Spring Cleaning in Harmattan Season

I know, spring and harmattan have nothing in common and should hardly ever be spoken in the same sentence, but please indulge me a little.

I was reminiscing the other day about how the dusty dry winds of the harmattan season usually ushered in the Christmas festivities. The sweaters and socks were dug out from the back of the closet and somehow, there was always the smell of something frying, - chin chin, chicken, or fish, wafting through the house. Something was always cooking when the harmattan season rolled by, it would seem. The excitement was often so palpable. Now that I look back, it wasn't as though there was ever any big event planned, but the anticipation, the general happy mood of everyone in the house, made it all the more sweet.

But, harmattan in Lagos just isn't the same as it used to be those days. Or did I simply grow up to find that what I thought of the Christmas weather was all in my head? There are no more chilly winds, even though the dust has remained a constant. The most one would feel now, is a few days of lower temperatures just around Christmas day and it was all gone by boxing day. Maybe it's all in my head?

This past year however, Christmas felt a bit like the old days, with just the right temperature, humidity and pleasant smells. It was the perfect excuse for the sweaters and socks, but with the added, irritation of having to wipe the dust off surfaces more often than I would have preferred. The irritation comes from me not trusting myself to simply dust surfaces and leave it at that. Before you knew it, I would be turning over cushions, pulling down books from the shelves or rearranging an entire closet! Well, that's what happened on this day, where this tale of mine, is set. 

The yellow room, so named for all the sunshine that it receives, as well as its yellow painted walls, is where I often stored items of clothing or shoes that I wanted to give away. Because the room was not always occupied, the dust tended to pile on, rather quickly. Earlier that morning, I had gone in there to check for some fabric I wanted to give my tailor so she could have them with her when she started 'work' for the new year. I opened the closet, hoping to quickly locate the fabric, but a medium sized carboard box at the bottom caught my eye. It already had a layer of dust on it, enough to distract me. "Just a quick wipe", I thought to myself, as I dashed out to grab a piece of rag. Lifting the box, I was momentarily surprised at how light it was. Surprised, because, the memories evoked by that box were definitely heavier than I cared to remember. More than 2 years prior, the year of the corona virus and the notorious lockdowns, I had tossed that box in there, out of sight. It contained hard evidence of how my body had seemingly failed me. 

I sat on the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me and I drew the box close, dusting the top flaps with absent-minded motions, all the while fighting to keep the tears that welled up in my eyes from brimming over. These tears were of the mixed-emotion type. The ones you shed when you are both happy and sad at the same time. Just like one would look at a prominent scar on a visible part of their body, and be sad that they went through the trauma, but also glad that they survived. You get?

Finally, composing my self enough to forge ahead, I opened the box and saw everything stacked neatly like they had been, when I had arranged them long ago. Every vial, every cotton swab, every syringe, every needle, every tube, every blister pack of medicine. Everything. Still there, like they were from another time. But it had only been two long years. Please forgive my concept of time because those years appeared to stretch into a decade at least, for all that happened. 

Most of the drugs had expired. I noted the dates as I reached into the box to take the drugs and vials out, one by one. I paused long enough to recall what each drug was supposed to help my body accomplish. Sigh. On the day that I packed up everything, hubby and I had just returned from the laboratory where I had gone for a third blood test, in as many days. Up until then, I had no idea that people needed to test for the progressive failure of a pregnancy. Dr. B. had said it was important to test the hCG levels in my blood, over a considerable period of time, to ensure that the numbers were actually dropping. This was to rule out an ectopic pregnancy.

A mere 3 weeks before that, I had been beside myself with joy at a positive pregnancy test result for the first time in 13 years! It had been my 4th IVF cycle and by far the most rigorous. That box of drugs was my faithful companion for months and weeks on end. Everyday, there was something in there to help prepare my body for the all important work of conceiving and carrying new life. I had charts that I carefully studied, to know what injections were to be self-administered, what combinations of drugs were critical at certain points during the cycle. There were strict doses and strict timelines. Numerous visits to the clinic with the attendant prods and pokes. These amazing team of doctors, nurses, embryologists and pharmacists were working with me, encouraging me all the way. I was doing so well, too! For the first time, my uterine lining did look like it was preparing to receive new life. I had been told over and over again, how thin my uterine lining was. My body's response to the IVF drugs were always so abysmal but we always trudged on, keeping hope alive. That same hope brought me back the 4th time and this time, things were really looking up.

The lockdowns seemed like a haze to me. Who cared about the corona virus and the epidemic? I was on my way to conquer infertility! 2 days before I was scheduled for a blood pregnancy test at the clinic, after the mandatory 2-week wait (TWW), I had secretly bought a test kit which I used at 2:30am in the morning, when I was sure the whole house would be asleep. I wanted the privacy to grieve in silence if the abdominal pains and twitches I had been feeling turned out to be wrong indications of pregnancy. They weren't! They weren't! The lines on that test kit were as bold as they could ever be. I was astounded. Wait, wait. Is this test kit lying? I packed everything up and went back to bed.  But I couldn't sleep. What if? What if it's true? Dear Father!

I never said a word to hubby or anyone else for that matter. I tucked that secret away in my heart, hardly able to sit still as I waited to hear the doctor's verdict after the blood test. She was beaming as she announced, "Congratulations Mrs. Pedro, it is positive!". I didn't realize that the clinic staff were listening in on our conversation until the whole place erupted in shouts of "Praise the Lord!". As it was customary with the clinic, every positive pregnancy test was followed by a few minutes of praise and thanksgiving. As they sang and prayed, I remember thinking that I wasn't 'displaying' my joy convincingly enough. You know, after all these years of waiting, somewhere in my subconscious, I often imagined myself leaping up with jumps of joy, followed by a dramatic rolling on the floor, all the while screaming at the top of my lungs "Thank You Jesus! Thank you Jesus!". Instead, there I was on the chair, smiling and quietly saying under my breath "Thank You Jesus". I think I was just in awe.

In the 3 weeks that followed, support from my box of medicine grew even more intense. I had moved from self administration of the injections on my thigh and abdomen, to needing someone to inject me on my bottom. We were in the middle of a pandemic, where were we going to find a clinic that was willing to offer this little service. Mr. Hubby stepped up to the plate and became my home doctor of sorts. It was really brave of him considering how horrified he often was, watching me inject myself every single day for weeks on end. Everything was going so well, until it wasn't.

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