Just another day

One way I measure Love.

There are memories we bury, but they live in the perspective of the lens through which we view life.

How do we measure someone's significance in our lives? How do we know if we love someone? How do you measure caring for someone else? Can you care for everyone? I, with this story, attempt to share how I view it and the type of situation that shaped it.

Somewhere in 2014 lies a night I’d rather keep tucked away like dirty laundry waiting to be dealt with. In hindsight, though, it’s one of those days that shaped my understanding of what we mean to people—especially the ones we cross paths with every day and what it means to have a loved one.

It was 2014, and my dad had been battling kidney problems for some time. He’d have these episodes where his health took a nosedive, and my mum would rush him to the hospital, about 25km from his office and our home. It was a constant cycle of hope and frustration. His condition fluctuated so much because he refused to rest; his business was struggling, and he couldn’t afford to step back. The hospital was the Teaching Hospital at the University of Benin—UBTH.

That particular night, I was in the middle of Night class (what we called evening reading sessions in Uni), cramming for my final exams in the university, which were just two weeks away. It was around 11 p.m. when my phone rang. Seeing my mum's name on the screen, my heart skipped a beat—it always did in those days.

“Your daddy isn’t responding, he’s not talking to me, and when he does, it’s gibberish—please, come help me; I’m bringing him to UBTH,” she said, her voice shaky. There was something in the tone that sent chills down my spine. I’d heard her worry before, but this time, it was fear. Real fear.

“Is he saying anything at all?” I asked, my mind racing.

“I dunno o, he’s not making sense,” she replied. I could hear her talking to him as she sped down the road, “Mpa Ebuka, kudu osi eme gi?” (Daddy Ebuka, how are you feeling?). He didn’t answer. She hung up.

I practically ran from the class to the Emergency Room, dread sitting heavy on my chest. By the time my mum pulled up, I was already outside, waiting and hoping. The worst didn’t happen that night, but it came some five months later, on a dull Friday morning in the same emergency room where he would pass on.

When she arrived, I flung the car door open and helped lift my dad from the seat. He was limp, barely responsive. Together, my mum and I half-carried, half-dragged him into the crowded ER, desperate to find a bed for him. I rushed over to a nurse and explained our situation. She pointed us to a bed at the far end of the room.

But even with him on the bed, nobody came to check on him. Panic set in. I approached another nurse and begged her to help. She barely glanced at me and went about her business like I wasn’t even there. I trudged along pretending she asked me to follow her.

“Where’s your card?” she asked, without looking up. I handed her a stack of UBTH cards and receipts from his previous visits, praying one would be the magic ticket.

She plucked one from the bunch. “Take this to admin and ask for a wheeler bed. He shouldn’t be here. He needs to go to the renal unit.”

The questions flooded my mind. Where was the admin office? What kind of bed? How long would it take? What if he dies while I’m running around? Where’s the renal unit?

“Please, he’s not responding at all—can’t you at least help check him first?” I pleaded.

She ignored me, continuing to sort out medications for another patient. I felt invisible.

“I’ve told you what to do,” she muttered as she walked away.

I was furious. Didn’t she have a heart? My dad was lying there, barely clinging to life, and she didn’t care. How could she be so cold?

The night dragged on, and things only got worse. My mum sat beside my dad, trying to talk to him, but his words were slurred, incomprehensible. I left her there and rushed off to find the admin office, hoping against hope that I could get the wheeler bed quickly. There was a queue when I got there—everyone in that line was dealing with some emergency of their own.

I waited, impatiently tapping my foot, watching the clock. Eventually, I got to the front, handed in the card, and was told where to get the wheeler. I ran through dimly lit hallways, grabbed the bed, and sped back to the ER, my heart pounding. All the while, my mind kept flashing to my dad lying there, helpless.

We lifted him onto the wheeler and, after much back-and-forth, got another nurse to finally acknowledge us. “Take him to the ambulance outside. They’ll drive him to the renal unit.”

I pushed the wheeler outside and met the ambulance driver—or at least, I thought he was the driver. I asked if he could help us get my dad inside. He looked up and said, “My shift just ended. The next guy will be here in 15, 20 minutes. You’ll have to wait.”

I couldn’t believe it. I begged him—my eyes were practically pleading with him to make one last trip. But he refused, saying there was nothing he could do. My mum joined in, pleading with him, but he walked away.

Those 20 minutes felt like an eternity. By now, it was midnight.

When the next driver finally arrived, I rushed to him, panicking. He tried to start the engine but shook his head.

“Fuel no dey this motor,” (There is no fuel in this vehicle) he said casually, as if it was no big deal. No urgency in his eyes.

I wanted to scream. We didn’t need to go far—it was just a short trip to the renal unit. Couldn’t they make an exception?

But no, he said procedure was procedure. Hate gathered in my heart.

At that moment, I hated everyone. How could they be so indifferent? My dad was in agony, and nobody seemed to care. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

One of the carers—a man waiting outside—saw me pacing and suggested I wheel my dad there myself. It was at least maybe a kilometre away, but at this point, I was ready to do anything. He gave me directions, and I asked my mum to walk over when she could.

So, at 12:42 AM, I grabbed the bed and ran through the dark, pushing my dad, adjusting the blanket as I went. In that moment, I hated the hospital, the staff, everyone. I hated how they made us feel so insignificant, like my dad’s life was just a footnote in their routine.

After about 10 - 15 minutes, I finally reached the renal unit. The staff there took over and stabilized him for the night. I stood outside the door, listening to his muffled cries of pain, feeling helpless. A part of me died that night.

I wiped the tears off my eyes and went to catch up with my mum.

Growing up, I revered my dad because everyone else revered him; he seemed inevitable. He was larger than life, the family patriarch. His seven siblings saw him as the undisputed leader, and he carried that weight with pride. As the first son and second child, he was the go-to person for advice, support, and solutions. People constantly streamed through our home—family, business associates, neighbors—seeking his guidance, his help, or just his approval.

Like the proverbial godfather, he was the man everyone turned to, and he relished that role. Weekends and holidays were never quiet at home. There were always relatives, friends, and even strangers to entertain. He was the provider, the one who made sure everyone was okay. To me, he seemed invincible, someone who could never be broken. I could not imagine him in need, could not imagine him vulnerable. He seemed to talk and things would happen.

But that night, watching him struggle, all that authority drained from him, I saw the other side of life; no one is inevitable. My dad, who had always been at the centre of the universe, was now helpless, vulnerable, and alone, except for my mum and me. Where was everyone?

The contrast hit me hard. Once surrounded by more people than normal, the man had no one but his family to lean on.

For years, I harboured anger toward everyone who interacted with us that night. I considered them wicked and heartless. I imagined them in church on Sunday, singing and clapping without a shred of love in their hearts. I couldn’t remember their faces, but I remembered their indifference, and it shaped how I viewed help and needing help and assistance for a long time.

But as time has passed, I’ve come to see things differently. I’ve come to be able to be in their shoes, add some context and find a way to understand what their perception might be. To them, my family and our condition was just another day. Just another family with an emergency, just another body on a bed they needed to attend to. They would see 20 more people like us the next day, each with the same panic, the same desperation.Maybe they were used to seeing significance lose its weight everyday. Maybe being there in the ER all the time desensitizes them to panic; not perhaps caring (or appearing not to) is a shield against all the emotions the room can bring.

I would never remember what any of them I interacted with looked like today, but it was a lasting impression on me. I developed maybe a trauma; I lived with the thought that in times of fatal need, no one might help, and that reshaped how I thought about needed help or assistance for a long time.

In the end, maybe you’re just another day to most people. You’re something they have to go through- an interaction, a transaction, a random stranger, someone they have to work with, someone they shared a joke with, someone they have to work on and the list goes on.

When someone asked me once how I measure love, I said someone whose bad day won't be just another day for me, someone whose significant days impact mine significantly.

Only your loved ones will see you as more than just another person, and that’s why you do anything for them. Because, to them, you’re never just another day. You’re everything- and they’d see you at your best and be with you when it doesn't seem like you, and even when you're gone and the world forgets- you're always there—etched and Present.

That's one way I measure Love. How significant is their day to me?