I woke up to the sound of my alarm. It was still dark outside, and a heavy silence filled the air. I put on a long black dress, covered my face with the veil, and stepped out of the house. In the biting cold of the early morning, I walked toward the hospital, step by step. The streets were void of life and filled with silence, while my mind was occupied with the tasks and stories I would face that day—stories of pain and wounds that I see reflected in my patients’ eyes every day.
Upon entering the hospital, I began my work. As a nurse, I've grown accustomed to seeing signs of exhaustion and pain on the faces of my patients. But that day, a woman sat before me whose gaze was different; her eyes seemed to pull me into the depths of her soul. A weary face, hidden behind a heavy veil, yet there was a strange calm and satisfaction in her eyes. She had a slight smile on her lips, a smile that seemed to conceal thousands of unspoken words.
When it was her turn, she approached me with heavy steps, struggling to breathe. I asked her to sit on the examination bed so I could examine her. She introduced herself as "Gulalai" (a pseudonym), a 39-year-old mother who had already given birth to six children. Her face bore the traces of years of exhaustion and the passage of time, yet there was no hint of dissatisfaction in her penetrating and serene gaze. It seemed that she had borne this fatigue and burden for years with a sense of acceptance and patience, now concealed behind the layers of her veil and her gentle smile.
She placed her hands slowly on her swollen belly and smiled a soft, calm smile—a smile that seemed to hold all the secrets of her life. Her face showed more than just exhaustion; it held a kind of acceptance, a type of satisfaction that puzzled me.
As I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm and looked at the numbers on the screen, my heart skipped a beat. Her blood pressure was dangerously high—a condition that could be fatal for a pregnant woman. Worried, I asked, “Since when has your blood pressure been high?”
In a tired yet calm voice, she replied, “Since I got pregnant again…”
My gaze remained fixed on her face. Her belly was visibly rounded; she was in the middle months of her pregnancy. With surprise and concern, I asked, “How many children do you have?”
With a gentle smile, she said, “This is my seventh.”
Her words struck me like an arrow to the heart. I couldn't believe she had endured seven pregnancies with her exhausted, worn-out body. Her frailty and pain were evident, yet her eyes held something deeper—a kind of satisfaction and acceptance that I couldn’t comprehend.
Gently, I asked her, “Didn't the doctors tell you not to get pregnant again? This could endanger your life.”
With that same calm gaze and soothing smile, she replied, “Yes, the doctors told me not to get pregnant again. But my husband likes having many children, and I am happy to fulfill his wish. When he is happy, I am happy too.”
Her words seeped into my entire being. She had completely surrendered herself to someone else, giving up her health and her life to make her husband happy. With hesitation and sorrow, I asked her, “Have you ever thought about yourself? That your health and life matter too?”
She smiled even more deeply, as if her answer addressed my own unspoken pain, and said, “Since I can remember, we were always told that a woman must respect her husband and fulfill his wishes. Since childhood, the mullahs, the elders, everyone said a woman’s duty is to have a big family and keep her husband happy. Now that my husband is happy, and we have many children, I, too, feel content in my own way.”
With a face free from regret, she said goodbye and left the room with those same heavy steps. The silence in the room settled on my heart more heavily than on any other day. I thought about how many other women in this land sacrifice themselves for the happiness of others, without knowing that they, too, as human beings, deserve a life, joy, and peace.
نظرات
ارسال یک نظر