. I’m not ready.

“Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Don’t leave me. I can’t live without you, Mum.”

A voice comes from the doorway. “You have to let her go.” The plump nurse with thick ankles is standing at the door. For a moment she almost looks concerned, as though she may care. She has never showed any emotion or compassion before. And if she cares, she would help my mother instead of sitting on her ass.

“Get out of here. You don’t care! She’s suffering, and you won’t even help her! You walked out on her! On me! You are a terrible, terrible person!”

She sighs, but doesn’t move. Why the hell is she standing there doing nothing? And why the hell is she telling me to let her go? This is my mother, my mother , dammit. She is not just a patient. She is my mother. And I am not ready to let her go.

“Help her! Help me! I’m doing this all alone. I can’t do everything on my own! I’m all alone!” This is my mother. I can’t let her go. How can I live without her? I love her so much. We have so many things to do together. We were supposed to go away for Christmas. And there are so many things I still need to tell her. This is all happening so fast. It’s not fair.

“You have to let her go. She’s in a coma. She’s just holding on for you, dear,” she whispers, unaffected by my outburst.

“Get the hell out of here!” I scream. “Never, ever come near this room again. You don’t know anything and you sure as hell do not know my mother. She’s strong, she wants to live, she is not holding on for me. And you have never been nice to her, even now! Get out!”

I jump up and slam the door before she can say anything further. My mother is purple. Her face and body is bloated with poison. The crystal heart necklace is now tight her neck; the chain is about to snap from the pressure. I undo the clasp and put it around my own neck. I lay down beside her, holding her hand as tight as I can and begin to bargain.

“Dear God, I will do anything, anything at all, if you spare my mother’s life. You can have my arms, my legs, and all of my income for the rest of my life. Just please, God, please don’t take my mum away from me. She is too young. I need her. She needs me. Please God. I will do anything, I promise, anything at all.”

The wetness of the bed soaks through my own clothes, and I begin to shiver. I sob uncontrollably until exhaustion finally overtakes me.

“We gotta go,” the Drill Sergeant says.

“What’s wrong?”

“The croc pit flooded.”

“What are we supposed to do—throw them life jackets?”

“No. There are no crocs in there right now. We gotta clear it.”

The pit is heavily overgrown with reeds that are not allowing any natural drainage. Before the storm it wouldn’t have mattered, but now the croc pit has transformed into a swimming pool. Our job is to go in and cut clear all the reeds, which should allow the pit to drain properly in a relatively short period of time. In other parts of the world, this job would be easily done with heavy-duty equipment, like a backhoe. But here, we’ll use the ever-popular and versatile machete.

Ranger Frederick is waiting for us when we pull up. He is the reptile ranger, specializing in anything that creeps, slithers, or crawls. He is a welcome contrast to the Drill Sergeant. He has small, elf-like facial features surrounded by long locks of feathered hair—1975 Farah Fawcett-style hair, and a polite disposition to match.

He speaks Afrikaans, but his accent is much subtler than the Drill Sergeant’s. There is no harshness to his, and he doesn’t make that strange hhuucck noise that the Drill Sergeant does.

Rastaman is already in the pit, slicing through reeds effortlessly, making it look easy. Rastaman’s real name is Denver, but everyone calls him Rastaman because he is Rastafarian. He’s quiet and keeps to himself; to this day, I’ve never heard him speak. I don’t even know what language he speaks since here in South Africa, it could be one of dozens.