Darkness and Hope
Edwin lay with his eyes closed. I knew he wasn’t asleep. Two weeks had passed since he’d been brought home from the county hospital, yet never once in all those nights had he turned on the light. The lamp on the bedside table stood untouched, like a forgotten exhibit, beside his unused tablet. On the floor, a notebook and pen lay scattered. Whose number had he crossed out now? How many of the two hundred and thirty remained? Those numbers and birthdates were ones I’d dictated to him a year earlier, before yet another spinal operation—grueling, like a sentence handed down.
The memories of those surgeries still tighten my chest, freezing the blood in my veins. As a boy, Edwin had been healthy, full of life. He ran, laughed, played sports with his friend Michael. But one day during training, he collapsed onto his back and couldn’t rise. The ambulance, the hospital, three weeks of immobility. Relief came, but six months later, the pain returned—agonizing, as though it were wrenching his bones apart. The first operation, then the second. The pain would fade, only to claw its way back, relentless as an executioner.
After the second surgery, I stayed by his side. I begged the doctors to let me care for my son. The weight of grief was crushing, but a small comfort came when the student nurses arrived on the ward. One of them, Annie, took a liking to Edwin. Tall, with fine features, he was still handsome despite the suffering. Annie would have stayed by his bed day and night, attending to his every need. But Edwin only scowled when I mentioned her.
“Mum, why would she want me?” he’d say. “It’s just a passing fascination. I like her, but I’m afraid to fall in love. We’ll go back to our little town, and she’ll forget me. I don’t need more pain.”
He refused to give her his number. In the end, Annie coaxed it from me—both his mobile and the landline. They texted, called, even video-chatted. She promised to visit. Then came the third operation. It didn’t save him—it broke him. Edwin lost the ability to walk, could only stand for half an hour at most. His eyes sank into a sorrow so deep it shattered my heart. At night, I listened to his breathing, counted his pills, terrified he might do something desperate. My cheerful boy had become a stranger—short-tempered, withdrawn, but thank God, not bitter. I feared he would grow to hate life itself, to despise people for their joy.
One day, I peeked into his notebook. Annie’s number had been crossed out. So, she hadn’t replied to his birthday message, either. Edwin still sent greetings to old classmates and acquaintances, but silence was all he received. He struck out names with gritted teeth, stifling the urge to scream. Only six remained: Michael, Thomas, Paul, Natalie, Catherine, Laura. Thomas and Paul were schoolmates. The girls, I didn’t know.
But Michael—he was the friend from nursery. Since the age of three, when they’d been sat together at the same little table, they’d been inseparable. School, the gym, rambles through the countryside—always side by side. After school, their paths diverged: Michael went to university while Edwin, trained as a programmer, worked from home when he wasn’t in hospital. The company director, bless him, allowed it.
Michael called nearly every day. On breaks, he raced to Edwin’s side, regaled him with stories, made him do his exercises, massaged his legs, carried him outside. He settled him into the car, drove him fishing, into town, to meet friends, even to the seaside. He phoned me, asking after Edwin’s spirits, if we needed anything. Edwin would refuse, but Michael never listened.
Michael became a successful businessman, married his university sweetheart, Olivia. But their friendship never dimmed. Now they traveled as a trio: Michael bought three tickets, ignoring Edwin’s protests. They saw Italy, Thailand, Greece. Michael, nearly six and a half feet tall, carried his friend from car to plane. Olivia chattered brightly, shielding Edwin from prying eyes and pity. Women sighed at the sight of the handsome man who looked away.
Michael and Olivia thawed Edwin’s heart. He began to believe he might walk again. But fate struck once more. In the night, the hellish pain returned. The ambulance, the airlift, the county hospital. As they lifted the stretcher, Edwin managed a smile.
“Mum, don’t worry. I’m tough, you know that. Just don’t tell Michael, all right?”
“I won’t,” I lied.
Tears strangled me; my heart pleaded with God to spare my son. By morning, Michael came running, frantic.
“Where’s Edwin? I know something’s wrong!”
I had to tell him. By evening, he’d reached the hospital, ringing me later.
“Aunt Jean, I spoke to the surgeons. Operation in three hours. They say his heart’s strong—he’ll pull through. I’ve covered everything; don’t fret over the cost. I’ll call after.”
I prayed to every saint, begging them to save my boy. Michael reported the surgery had gone well, but Edwin faced months of recovery. A fourth operation—another brutal blow.
Michael and Olivia visited constantly, bringing books, medicine, a new tablet. They took me with them, refusing to let me think of expenses. Twice, I took the coach when business took them to Austria. Even then, Michael called us.
Edwin came home two weeks ago. He wouldn’t turn on the light, lying silent with closed eyes, as if afraid to face his fate. I shut his door softly, retreating to my own sleepless torment. No tears were left—they’d burned away the night I begged God for my son’s life.
At dawn, Michael rang.
“Aunt Jean, we’re back. How’s Edwin? Miserable? Don’t worry, we’ll shake him out of it! News—I found a clinic in Austria that treats his condition. There’s hope. Don’t tell him yet; he’ll argue. Ring when he’s awake; we’ll come with his gift, then explain.”
Three months later, Michael carried Edwin again—to the car, then the plane. Olivia, ever the bright spirit, fluttered alongside, her laughter chiming like bells. Their friendship was fate’s gift, woven with loyalty and warmth.
Two years have passed. Edwin walks unaided. He works, has a sweetheart now. Michael and Olivia rejoice as if their own son were born—little Edwin, named for his godfather. They brought the baby to us, asking if he would stand as his guide in life.
Edwin wept then—first time in all their years. Tears streamed down, washing away pain, fear, despair, making room for joy. We all cried. Only baby Eddie smiled at the world he’d entered.
And Edwin, wiping his face, said:
“Michael, even asking is daft. It’s the greatest honor. You know my heart. If you ever needed it, I’d give it to you—to keep you alive.”
