The Death Photographer
Standing in Aminah’s room the door slowly opened and a head peeked through. There
was a Blondie lady standing in between the door smiling asking permission to come in. As
I gave her permission to move forward, she stepped in and shut the large door behind her.
She introduced herself as the nurse photographer. She walked over to me with a camera
around her neck and a bright red folder. She pulled a chair for me to sit down and she sat
loosely on the edge of Aminah’s bed. She began to open the bright red folder and out fell
two pieces of paper in front of me. I had seemed to catch them in thin air before they hit
the floor. Looking up at the nurse while arranging the papers she apologized and moved
on to why she was there.
The nurse photographer standing in front of me stated that she
worked for the hospital and she was there to offer me moments with my daughter
completely free of charge a courtesy of the hospital. I was confused looking at her as if
she was in the wrong room. “Photographer?” I asked, she shook her head and walked
over to the dry erase board in the corner next to the window and wrote her name and
contact information on it. “If you would like to have photos taken please contact me I
would love to capture your moments,” said the photographer. She walked over to the
table on her way out of the door and arranged the papers back in the bright red folder, she
brought the folder over to me and placed them in my hands, turned around and walked
out the door. I stood up and tossed the folder on top of my other belongings in the corner
of the room on the single couch. I found myself taking a deep breath to clear my
thoughts. I eased up out of my seat and walked over to Twin Aminah.
As I stood in front of her, I could not help but notice that her resemblance was not the same of her twin
sister even though they were identical I just did not see the resemblance. It was the
oxygen deprivation and all the medicines the hospital had her doped up on during her
stay. I knew those factors determined her rather sickly appearance. I hated seeing her like
that, so little and helpless. I did not want to leave her alone. My husband was not strong
enough for the visits. I found myself fighting for time with her, for he thought it was a
waste of time because in his mind she was already gone. I was still fighting though. I had
to.Everything in me wanted her to recover. I kept thinking about that photographer.
What was her purpose? What moments was she trying to capture? My baby was sick why
would anyone want to capture a sick baby. My mind began to wonder. I felt as though
she was some type of messenger, a messenger that I did not want to communicate with.
She made me feel uncomfortable when she was around. I did not like or understand her
acquaintance with me. The next time I seen her she was capturing moments before my
baby died. I knew there was something about her.
To be continued……..