Copy of Writings
Sisters of Mercy Convalescent Home
Kericho, Kenya, August, 2013
I TURNED SEVENTEEN in the ICU ward of Saint Seraphina Hospital. I was sixteen when I died. A week before my seventeenth birthday but like His only begotten Son I’d returned. I wasn’t gone for three days though so my resurrection wasn’t nearly as spectacular. I’d checked out for a minute. Well, a fraction of a minute really. They said my heart had gone quiet. That they thought they’d lost me when it suddenly started beating. Erratically at first,
and then resolutely.
Confirming their suspicion that inside my battered body was a fighter. A girl who was determined to live. And live I would. I wouldn’t have known that I’d nearly met my maker five weeks ago if they hadn’t told me. Same way I wouldn’thave known that I’d nearly died before I was born if Sunny hadn’t told me.
Both of my second chances seem like punishments though. The first one mum’s, forced to raise a child she wasn’t ready for, and the second one mine, shoved back into a world I would have been eager to leave what with the way things had turned out. So when the nurses at St. Seraphina Hospital brought in the bright balloons and Black Forest
cake and made a fuss of my return, I couldn’t help but think that someone up there was shaking his head sardonically and saying, “You don’t get off that easily,
Camellia. No, no, no, you don’t.”