The Final Goodbye

Amara Akwarandu sat on the hard hospital bench, her back bent, her fingers squeezing the paper in her hand like life itself depended on it.

Her eyes kept running over the words written there – BRAIN CANCER (PILOCYTIC ASTROCYTOMA).

The meaning refused to soften.

The line stared back at her, bold, merciless. And under it, the note that broke her soul: few weeks to live.

Her throat tightened as if someone was pressing it shut. She tried to breathe but air felt like hot stones in her chest.

The paper shook in her hands. It was not only the sickness eating her away, it was the finality of those words.

Her vision blurred. Before she knew it, hot tears had rolled down her cheeks.

She reached for her phone with weak fingers, the device heavy as if it knew the burden she was about to drop. She scrolled quickly, pressed Alex Spencer's number. He was her husband, her one person in the world or so everybody thought.

The call connected.

"Alex," her voice cracked, low, shaking, "I just came from the doctor... they said-"

He cut her off before she could finish. "Amara, please, if it's one of those small sicknesses again, just buy medicine. I'm busy."

And just like that, he ended the call.

The phone slipped in her hand, dangling as though it might fall to the floor. She stared at the screen, her tears running freely now. She whispered to the empty corridor, broken and trembling, "Alex... I'm dying."

Everybody outside envied her. They said she was lucky to have married the perfect man-the brilliant doctor, the shining star.

But envy was easy when they didn't know the truth.

It is easy to admire and praise a broken car because the body appears shiny and unarguably attractive. But not when you're able to take the key yourself, turn on the ignition and drive it.

Only then can your perception about that car change for the truth.

For four years she had lived with Alex, but she had walked through everything alone. He never cared what storm she was facing. When she fell sick, she went to the hospital alone.

When problems rose in the house, she handled them herself. And now, even as death announced its arrival, she had no hand to hold, no voice to comfort her.

Amara pressed the paper to her chest. The weight of the world sat on her shoulders, and she felt smaller than she had ever felt.

"Madam! Madam, please, come quickly!"

The sharp, urgent voice of a nurse cut into her sorrow. She looked up, startled. A young nurse in uniform was hurrying towards her, her eyes full of insistence.

"Please, follow me," the nurse said, holding her arm. "Dr. Spencer is around today. He's the best neurosurgeon we have. He might be able to help your case."

Amara froze where she sat. Her heart dropped. She knew who the nurse was talking about. She tried to shake her head,