Invaluable Treasures
by Chimnonso Zoe Umeh
Honorable Mention in Zinc’s 2022 College Essay Contest
The relic catches my attention while I am scrubbing dirty dishes in preparation for dinner.
The dulled treasure sits in my periphery, hidden below our front porch. A four-legged, portable toilet that had once been an essential piece of furniture in my home is now concealed by a sheer coating of dirt, away from the fading sunlight, secluded and seemingly worthless. One glimpse at the commode returns a plethora of complicated memories that I associate with the demoralizing and nurturing object. As I prepare to make fufu, I feel my mind transition to a typical evening before my grandmother passed.
An endless line of pill bottles decorated my family’s dining room counter. I stared, intimidated by our personal pharmaceutical supply, while slowly recalling the various medications I needed to give my grandmother.
“Gabapentin, Docusate, Omeprazole, Metformin...” I whispered to myself while compiling the medication in a tiny cup.
Her cancer, Multiple Myeloma, had exacerbated to the point where our dining room became her bedroom and her bed replaced our dining room table. Peeking over my shoulder, I took in my grandmother’s disoriented expression. Because of the placement of her bed, her sightlines were limited to the front door of our house, the kitchen, and the dining room. “Time for your medicine,” I told her as I turned around. Our daily routine created cognitive dissonance. It felt so natural at this point, but I always thought about how difficult it must be for her.
My grandmother eased her body up to the headboard so she could properly swallow the handful of medication. Her veins conspicuously showed as she opened her mouth wide. I released the medication into her mouth then quickly poured down some water. My grandmother sat stoically on her bed. Somehow, she always swallowed the pills all at once.
“Dalu,” she said with a gentle grin. Thank you.
The thought of my grandmother’s tired smile reminded me of her persistent resilience. I missed the pungent smells of Ogbono soup that pervaded the house and penetrated our jackets, and even shoes, when my grandmother was well enough to cook.
Shifting focus, I return to the present. As I fill a pot with water, a visceral sensation crawls along my skin. I had taken care of my grandmother since I was fourteen, attempting to balance home and school life. Now eighteen, I find myself centering my thoughts on what I could have done better.
Placing the heavy pot on the stove to boil, I turn to find the container of pounded yam. I mindlessly pour a cup of yam into the pot and slowly mix until a thick consistency forms. Yawning, I reach my arm to the ceiling, attempting to relieve myself of the laborious grinding and twirling of my arm.
From my grandmother, I was forced to learn patience. My ability to cook a tedious dish, like fufu, resonated in my attempts to take care of her. There were recurring moments when her cancer medication would alter her memory and ability to move. Having to balance these stressful moments with completing school assignments tended to lead me down paths of unwavering anger and exhaustion. These moments forced me into a position of seeking to properly understand her condition.
With Grandma gone, I redirected the energy of caring for her into caring for myself. I fed my mind with books on growth and perseverance, indulged in conversations on dealing with loss, and applied patience and understanding to my school and family relationships. Through the lens of my archive of memories, the dining room now seemed duller. Though my grandmother’s bed has been replaced with our dining room table, I continue to miss its presence and the way it filled the room and centered my family. Our dining room will always be a hub of remembering the past phases of my life, phases that taught me patience, understanding, and growth.
Invaluable treasures.