Soft, green, huggable with happy, big eyes and a smile. His name is Fwa the Frog. Munchkinhead got him for me the day we killed my aunt.
Or at least sentenced her to death. It would be another ten days before she actually gave up on life. Ten days without food or water. Have you ever watched someone starve to death? The plumpness fades. The skin withers. The cheeks sink in. It isn’t pretty. It isn’t pleasant. But I suppose death never claimed to be pretty or pleasant, only permanent. Permanent, painful, palatable.
I replay the weeks leading up to her final demise. I question; I wonder; I believe we could have done things differently. I tried. Too little, too late? Perhaps. She was a fighter. she could have fought! Maybe? But who can fight without food or water?
“She’s not really here,” they’d say. “Her brain is gone,” they’d say. “See the pictures,” they’d say. “See the damage.” “In our expertise,” they’d say. But then, she’d wake. A squeeze, a recognizing smile, a tear. Awake. No food. Asleep. No water.
“She’s awake?! Then you can take her off the morphine. See if she can eat. See if she can drink.” But he was no longer in charge of her care. “She’s awake?! This is terrible!” She was in charge of her care. No food. No water. More morphine. More drugs.
I sat with Fwa. Fwa the Frog. Kufwa – to die. Ndafwa – I die. Bafwa – she dies. I try not to blame. would it have mattered? Who knows. I do not miss her now she’s gone, so I wish she’d stayed around a little longer.