At the end of the story
At the end of the story.
The stormy rain has come and gone.
We are now only different souls,
Shorn of the unifying fear,
Gathered at the foot of the whistling tree,
Peering into the early sunset.
Our stories have different names;
Our tears, different colors.
But, we have all felt the pleasure of sin and,
The sourness of purity.
We have all drawn the first tears
And everywhere, every crevice of our lives,
Bear litters of broken hearts.
Born to seek love and light,
We've been at war with our souls,
Searching for their faces
And always,
We are left with fate straws.
“You'll never find someone like me,
Your heart will be broken all the time,“ you said yesterday, when she walked away.
You gnashed your teeth,.
Praying for pain,
For her.
Then you sat down and
And your demons attack......
You remember Your own words,
During the summer .
“I have someone, I have someone else,”you said
to the other crying soul.
You laughed as she walked away
Her tears wetting the earth.
Now your soul speaks to you
Those words you never loved to hear,
“The journey is stormy,
And fair,
Like the waves of the old sea;
Unfair like the stories of war
And victory
And loss.
We feel the rattling
On the loose pieces
Of our fleshy boats and,
We get what we deserve”
You see it now?
A big round earth
And, we are all going full circle,
Scurrying around, like rats
In full glares of night light.
Round and round and round
We go.
The mirrors tell us.
........
So, weep not, child;
Feel normal.
Tell your stories;
Do not be shy.
Because,
“We are here, all losers
And then, winners.
Betrayed by life
Then, blessed.
Hurt people
Then, get hurt.
Love and then, be loved,”
The old sage said.
“By life,
By friends,
By the gods.”
It's a new year of rains and sun,
Of tears and laughter,
Of loses and victories,
Of hate and love.
It's a new year of glories.....
At the end of the story.
Saturday, 31 December 2016
Wednesday, 12 October 2016
Sommy
Sommy is like daylight,
Like the midnight breeze, during the season of nuptial dance.
She is like the voice of lovers,
In the early days of love.
Like the dew drops,
On the petals of a virgin rose.
There's a story, a legend,
Of years ago,
When the world was covered by a cloud
And, men and women faded away
And, laughter withered, like the dry leaves of the zinnia
And, hearts were parched, deprived of love.
The world was looking to melt.
Then came the cry,
Of a baby angel,
Soothing and charming,
Like her eyes, that glowed like diamond stars, like the eyes of the virgin mother.
Then, came her beautiful songs of years of love and joy,
Of laughter and dancing.
A fairy, the child of the world,
She held the ring of glory,
Turning all that came her path to
Gold and treasure,
Turning the fading people
To happy souls
And, all grew and bloomed, like the cherries
In the summer.
And the world was healed.
Let us celebrate this angel, this goddess. Today is her birthday.
Sommy is like daylight,
Like the midnight breeze, during the season of nuptial dance.
She is like the voice of lovers,
In the early days of love.
Like the dew drops,
On the petals of a virgin rose.
There's a story, a legend,
Of years ago,
When the world was covered by a cloud
And, men and women faded away
And, laughter withered, like the dry leaves of the zinnia
And, hearts were parched, deprived of love.
The world was looking to melt.
Then came the cry,
Of a baby angel,
Soothing and charming,
Like her eyes, that glowed like diamond stars, like the eyes of the virgin mother.
Then, came her beautiful songs of years of love and joy,
Of laughter and dancing.
A fairy, the child of the world,
She held the ring of glory,
Turning all that came her path to
Gold and treasure,
Turning the fading people
To happy souls
And, all grew and bloomed, like the cherries
In the summer.
And the world was healed.
Let us celebrate this angel, this goddess. Today is her birthday.
Friday, 19 August 2016
A song. (For Ifeoma)
She walks on the fluffy grass of the blessed,
With purified feet, like the new princess,
Like she walks on the warm floor of my heart,
Making me feel the footsteps of love.
I met her during the days of wet dreams
When the heart is locked in a spell-
The undying spell of affection.
And since then, I sing no more about the gods;
I sing no more about the festival of new rains, rather,
I sing of her, the fair lady
Of my soul.
Ifeoma is the fair lady,
Beautiful beyond words,
tugging on the hems of my life,
Moving me to her path.
She is the fairy in my dreams
That makes me plaint,
When I wake,
Her name on my lips
Now, I sing no more of the green ladles of the rose gardens;
I sing no more of the yellow women of the gold city
Because, Ifeoma is here .
Happy birthday, dearest. Cheers!
With purified feet, like the new princess,
Like she walks on the warm floor of my heart,
Making me feel the footsteps of love.
I met her during the days of wet dreams
When the heart is locked in a spell-
The undying spell of affection.
And since then, I sing no more about the gods;
I sing no more about the festival of new rains, rather,
I sing of her, the fair lady
Of my soul.
Ifeoma is the fair lady,
Beautiful beyond words,
tugging on the hems of my life,
Moving me to her path.
She is the fairy in my dreams
That makes me plaint,
When I wake,
Her name on my lips
Now, I sing no more of the green ladles of the rose gardens;
I sing no more of the yellow women of the gold city
Because, Ifeoma is here .
Happy birthday, dearest. Cheers!
Sunday, 31 July 2016
The baby angel ( for my imaginary little patient)
So, this little girl just ran up to me and hugged my legs. She held me so tight that I nearly fell, her face, buried between my knees.
I was startled. At first, I thought she was one of those children that ran around in the hospital, looking for whom to play with, not minding how serious and scary one looked; how busy and stressed one felt. Then, I was a little irritated. Which one be this one way wan spoil show for me?
I started to disentangle myself from her, in order to go after the fine lady that was just about leaving the hospital, after collecting the money she received for her drugs. She was a sales Rep, I thought. I loved sales reps .
I was so focused on her fair skin and round shapely body, wearing black jeans skirt and yellow top, that made her look like an over-ripe apple, that I totally didn't see anything good about what was happening around me, didn't see the couple standing a yard, away, smiling and staring.
I managed a smile, for the crowd of patients watching, so as not to appear, 'Obi okpo,' hard hearted. But, I was gradually, increasingly, trying to move the little girl away. Mehn, time was slipping away and I was on the verge of losing a fine chick.
But, the little girl held on, until I was about to shove her. Short temper is a bad thing.
Then, everything changed, when she finally looked up, with a face, so faultless and shinny and eyes, twinkling with something heavenly, glistening, and said "Mummy said you're the one who took my pain away. Thank you."
She stretched her arms and unclasped her fingers. "Here," she smiled. "A gift for you." She handed me an orange flavoured candy. Wonder how she knew I liked orange flavour?
"Now, I can wear my shoes and go to school and feel no pain." She hugged me again. "My teacher said I can match now and lead the band. I love leading the band"
Awwww! My God! I was undressed, disarmed, instantly.
Suddenly, I stopped seeing a little girl, with hair, packed in a huge pony tail, wearing a pink flowery dress, holding onto my knees and, started seeing a baby angel.
Mercy-Iroegbu Ugochi, remember those kind of angels I used to tell you about, when I visited often at 140 bedded?
That's exactly what the little girl looked like, at that moment. I was lost in her aura, in the overwhelming instant whiteness and innocence of her angelic form.
The crowd, began to murmur and say emotional things.
"Awww!" "Such a fine girl,"
"Doc, you have found a wife," etc.
Her parents started clapping. Her mother came and hugged me. I felt goose bumps.
Truth is that I couldn't remember taking care of the girl. And I tried to own up, to tell her parents but, they reminded me of that rainy early morning when I was off duty but, they had to plead with me and I had to, grudgingly, listen and then, agreed to incise and drain the abscess in their girl's right foot.
"It was on that day, that you were about to go out and we stopped you and asked you to help us, since your colleague was busy in the theater," her mother proffered, a smile plastered on her face, imploringly, as if willing me to remember
Then, i remembered. I remembered I was rushing out to go and meet a girl, on that rainy morning. Talk about history repeating itself.
I shook my head, a feeling of guilt running over me, instantly. I had nearly refused to help, to listen.
I looked down, at the cute face, staring at me and telling me something about coming back to show me pictures after the match past parade, and I didn't know when I picked her up. She smelled like a rose fkower.
I carried her into the consulting room because the tears had started coming from my eyes.
I sat her down on the table and looked at her, into her eyes and, I wanted to kiss her.
"I'm glad you're good now, and I'm sorry for shouting at your parents that morning."
I knew she wasn't listening and didn't understand but, I just had to tell her.
She had already opened the candy and was putting it into my mouth when chief called for me. And so, I couldn't take her picture before her parents took her home.
To be continued.
~My life, my story with the little angel~
©Nnaemeka Ugwu. 2016.
The girl.
So, this little girl just ran up to me and hugged my legs. She held me so tightly that I nearly fell, her face, buried between my knees.
I was startled. At first, I thought she was one of those children that ran around in the hospital, looking for whom to play with, not minding how serious and scary one looked; how busy and stressed one felt. Then, I was a little irritated. Which one be this one way wan spoil show for me?
I started to disentangle myself from her, in order to go after the fine lady that was just about leaving the hospital, after collecting her drugs.
I was so focused on her fair skin and round shapely body, wearing black jeans skirt and yellow top, that made her look like an over-ripe apple, that I totally didn't see anything good about what was happening around me, didn't see the couple standing a yard, away, smiling and staring.
I managed a smile, for the crowd of patients watching, so as not to appear, 'Obi okpo,' hard hearted. But, I was gradually, increasingly, trying to move the little girl away. Mehn, time was slipping away and I was on the verge of losing a fine chick.
But, the little girl held on, until I was about to shove her. Short temper is a bad thing.
Then, everything changed, when she finally looked up, with a face, so faultless and shinny and eyes, twinkling with something heavenly, glistening, and said "Mummy said you're the one who took my pain away. Thank you."
She stretched her arms and unclasped her fingers. "Here," she smiled. "A gift for you." She handed me an orange flavoured candy. Wonder how she knew I liked orange flavour?
"Now, I can wear my shoes and go to school and feel no pain." She hugged me again. "My teacher said I can match now and lead the band. I love leading the band"
Awwww! My God! I was undressed, disarmed, instantly. Suddenly, I stopped seeing a little girl, with hair, packed in a huge pony tail, wearing a pink flowery dress, holding onto my knees and, started seeing a baby angel.
Mercy-Iroegbu Ugochi Niteh, remember those kind of angels I used to tell you about, when I visited often at 140 bedded?
That's exactly what the little girl looked like, at that moment. I was lost in her aura, in the overwhelming instant whiteness and innocence of her angelic form.
The crowd, began to murmur and say emotional things. "Awww!" "Such a fine girl," "Doc, you have found a wife," etc.
Her parents started clapping. Her mother came and hugged me. I felt goose bumps.
Truth is that I couldn't remember taking care of the girl. And I tried to own up, to tell her parents but, they reminded me of that rainy early morning when I was off duty but, they had pleaded with me and I had, grudgingly, listened and then, agreed to incise and drain the abscess in their girl's right foot. "It was on that day, that you were about to go out and we stopped you and asked you to help us, since your colleague was busy in the theater," her mother proffered.
Then, i remembered. I remembered I was rushing out to go and meet a girl, on that rainy morning. Talk about history repeating itself.
I shook my head, a feeling of guilt running over me, instantly. I had nearly refused to help, to listen.
I looked down, at the cute face, staring at me and telling me something about coming back to show me pictures after the match past, and I didn't know when I picked her up. She smelled like a rose.
I carried her into the consulting room because the tears had started coming from my eyes.
I sat her down on the table and looked a her, into her eyes and, I wanted to kiss her. "I'm glad you're good now, and I'm sorry for shouting at your parents that morning."
I knew she wasn't listening and didn't understand but, I just had to tell her.
She had already opened the candy and was putting it into my mouth when chief called for me. And so, I couldn't take her picture before her parents took her home.
To be continued.
I was startled. At first, I thought she was one of those children that ran around in the hospital, looking for whom to play with, not minding how serious and scary one looked; how busy and stressed one felt. Then, I was a little irritated. Which one be this one way wan spoil show for me?
I started to disentangle myself from her, in order to go after the fine lady that was just about leaving the hospital, after collecting her drugs.
I was so focused on her fair skin and round shapely body, wearing black jeans skirt and yellow top, that made her look like an over-ripe apple, that I totally didn't see anything good about what was happening around me, didn't see the couple standing a yard, away, smiling and staring.
I managed a smile, for the crowd of patients watching, so as not to appear, 'Obi okpo,' hard hearted. But, I was gradually, increasingly, trying to move the little girl away. Mehn, time was slipping away and I was on the verge of losing a fine chick.
But, the little girl held on, until I was about to shove her. Short temper is a bad thing.
Then, everything changed, when she finally looked up, with a face, so faultless and shinny and eyes, twinkling with something heavenly, glistening, and said "Mummy said you're the one who took my pain away. Thank you."
She stretched her arms and unclasped her fingers. "Here," she smiled. "A gift for you." She handed me an orange flavoured candy. Wonder how she knew I liked orange flavour?
"Now, I can wear my shoes and go to school and feel no pain." She hugged me again. "My teacher said I can match now and lead the band. I love leading the band"
Awwww! My God! I was undressed, disarmed, instantly. Suddenly, I stopped seeing a little girl, with hair, packed in a huge pony tail, wearing a pink flowery dress, holding onto my knees and, started seeing a baby angel.
Mercy-Iroegbu Ugochi Niteh, remember those kind of angels I used to tell you about, when I visited often at 140 bedded?
That's exactly what the little girl looked like, at that moment. I was lost in her aura, in the overwhelming instant whiteness and innocence of her angelic form.
The crowd, began to murmur and say emotional things. "Awww!" "Such a fine girl," "Doc, you have found a wife," etc.
Her parents started clapping. Her mother came and hugged me. I felt goose bumps.
Truth is that I couldn't remember taking care of the girl. And I tried to own up, to tell her parents but, they reminded me of that rainy early morning when I was off duty but, they had pleaded with me and I had, grudgingly, listened and then, agreed to incise and drain the abscess in their girl's right foot. "It was on that day, that you were about to go out and we stopped you and asked you to help us, since your colleague was busy in the theater," her mother proffered.
Then, i remembered. I remembered I was rushing out to go and meet a girl, on that rainy morning. Talk about history repeating itself.
I shook my head, a feeling of guilt running over me, instantly. I had nearly refused to help, to listen.
I looked down, at the cute face, staring at me and telling me something about coming back to show me pictures after the match past, and I didn't know when I picked her up. She smelled like a rose.
I carried her into the consulting room because the tears had started coming from my eyes.
I sat her down on the table and looked a her, into her eyes and, I wanted to kiss her. "I'm glad you're good now, and I'm sorry for shouting at your parents that morning."
I knew she wasn't listening and didn't understand but, I just had to tell her.
She had already opened the candy and was putting it into my mouth when chief called for me. And so, I couldn't take her picture before her parents took her home.
To be continued.
Thursday, 5 May 2016
Crashing raindrops.
I was severely distressed by evil spirits, in the hospital, last night. The patients had been all comfortable, during the day. But, once midnight closed in and, I wanted to catch a nap, the evil spirits came. Then, suddenly, some of the patients started feeling unstable. One man stood out.
According to the new nurse, he had pulled out the nasal oxygen prongs that literally kept him alive and started walking outside, dribbling stool, as he walked, fighting imaginary spirits. When the student nurse came to the call room and reported to me, I wasn't happy at all. “Fucking hell!” I stormed to the ward.
I tried all I could to get the man back to his bed but, he refused. Breathing rapidly and noisily, he staggered right outside and lay down on the lawn, refusing all my plea for him to get back up, into the ward.
I tried to force him, to carry him, though carefully, so as not to illicit effort from him but, his wife and daughter shouted at me. "You want to kill him by asking him to stay on the oxygen," they raged. “That oxygen is not for people who'll survive eventually, we know that once you people start talking about oxygen that someone is about to die.” Shoo! I was fired up.
I wanted to shout back but, one look at the beautiful angry girl, shouting at me, changed my mind. So, I calmed down,even though she had literally untied the crepe bandage I had used to restrain the man and threatened to sue me if I put back the restraint and the oxygen.
"OK," I said, instead, and made to walk back into the call room. But, they wouldn't let me be. They continued to call me to come and save him.Imagine?
How could I save a man who refused to be treated? But, I felt sad for him because it wasn't the his fault. He was just trying to fight off death in his own way. When the kidneys and heart fail forever, the lungs are flooded with hypotonic fluid and the patient feels like he is drowning, no matter the amount of diuretics you administer, especially when the illness has lasted so long and the patient couldn't afford dialysis. And normally, the the patient struggles for air, till he dies.
The situation is terminal and definitely result in death when the said organs are no longer responsive to treatment. So, I decided to stay close to him, to reassure him and his relatives. It was holy Thursday, anyway, and watching a little while with Christ wouldn't kill.
But, I was bored and feeling sleepy. And Facebook came in handy. I read through, until I stumbled upon Pearl Osibu.
She's is always putting up interesting and at times, controversial updates and I was drawn to one that got me remembering things. I clicked. She was talking about sexual abuse/rape- how the society ignore the rape of men and boys. I read it. I liked it.
But,I was not very cheerful and I needed to be distracted from the heavy night, in which I was forced to sit around a man whose kidneys and heart are all but dead, to watch every detail of such pain, for the one millionth time.
So, I made an 'unserious' comment on that Pearl’s update, hoping to draw attention. I typed something about boys not crying out when they are raped because boys are not supposed to cry. I only wanted to feel less stressed, to feel less burdened by the fact that in Nigeria, we cannot save some patients because we lack the capacity, out of our own inability and refusal to build a nation.
I mean, we have the money to flood our health facilities with dialysis machines and build cardiothoracic centers but, we refuse to because we are wicked! And patients just die when their kidneys and hearts are too dead to respond to treatment.
The truth be told, what pearl wrote about is a serious issue. Boys are abused sexually, raped on daily basses. Defiled, their moral and physical integrity shaken and battered. One only needs to Google the rape of men in the Congo and Rwanda to know the crust of the gist.
But, it doesn't end there-in the shattered confidence. There's been more destruction beneath, devastating destruction, even as boys and men rarely cry out. My comment on pearl's update shows as much.
"Men don't cry. They aren't supposed to cry. They don't whine. They take the abuse and all, without crying; they should. Stoicism. No tears! In the hospital, I always carry some Candy or biscuit for the little boys who don't cry. Lolz! And I don't pet those that cry; I make fun of them, call them wussies.It's not patriarchy! It's just that men are men!They don't/can't get raped by women. Only men can rape men. Note: men and boys are the same. Boys are men and men are boys. #flees.”
That pretty sums up our attitude towards the issue, even as I made that comment as a joke on that particular update of Pearl’s. But like I said, children are persistently being messed up because of the issue .It is a problem with grave consequences.
Yo, as a doctor, I've seen people suffer, people of all ages. It is part of the job. But, some people's suffering stand out. The latest being, Chiemerie, my one time ‘friend in the children's ward,’ as the nurses liked to refer to him.
***
He was aged 15. Admitted on the day IPOB guys were shot by soldiers. He was very catchetic. Malnourished. Weak. He was so small that I was able to collect him with just my right hand and placed him on the green examination couch, which had just borne the body of the girl that had just died from stab injuries, following a brutal gang rape.
As I was going through the normal routine of history taking, examination and all, the IPOB guys were brought in. One of them, bleeding profusely, splashed blood everywhere. Onto my apron and unto the boy. My protective goggle was smeared red, too. I got alarmed and asked the nurses to move the boy away. Promptly, I checked the IPOB guy’s HIV status and he was negative. I was relieved.
However, the splattering of blood took my mind straight to what could be the reason for the boy's illness. It was very glaring. Wonder why I hadn't thought about it?
Perhaps because my mind was focused on the threat of violence that lay like a shroud on the southeast, during the IPOB protests. Perhaps, because normally, a boy of that age, wouldn't have HIV. But there and then, the rapid diagnostic test showed a double line. The boy had tested positive.
The parent's had thought his illness was just a normal illness and had kept him at home to be treated by patent medicine dealers. Blame them all you can but, I felt sorry for them. How could they have thought about HIV when they both tested negative for the viruses which their son carried?
But, I didn't tell them immediately o! I only didn't blame them for not bringing him earlier. Besides, they looked so poor that one would be forgiven for thinking they were too poor to afford hospital bills.
After stopping the bleeding from the shot IPOB guys, I returned to the boy. I looked at him and I had to flight to keep back the tears. “My name is Chiemerie,” he reached out to touch me. “I have exams next month. Please, doctor treat me so that I'll write the exam. I don't want to fail.”
“You'll get well,” I said in a broken tone. And we went to work on him. We worked him up, stabilizing him. Blood transfusion and antibiotics. And more investigations. The date was estimated, for the commencement of antiretroviral drugs. He would stay on admission for weeks.
Those weeks of pain followed. Pain from multiple needle piecing. Pain from seeing people die around him for the first time in his life. Pain from being forced to take bitter pills. Pain from watching his mother cry severally, on empty belly. Pain from the constant thought of death; that he could die at the time he was preparing for senior seminary school.
I paid more attention to him because I liked him. From the first day, he had proved to be very intelligent. Even beyond his age. He was funny too and passionate about things he loved, like football and liverpool fc. He knew all the players and all the teams in England. Sometimes, when I wasn't on duty, I took my laptop to the ward to play Playstation with him.
He became my friend. And the days crept by. And our hope that he could survive grew, dangerously high. Until he reacted violently to the antiretroviral drugs.
The start of treatment saw him get worse. He purged and vomited for days after. Sleep disappeared and he became depressed. His appetite disappeared, too. The little flesh on him melted away, leaving just skin and bones. One day, he tried to play with me but he could no longer hold the game pad. He said “Doc m, I think it's over.” The pad fell from his hands.
“You won't die, Emerie, , you are definitely getting well,” I said to him.
He looked at me and smiled. “Doc, you know why I like you?”
“No,” I smiled back.
“You know how to lie to people, enough to make them think everything is all right.” He tried to punch me but he couldn't. “You know I'm going to die. Please pray for me.”
Yo! Even though I believe that men shouldn't cry, I found myself letting the tears fall. His mother tried to look at me but, I hid the tears on the screen of my computer. I sent her to go check if the pharmacy girl had come back so she could buy the fortum ceftriaxone injection.
It soon began to rain. Heavy droplets falling fast on the roof, overhead, like bullets from a gunship. Emerie rejoiced. He loved rain and it relaxed him. Then, he told me a secret.
“I lost my virginity on a rainy day,” he began. It was 10 in the night and I was itching to go check up on the rest of the patients, as part of my late night round, in order to ensure that they were stable before the hospital slept. So, I wasn't really ready to listen. But, I had to.
Emerie smiled, perhaps, at my impatience, and said again. “I lost it on a rainy day. And I think God is punishing me now because I lost it and I kept it secret from the rector of the seminary.”
I sat down and held him. “You don't have to be thinking about such things now,” I said to him. “Men don't cry over spilt milk.”
He smiled and continued. “It was a woman who lived next door. She was beautiful and attractive. I even eyed her a lot. But, each time I looked at her, I'd go for confession because, it's a sin. But, that fateful day, I couldn't help it. I was 12 and I had gone to her room to give her her video CD which my mother had borrowed from her. When I went in, she was lying on the bed. Naked. My parents were not at home; I was the only one and so, she was not afraid to do what she did. She closed the door and asked me to help her bring her shoes from under the bed.”
A baby started convulsing and her mother started wailing. I rushed and aborted the convulsion. And, after watching the baby for a few minutes, I wanted to sneak away but, Emerie called me back. “You have to listen to my story,” he said. I'll die soon, you know.”
I rebuked him and sat down again. A little irritated. I wanted to sleep and the story he was telling didn't make sense to me. I had to continue to listen, all the same.
“So,” he continued. “As I was trying to bend down, she grabbed my waist, unzipped my trousers and put my manhood inside her mouth and sucked it. She sucked until it was standing still. And I felt some pleasure. However, I knew it was wrong and I started struggling. But she was stronger and slim and flexible. So, she pushed me down on the bed and before I could fight again, she placed me on top of her, held me between her legs and, put my manhood inside her and started moving her waist. I must admit I enjoyed it. And that's why I stopped struggling until I collapsed, tired. She told me ‘You are now a man. You are a strong man.’ I believed.” His voice trailed off. He had been stooling on the bed. He didn't even know. It was the smell that got me to notice.
I took the opportunity to leave, to go for the round. I woke his sister, on my way out and told her to go clean him up. I told the nurses to keep an eye on his intravenous fluids.
I left, having listened to the most influential story of Chiemerie’s fast dissipating life but, I didn't feel it deep in my soul. It just fleeted away like any other hospital story.
Hospital stories, at times, mean nothing to our souls, if they don't lead us to the patients cure. Especially when we are tired. So, I just went away, leaving the story behind. It would remain there until days ago, when I’d read Pearl's update and made my ‘unserious’ comment.
I was at the door of the female ward when I bumped into his mother. She was running, her wrapper flailing apart. The rain was getting stormy and the droplets were crashing on my face.
“What is chasing you?” I asked. But,she ignored me, shoving me aside, saying something about having seen her son's spirit walking away from her, into the rain. She made straight for her him.
She called his name. “Emerie! Emerie! Emerie!” But he didn't answer.
She shook him so hard, I could hear the rattling of his bones. Then, she let out this heart wrenching wail, falling so hard on the floor that one could be forgiven for thinking her skull may have been shattered. But, no. She hadn't broken her skull.
She got up again and fell. Again. And again. And.... Until she was restrained. Chiemerie had died, so silently, that I didn't even notice. Perhaps because that was what he had wanted and been praying for since the last episode of purging began. He once told a nurse that he was tired. He once told me “What I'd hate is a loud death.”
The rain suddenly came to an abrupt end. The weather was cold but, I saw droplets of sweat on Emerie’s baby sister's face
***
The evil spirits of last night were expelled by the first traces of daylight, like the first rains of March expels the stifling heat of the dry season. The patients were suddenly quiet and our restless man was still hanging in there. Should I say thanks to some more hopeful intravenous frusemide?
I stood up from the seat where I had fallen asleep and headed out to get some fresh air. I was at the door when a student nurse came chanting “Emergency!” “Emergency!” “Emergency!”. My leg ached and my head was burning, made worse by the attack some of Pearl’s friends had levelled on me for joking with something serious.
The sick boy that lay on the table, was foaming from the mouth. He looked 17.
Quick, we swung into action but, within three minutes of oxygen and insertion of intravenous cannula, the boy died. Resuscitation didn't help.
His sisters were talking about how it all started with a sudden heavy headache and sudden collapse and loss of consciousness. And how their father would be devastated. And how they'd been preparing for his University education.
But, I wasn't hearing them completely; what use was it to know that the boy could have had a ruptured vessel, bleeding into the skull cavity, probably an aneurysm? What use was it to know that something rare had just killed another boy, when a far more common evil, like sexual abuse and rape of boys, will certainly result to the death of many more?
Fuck this world! We have a culture that masks killer evil, in the name of..................
I was severely distressed by evil spirits, in the hospital, last night. The patients had been all comfortable, during the day. But, once midnight closed in and, I wanted to catch a nap, the evil spirits came. Then, suddenly, some of the patients started feeling unstable. One man stood out.
According to the new nurse, he had pulled out the nasal oxygen prongs that literally kept him alive and started walking outside, dribbling stool, as he walked, fighting imaginary spirits. When the student nurse came to the call room and reported to me, I wasn't happy at all. “Fucking hell!” I stormed to the ward.
I tried all I could to get the man back to his bed but, he refused. Breathing rapidly and noisily, he staggered right outside and lay down on the lawn, refusing all my plea for him to get back up, into the ward.
I tried to force him, to carry him, though carefully, so as not to illicit effort from him but, his wife and daughter shouted at me. "You want to kill him by asking him to stay on the oxygen," they raged. “That oxygen is not for people who'll survive eventually, we know that once you people start talking about oxygen that someone is about to die.” Shoo! I was fired up.
I wanted to shout back but, one look at the beautiful angry girl, shouting at me, changed my mind. So, I calmed down,even though she had literally untied the crepe bandage I had used to restrain the man and threatened to sue me if I put back the restraint and the oxygen.
"OK," I said, instead, and made to walk back into the call room. But, they wouldn't let me be. They continued to call me to come and save him.Imagine?
How could I save a man who refused to be treated? But, I felt sad for him because it wasn't the his fault. He was just trying to fight off death in his own way. When the kidneys and heart fail forever, the lungs are flooded with hypotonic fluid and the patient feels like he is drowning, no matter the amount of diuretics you administer, especially when the illness has lasted so long and the patient couldn't afford dialysis. And normally, the the patient struggles for air, till he dies.
The situation is terminal and definitely result in death when the said organs are no longer responsive to treatment. So, I decided to stay close to him, to reassure him and his relatives. It was holy Thursday, anyway, and watching a little while with Christ wouldn't kill.
But, I was bored and feeling sleepy. And Facebook came in handy. I read through, until I stumbled upon Pearl Osibu.
She's is always putting up interesting and at times, controversial updates and I was drawn to one that got me remembering things. I clicked. She was talking about sexual abuse/rape- how the society ignore the rape of men and boys. I read it. I liked it.
But,I was not very cheerful and I needed to be distracted from the heavy night, in which I was forced to sit around a man whose kidneys and heart are all but dead, to watch every detail of such pain, for the one millionth time.
So, I made an 'unserious' comment on that Pearl’s update, hoping to draw attention. I typed something about boys not crying out when they are raped because boys are not supposed to cry. I only wanted to feel less stressed, to feel less burdened by the fact that in Nigeria, we cannot save some patients because we lack the capacity, out of our own inability and refusal to build a nation.
I mean, we have the money to flood our health facilities with dialysis machines and build cardiothoracic centers but, we refuse to because we are wicked! And patients just die when their kidneys and hearts are too dead to respond to treatment.
The truth be told, what pearl wrote about is a serious issue. Boys are abused sexually, raped on daily basses. Defiled, their moral and physical integrity shaken and battered. One only needs to Google the rape of men in the Congo and Rwanda to know the crust of the gist.
But, it doesn't end there-in the shattered confidence. There's been more destruction beneath, devastating destruction, even as boys and men rarely cry out. My comment on pearl's update shows as much.
"Men don't cry. They aren't supposed to cry. They don't whine. They take the abuse and all, without crying; they should. Stoicism. No tears! In the hospital, I always carry some Candy or biscuit for the little boys who don't cry. Lolz! And I don't pet those that cry; I make fun of them, call them wussies.It's not patriarchy! It's just that men are men!They don't/can't get raped by women. Only men can rape men. Note: men and boys are the same. Boys are men and men are boys. #flees.”
That pretty sums up our attitude towards the issue, even as I made that comment as a joke on that particular update of Pearl’s. But like I said, children are persistently being messed up because of the issue .It is a problem with grave consequences.
Yo, as a doctor, I've seen people suffer, people of all ages. It is part of the job. But, some people's suffering stand out. The latest being, Chiemerie, my one time ‘friend in the children's ward,’ as the nurses liked to refer to him.
***
He was aged 15. Admitted on the day IPOB guys were shot by soldiers. He was very catchetic. Malnourished. Weak. He was so small that I was able to collect him with just my right hand and placed him on the green examination couch, which had just borne the body of the girl that had just died from stab injuries, following a brutal gang rape.
As I was going through the normal routine of history taking, examination and all, the IPOB guys were brought in. One of them, bleeding profusely, splashed blood everywhere. Onto my apron and unto the boy. My protective goggle was smeared red, too. I got alarmed and asked the nurses to move the boy away. Promptly, I checked the IPOB guy’s HIV status and he was negative. I was relieved.
However, the splattering of blood took my mind straight to what could be the reason for the boy's illness. It was very glaring. Wonder why I hadn't thought about it?
Perhaps because my mind was focused on the threat of violence that lay like a shroud on the southeast, during the IPOB protests. Perhaps, because normally, a boy of that age, wouldn't have HIV. But there and then, the rapid diagnostic test showed a double line. The boy had tested positive.
The parent's had thought his illness was just a normal illness and had kept him at home to be treated by patent medicine dealers. Blame them all you can but, I felt sorry for them. How could they have thought about HIV when they both tested negative for the viruses which their son carried?
But, I didn't tell them immediately o! I only didn't blame them for not bringing him earlier. Besides, they looked so poor that one would be forgiven for thinking they were too poor to afford hospital bills.
After stopping the bleeding from the shot IPOB guys, I returned to the boy. I looked at him and I had to flight to keep back the tears. “My name is Chiemerie,” he reached out to touch me. “I have exams next month. Please, doctor treat me so that I'll write the exam. I don't want to fail.”
“You'll get well,” I said in a broken tone. And we went to work on him. We worked him up, stabilizing him. Blood transfusion and antibiotics. And more investigations. The date was estimated, for the commencement of antiretroviral drugs. He would stay on admission for weeks.
Those weeks of pain followed. Pain from multiple needle piecing. Pain from seeing people die around him for the first time in his life. Pain from being forced to take bitter pills. Pain from watching his mother cry severally, on empty belly. Pain from the constant thought of death; that he could die at the time he was preparing for senior seminary school.
I paid more attention to him because I liked him. From the first day, he had proved to be very intelligent. Even beyond his age. He was funny too and passionate about things he loved, like football and liverpool fc. He knew all the players and all the teams in England. Sometimes, when I wasn't on duty, I took my laptop to the ward to play Playstation with him.
He became my friend. And the days crept by. And our hope that he could survive grew, dangerously high. Until he reacted violently to the antiretroviral drugs.
The start of treatment saw him get worse. He purged and vomited for days after. Sleep disappeared and he became depressed. His appetite disappeared, too. The little flesh on him melted away, leaving just skin and bones. One day, he tried to play with me but he could no longer hold the game pad. He said “Doc m, I think it's over.” The pad fell from his hands.
“You won't die, Emerie, , you are definitely getting well,” I said to him.
He looked at me and smiled. “Doc, you know why I like you?”
“No,” I smiled back.
“You know how to lie to people, enough to make them think everything is all right.” He tried to punch me but he couldn't. “You know I'm going to die. Please pray for me.”
Yo! Even though I believe that men shouldn't cry, I found myself letting the tears fall. His mother tried to look at me but, I hid the tears on the screen of my computer. I sent her to go check if the pharmacy girl had come back so she could buy the fortum ceftriaxone injection.
It soon began to rain. Heavy droplets falling fast on the roof, overhead, like bullets from a gunship. Emerie rejoiced. He loved rain and it relaxed him. Then, he told me a secret.
“I lost my virginity on a rainy day,” he began. It was 10 in the night and I was itching to go check up on the rest of the patients, as part of my late night round, in order to ensure that they were stable before the hospital slept. So, I wasn't really ready to listen. But, I had to.
Emerie smiled, perhaps, at my impatience, and said again. “I lost it on a rainy day. And I think God is punishing me now because I lost it and I kept it secret from the rector of the seminary.”
I sat down and held him. “You don't have to be thinking about such things now,” I said to him. “Men don't cry over spilt milk.”
He smiled and continued. “It was a woman who lived next door. She was beautiful and attractive. I even eyed her a lot. But, each time I looked at her, I'd go for confession because, it's a sin. But, that fateful day, I couldn't help it. I was 12 and I had gone to her room to give her her video CD which my mother had borrowed from her. When I went in, she was lying on the bed. Naked. My parents were not at home; I was the only one and so, she was not afraid to do what she did. She closed the door and asked me to help her bring her shoes from under the bed.”
A baby started convulsing and her mother started wailing. I rushed and aborted the convulsion. And, after watching the baby for a few minutes, I wanted to sneak away but, Emerie called me back. “You have to listen to my story,” he said. I'll die soon, you know.”
I rebuked him and sat down again. A little irritated. I wanted to sleep and the story he was telling didn't make sense to me. I had to continue to listen, all the same.
“So,” he continued. “As I was trying to bend down, she grabbed my waist, unzipped my trousers and put my manhood inside her mouth and sucked it. She sucked until it was standing still. And I felt some pleasure. However, I knew it was wrong and I started struggling. But she was stronger and slim and flexible. So, she pushed me down on the bed and before I could fight again, she placed me on top of her, held me between her legs and, put my manhood inside her and started moving her waist. I must admit I enjoyed it. And that's why I stopped struggling until I collapsed, tired. She told me ‘You are now a man. You are a strong man.’ I believed.” His voice trailed off. He had been stooling on the bed. He didn't even know. It was the smell that got me to notice.
I took the opportunity to leave, to go for the round. I woke his sister, on my way out and told her to go clean him up. I told the nurses to keep an eye on his intravenous fluids.
I left, having listened to the most influential story of Chiemerie’s fast dissipating life but, I didn't feel it deep in my soul. It just fleeted away like any other hospital story.
Hospital stories, at times, mean nothing to our souls, if they don't lead us to the patients cure. Especially when we are tired. So, I just went away, leaving the story behind. It would remain there until days ago, when I’d read Pearl's update and made my ‘unserious’ comment.
I was at the door of the female ward when I bumped into his mother. She was running, her wrapper flailing apart. The rain was getting stormy and the droplets were crashing on my face.
“What is chasing you?” I asked. But,she ignored me, shoving me aside, saying something about having seen her son's spirit walking away from her, into the rain. She made straight for her him.
She called his name. “Emerie! Emerie! Emerie!” But he didn't answer.
She shook him so hard, I could hear the rattling of his bones. Then, she let out this heart wrenching wail, falling so hard on the floor that one could be forgiven for thinking her skull may have been shattered. But, no. She hadn't broken her skull.
She got up again and fell. Again. And again. And.... Until she was restrained. Chiemerie had died, so silently, that I didn't even notice. Perhaps because that was what he had wanted and been praying for since the last episode of purging began. He once told a nurse that he was tired. He once told me “What I'd hate is a loud death.”
The rain suddenly came to an abrupt end. The weather was cold but, I saw droplets of sweat on Emerie’s baby sister's face
***
The evil spirits of last night were expelled by the first traces of daylight, like the first rains of March expels the stifling heat of the dry season. The patients were suddenly quiet and our restless man was still hanging in there. Should I say thanks to some more hopeful intravenous frusemide?
I stood up from the seat where I had fallen asleep and headed out to get some fresh air. I was at the door when a student nurse came chanting “Emergency!” “Emergency!” “Emergency!”. My leg ached and my head was burning, made worse by the attack some of Pearl’s friends had levelled on me for joking with something serious.
The sick boy that lay on the table, was foaming from the mouth. He looked 17.
Quick, we swung into action but, within three minutes of oxygen and insertion of intravenous cannula, the boy died. Resuscitation didn't help.
His sisters were talking about how it all started with a sudden heavy headache and sudden collapse and loss of consciousness. And how their father would be devastated. And how they'd been preparing for his University education.
But, I wasn't hearing them completely; what use was it to know that the boy could have had a ruptured vessel, bleeding into the skull cavity, probably an aneurysm? What use was it to know that something rare had just killed another boy, when a far more common evil, like sexual abuse and rape of boys, will certainly result to the death of many more?
Fuck this world! We have a culture that masks killer evil, in the name of..................
Wednesday, 10 February 2016
Until Bisi.
I've been searching the faces of women
For glimmers of life - green fields,
For my soul;
I've been looking for that one soul that
Makes red flames.
I've always sought Ecstasy
And sunset feelings,
In the eyes of women,
When it's beautiful to sing
With the night songbird.
I've searched for centuries,
Until Bisi.
I found it all in her smile,
Ladden with deep dimples
Full to the brim,
With milky honey.
I found it all
In the ever present dreams
Of a walk with her
Under the orange full moon.
She is a fairytale beauty
Whose charms has got me in knots,
Pliant to her whims,
From our first meeting,
On the white stones of yikpata.
She's the goddess
Whose Rain
Makes my heart green,
Alive.
***
During the last harmatan
As we played in a red garden,
My eyes spoke to hers
About deep desires
Of Lips, dancing
On each other.
And She smiled
Like the early lights of summer
To a soul, thirsty for laughter.
***
The night before had been ladden with rain
And, the night before that, with gloomy clouds.
Until she came, bearing that smile.
Bisi smiled and love came dancing
Like a bride. .
She smiled and the gloom
Gave way to cherries in full bloom.
She smiled and my soul danced.
Happy birthday, sweetie.
I've been searching the faces of women
For glimmers of life - green fields,
For my soul;
I've been looking for that one soul that
Makes red flames.
I've always sought Ecstasy
And sunset feelings,
In the eyes of women,
When it's beautiful to sing
With the night songbird.
I've searched for centuries,
Until Bisi.
I found it all in her smile,
Ladden with deep dimples
Full to the brim,
With milky honey.
I found it all
In the ever present dreams
Of a walk with her
Under the orange full moon.
She is a fairytale beauty
Whose charms has got me in knots,
Pliant to her whims,
From our first meeting,
On the white stones of yikpata.
She's the goddess
Whose Rain
Makes my heart green,
Alive.
***
During the last harmatan
As we played in a red garden,
My eyes spoke to hers
About deep desires
Of Lips, dancing
On each other.
And She smiled
Like the early lights of summer
To a soul, thirsty for laughter.
***
The night before had been ladden with rain
And, the night before that, with gloomy clouds.
Until she came, bearing that smile.
Bisi smiled and love came dancing
Like a bride. .
She smiled and the gloom
Gave way to cherries in full bloom.
She smiled and my soul danced.
Happy birthday, sweetie.
Sunday, 17 January 2016
The dark rage.
The boy.
Most times, when I'm overwhelmed, with work - those days when one has to do 48 hours straight, I get cranky and irritable. Lack of sleep and rest makes one feel that way. The patients never stop coming. Too many people fall sick these days.
On such a day, I always have a fight in my hands, a fight to kill the intense urge to tell the patients to just f***ck off. It's always a difficult fight, but, I always end up winning. Perhaps, because my introspect nature makes it difficult for me to shout at people. And I don't ever say it, "fu***ck off" . I'd end up making fake jokes to make them-the patients, and the nurses laugh. It's my way of fighting the irritability, the stress, accompanying overwhelming work.
So, on such a day, this young man was brought in. 12:30am and I'd been working 48 hours straight. I was tired and could barely walk; was about to catch a nap, on the examination couch, when the nurse called.
"Doc, anyi nwee emergency! we have an emergency!"
I was like "what the hell! Kita m si ka m zuo obele Ike. Na na way I just wan rest?"
I groaned. "Get out!" I glared at her, reaching to pick up something with which to chase her away. She ran out, laughing, knowing that that was my usual way.
I called her 'wicked' as she ran. I always blamed her for attracting too many patients when I'm on duty.
I grudgingly gathered myself, picked up my stethoscope, a continuation sheet and the lab form and went to see. I was still boiling with irritation and I had to do something to let it go. So, I called on some Sia and Enrique Iglesias songs. ‘Elastic heart,’ ‘birds set free,’ and 'Lloro Por Ti'. I played them on my phone as I walked, dragging my feet. The fire still raged, in spite of the songs. . God! I needed to sleep.
Then, I was out and I saw this young man's injuries and pain. A boy of 18. Fair and handsome. He was crying. "Mummy m sikwa m agana olu, my mum asked me not to go to work today," he cried. There was regret in his voice.
He was in severe pain. So much pain that any sane man would feel pity for him. But, to my surprise, I was still irritated that the patient flow couldn't Just stop already. I was tired and felt no pity for this young man. And my 'heartlessness' hurt me. I became ashamed, within.
So, I tried to be as calm and nice as possible. I went about it, trying to be the good guy, I used to be. In case you didn't know, there was a time, I was an angel and people loved me. *winks *
The nurses gathered our tools together: needle holders, artery forceps,toothed dissecting forceps, nylon 1 sutures, etc. I sewed him up or rather patched him up as much as I could, leaving the rest for my chief to do in the morning. But the work didn't end there.
I noticed that he was beginning to bleed from his penis, like water running through a pipe. His relatives started telling me about it. A nurse had tried to catheterize him in another hospital and had injured his urethral in the process. She had quickly tied the tip of his penis in a desperate effort to stop the bleeding. But, the piece of gauze with which she had done the knot had come off as we tried to lift the boy, revealing the bleeding. So I had to do more. And I knew. then, that that was the beginning of another night without sleep. I braced up. It was difficult to brace up. What could one do without sleep and food? Without strength?
I grouped and cross matched blood. Three pints. Transfused two. But, still, he peed it all out. We started looking for more blood. And more. Whereas the blood giving set dripped, the bleeding penis, gushed. His sisters started wailing louder. Because, death was imminent. His younger sister cried "that was how papa died after an accident." But, what we needed was blood, not tears.
The nurses and I were willing and we donated three more pints. Yet, I had to find a way to stop the peeing of blood or else We'd lose all the blood once more. So I packed his penis using gauze and bandage but, made it as tight as was safe enough, so as not to exanguinate the penis but, it wasn't enough. So, I had to hold the penis myself till morning. Clasping my hand around it to stop the bleeding. The others struggled to keep him down because the anoxia was beginning to make him violent and he was kicking and punching and shouting to be left alone. Perhaps, to die.
We were on our feet, as the hours crept by. Holding his life with our bare hands. He had to be alive before we could refer him to the teaching hospital or call the consultant. We just had to fend off death, till morning. So we stood our ground. We fought death, head on.
Morning came slowly and with it, varnished my irritation. A miracle. Dr Ozoemena told us in second year that without sleep for 72 hours, one would run mad and I was nearing 72 hours. I was supposed to be scared that I'd run mad. But, I wasn't. Miracle.
I gave the boy another shot of pentazocin and he slept off. The instruments were soon sterilized and an SPC(supra public cystostomy), was done. But he was still bleeding and I had to be with him till 9am. To watch out for any threats of death.
He survived, as daylight came in full flow, as the sun came up to the center of the sky.
***
I'll spare the rest of the detail for another day. But, let me say that that day could be the beginning of the end of my rage at this profession, my tacit hatred for it. At least, I pray it happens.
Pardon me for the rage. A lot can cause one to rage at hospital work. Like having a splash of blood from an infected patient. Or having a needle prick. Or having ungrateful patients say unfriendly stuff to you. Like the day a woman shouted at me for trying to cannulate her very sick child so as to give IV drugs which work faster. Or the day a man tried to fight me because I insisted on administering injections to his very sick child. Their reasons being stuffs like “the injections are getting too much. Allow the child to rest.” How can a doctor not give an injection, or cannulate a child just because the child is crying? I can't deal.
But, that rage, that anger is evil and everyday, many doctors are enmeshed in a fight against it. But, yesterday, I saw it go away for the first time, without much effort on my side. Even if briefly.
* * *
I was on night shift and when I Walked into the ward, for my evening round, I was..... you can guess...... irritated. As always. Too many patients, once more. But then, something happened.
Someone shouted "Praise the Lord!" I turned to look, and it was the boy. Chuka. The one we had saved three weeks ago. And, Instantly I became calm. Bereft of the rage.
My days, like yesterday, are always, in addition to being irritated , sad. Because one thing or the other always makes a melancholy like me easily depressed. But, once I saw Chuka's joyous eyes, I became happy.
His mother said "He is happy because you are the one on duty. He likes you because you never shout at people; he and the other patients, love you the most." I began to fight off tears. Those kind of compliments always melt my heart.
It was not the first timetime, though that patients have told me they love the way I'm always telling them "Ndo oooo," "jisie Ike," etc. And the way I make them laugh. Like I said earlier, I do those, not because I actually love patients, but, in order to fight my inner rage. Counter darkness with light, the sage said. It always works. My chief could be very angry, but you'd never know. No wonder he is among the very best.
However, the event of yesterday was different. It was the first time I began to contemplate loving this profession again.
There, lying on a bed, laughing and joyous, was a boy who could have died, had I not put my own suffering and pain in check, had I not put myself aside and put him first and what's the result?
A life was saved - the life of an only son, just like me. And for once, my recalcitrant depression went away in a hospital ward.
To be continued.
The boy.
Most times, when I'm overwhelmed, with work - those days when one has to do 48 hours straight, I get cranky and irritable. Lack of sleep and rest makes one feel that way. The patients never stop coming. Too many people fall sick these days.
On such a day, I always have a fight in my hands, a fight to kill the intense urge to tell the patients to just f***ck off. It's always a difficult fight, but, I always end up winning. Perhaps, because my introspect nature makes it difficult for me to shout at people. And I don't ever say it, "fu***ck off" . I'd end up making fake jokes to make them-the patients, and the nurses laugh. It's my way of fighting the irritability, the stress, accompanying overwhelming work.
So, on such a day, this young man was brought in. 12:30am and I'd been working 48 hours straight. I was tired and could barely walk; was about to catch a nap, on the examination couch, when the nurse called.
"Doc, anyi nwee emergency! we have an emergency!"
I was like "what the hell! Kita m si ka m zuo obele Ike. Na na way I just wan rest?"
I groaned. "Get out!" I glared at her, reaching to pick up something with which to chase her away. She ran out, laughing, knowing that that was my usual way.
I called her 'wicked' as she ran. I always blamed her for attracting too many patients when I'm on duty.
I grudgingly gathered myself, picked up my stethoscope, a continuation sheet and the lab form and went to see. I was still boiling with irritation and I had to do something to let it go. So, I called on some Sia and Enrique Iglesias songs. ‘Elastic heart,’ ‘birds set free,’ and 'Lloro Por Ti'. I played them on my phone as I walked, dragging my feet. The fire still raged, in spite of the songs. . God! I needed to sleep.
Then, I was out and I saw this young man's injuries and pain. A boy of 18. Fair and handsome. He was crying. "Mummy m sikwa m agana olu, my mum asked me not to go to work today," he cried. There was regret in his voice.
He was in severe pain. So much pain that any sane man would feel pity for him. But, to my surprise, I was still irritated that the patient flow couldn't Just stop already. I was tired and felt no pity for this young man. And my 'heartlessness' hurt me. I became ashamed, within.
So, I tried to be as calm and nice as possible. I went about it, trying to be the good guy, I used to be. In case you didn't know, there was a time, I was an angel and people loved me. *winks *
The nurses gathered our tools together: needle holders, artery forceps,toothed dissecting forceps, nylon 1 sutures, etc. I sewed him up or rather patched him up as much as I could, leaving the rest for my chief to do in the morning. But the work didn't end there.
I noticed that he was beginning to bleed from his penis, like water running through a pipe. His relatives started telling me about it. A nurse had tried to catheterize him in another hospital and had injured his urethral in the process. She had quickly tied the tip of his penis in a desperate effort to stop the bleeding. But, the piece of gauze with which she had done the knot had come off as we tried to lift the boy, revealing the bleeding. So I had to do more. And I knew. then, that that was the beginning of another night without sleep. I braced up. It was difficult to brace up. What could one do without sleep and food? Without strength?
I grouped and cross matched blood. Three pints. Transfused two. But, still, he peed it all out. We started looking for more blood. And more. Whereas the blood giving set dripped, the bleeding penis, gushed. His sisters started wailing louder. Because, death was imminent. His younger sister cried "that was how papa died after an accident." But, what we needed was blood, not tears.
The nurses and I were willing and we donated three more pints. Yet, I had to find a way to stop the peeing of blood or else We'd lose all the blood once more. So I packed his penis using gauze and bandage but, made it as tight as was safe enough, so as not to exanguinate the penis but, it wasn't enough. So, I had to hold the penis myself till morning. Clasping my hand around it to stop the bleeding. The others struggled to keep him down because the anoxia was beginning to make him violent and he was kicking and punching and shouting to be left alone. Perhaps, to die.
We were on our feet, as the hours crept by. Holding his life with our bare hands. He had to be alive before we could refer him to the teaching hospital or call the consultant. We just had to fend off death, till morning. So we stood our ground. We fought death, head on.
Morning came slowly and with it, varnished my irritation. A miracle. Dr Ozoemena told us in second year that without sleep for 72 hours, one would run mad and I was nearing 72 hours. I was supposed to be scared that I'd run mad. But, I wasn't. Miracle.
I gave the boy another shot of pentazocin and he slept off. The instruments were soon sterilized and an SPC(supra public cystostomy), was done. But he was still bleeding and I had to be with him till 9am. To watch out for any threats of death.
He survived, as daylight came in full flow, as the sun came up to the center of the sky.
***
I'll spare the rest of the detail for another day. But, let me say that that day could be the beginning of the end of my rage at this profession, my tacit hatred for it. At least, I pray it happens.
Pardon me for the rage. A lot can cause one to rage at hospital work. Like having a splash of blood from an infected patient. Or having a needle prick. Or having ungrateful patients say unfriendly stuff to you. Like the day a woman shouted at me for trying to cannulate her very sick child so as to give IV drugs which work faster. Or the day a man tried to fight me because I insisted on administering injections to his very sick child. Their reasons being stuffs like “the injections are getting too much. Allow the child to rest.” How can a doctor not give an injection, or cannulate a child just because the child is crying? I can't deal.
But, that rage, that anger is evil and everyday, many doctors are enmeshed in a fight against it. But, yesterday, I saw it go away for the first time, without much effort on my side. Even if briefly.
* * *
I was on night shift and when I Walked into the ward, for my evening round, I was..... you can guess...... irritated. As always. Too many patients, once more. But then, something happened.
Someone shouted "Praise the Lord!" I turned to look, and it was the boy. Chuka. The one we had saved three weeks ago. And, Instantly I became calm. Bereft of the rage.
My days, like yesterday, are always, in addition to being irritated , sad. Because one thing or the other always makes a melancholy like me easily depressed. But, once I saw Chuka's joyous eyes, I became happy.
His mother said "He is happy because you are the one on duty. He likes you because you never shout at people; he and the other patients, love you the most." I began to fight off tears. Those kind of compliments always melt my heart.
It was not the first timetime, though that patients have told me they love the way I'm always telling them "Ndo oooo," "jisie Ike," etc. And the way I make them laugh. Like I said earlier, I do those, not because I actually love patients, but, in order to fight my inner rage. Counter darkness with light, the sage said. It always works. My chief could be very angry, but you'd never know. No wonder he is among the very best.
However, the event of yesterday was different. It was the first time I began to contemplate loving this profession again.
There, lying on a bed, laughing and joyous, was a boy who could have died, had I not put my own suffering and pain in check, had I not put myself aside and put him first and what's the result?
A life was saved - the life of an only son, just like me. And for once, my recalcitrant depression went away in a hospital ward.
To be continued.
Thursday, 14 January 2016
My father's Suzuki motorcycle.
When I was a boy, in university of Nigeria primary school, I was always ashamed of my father's motorcycle, each time he came to pick me up. The other kids where taken home in cars. But, for me, it was that blue Suzuki motorcycle. I was always sad, each time my father lifted me up, onto the tank.
But, there's something I was never ashamed of. The love in my father's eyes, each time he saw me coming towards him and the pride in his voice, each time I did well in school. He would look at my report card and say "You did well, my son." Then, he would say, in our mother tongue, giving me a high five "Tijie m eka".
I wasn't always the best but, he was always proud of me and encouraged me. And everyday, on our way home, while I sat on the tank of that strong motorcycle, he told me stories of how the great men of ukehe all made it. "None of them had it easy but, with hard work, they triumphed." He always used prof Patrick Ngwu and Dr Nnabueze, as example.
Soon I was in ss3. I was stilI feeling down, each time that bike rode up to the front door of my class, where my father normally Parked it whenever he came to pay my school fees or give me books and the like. No longer ashamed, but, feeling down because I saw how my father was suffering to pay my hefty school fees. And each time, my determination to make him happy, grew a leap.
After one visit like that, when he brought me an iron chair, after the one I was using had died, some of my classmates, laughed at me, at him. It was sad. And I felt the pain. Then, I felt anger.
I quit the football team, the next day, and focused solely on my studies. I wasn't remotely the best in a class that had Ozioma Uzegwu, Godwin Kalu ukah, Chiamaka asuzu and nkiru Okafor, in it.
But, I resolved to put up a fight for my father. I fought and fought. I read and read and, many a nights, my father would force me to sleep. And one night, he even beat me up, when I refused to sleep.
Jamb came out and I was among the top 3 in my school, (for those that were released). And everyone in our street, talked about it. One man told my father, while they played draught, "Allied forces(my father's nick name), God has blessed you". My father then said "That's how he is. He has always done well. He is a good boy"
Waec came out and I was number 5 or 6, even though the principal, Mrs erojikwe, had called it first, perhaps because, she loved me too much. But that wasn't my joy; I was rather sad that I wasn't the best. Why did I let Ozioma, Godwin, Chiamaka, nkiru, Nnamani Kierian Chinedu, beat me? Lolz!
My joy was my father's reaction when he saw the result.
I had taken it to his office to show him. He wasn't feeling happy before then, but, once he saw it, his face lit up and, he punched the air. "Tijie m eka," he screamed, before giving me a high five and, barging into his oga's office to show him.
He kept showing everyone and I laughed at him, at his carefree joy. And that day, for now, remains the best day of my life, the last time I was truly, carelessly, joyous.
That's the story of my father's bike.
I remembered it because he just called to tell me he wants to sell that bike as scrap. But I said no. I've told him not to because I love that bike and I'm no longer ashamed of it. And I wish I could ride it now. That bike that took me to and fro school, hospital and church will never be sold.
My father is retired now and resting in his Country home. He is the light of his villagers and the chairman of every committee. He has a lot of passion for the progress of his people. And everyday he calls, he tells me stories from home.
He still tells me to work hard so, I'll become great, like prof and doctor. And funny enough, each time he says this, I get greatly inspired, like during the old days.
When I was a boy, in university of Nigeria primary school, I was always ashamed of my father's motorcycle, each time he came to pick me up. The other kids where taken home in cars. But, for me, it was that blue Suzuki motorcycle. I was always sad, each time my father lifted me up, onto the tank.
But, there's something I was never ashamed of. The love in my father's eyes, each time he saw me coming towards him and the pride in his voice, each time I did well in school. He would look at my report card and say "You did well, my son." Then, he would say, in our mother tongue, giving me a high five "Tijie m eka".
I wasn't always the best but, he was always proud of me and encouraged me. And everyday, on our way home, while I sat on the tank of that strong motorcycle, he told me stories of how the great men of ukehe all made it. "None of them had it easy but, with hard work, they triumphed." He always used prof Patrick Ngwu and Dr Nnabueze, as example.
Soon I was in ss3. I was stilI feeling down, each time that bike rode up to the front door of my class, where my father normally Parked it whenever he came to pay my school fees or give me books and the like. No longer ashamed, but, feeling down because I saw how my father was suffering to pay my hefty school fees. And each time, my determination to make him happy, grew a leap.
After one visit like that, when he brought me an iron chair, after the one I was using had died, some of my classmates, laughed at me, at him. It was sad. And I felt the pain. Then, I felt anger.
I quit the football team, the next day, and focused solely on my studies. I wasn't remotely the best in a class that had Ozioma Uzegwu, Godwin Kalu ukah, Chiamaka asuzu and nkiru Okafor, in it.
But, I resolved to put up a fight for my father. I fought and fought. I read and read and, many a nights, my father would force me to sleep. And one night, he even beat me up, when I refused to sleep.
Jamb came out and I was among the top 3 in my school, (for those that were released). And everyone in our street, talked about it. One man told my father, while they played draught, "Allied forces(my father's nick name), God has blessed you". My father then said "That's how he is. He has always done well. He is a good boy"
Waec came out and I was number 5 or 6, even though the principal, Mrs erojikwe, had called it first, perhaps because, she loved me too much. But that wasn't my joy; I was rather sad that I wasn't the best. Why did I let Ozioma, Godwin, Chiamaka, nkiru, Nnamani Kierian Chinedu, beat me? Lolz!
My joy was my father's reaction when he saw the result.
I had taken it to his office to show him. He wasn't feeling happy before then, but, once he saw it, his face lit up and, he punched the air. "Tijie m eka," he screamed, before giving me a high five and, barging into his oga's office to show him.
He kept showing everyone and I laughed at him, at his carefree joy. And that day, for now, remains the best day of my life, the last time I was truly, carelessly, joyous.
That's the story of my father's bike.
I remembered it because he just called to tell me he wants to sell that bike as scrap. But I said no. I've told him not to because I love that bike and I'm no longer ashamed of it. And I wish I could ride it now. That bike that took me to and fro school, hospital and church will never be sold.
My father is retired now and resting in his Country home. He is the light of his villagers and the chairman of every committee. He has a lot of passion for the progress of his people. And everyday he calls, he tells me stories from home.
He still tells me to work hard so, I'll become great, like prof and doctor. And funny enough, each time he says this, I get greatly inspired, like during the old days.
Sunday, 10 January 2016
Kisses. (for chidimma)
Flowery Princess,
Pure and soft
as Virgin dew.
You set my sail flying
from the storm
To the royal Bay
of the priest of the stars.
There,
I'm made to dance with
white baby squirrels
A dance of glory.
There, where
gold warriors are forged,
I feel the sweetness of smile
Years of strife has got me frozen.
Years of cutting and chopping..
But, now, you come in full bloom,
Taking off my black facade.
In your eyes,
I see the end of the mirage.
I see the beginning
of a warm winter.
The sun rises in your eyes
I am filled with light.
This is love.
Kisses.
At the end of the story
The stormy rain has come and gone.
We are now only different souls,
Shorn of the unifying fear,
Gathered at the foot of the whistling tree,
Peering into the early sunset.
Our stories have different names;
Our tears, different colors.
But, we have all felt the pleasure of sin and,
The sourness of purity.
We have all drawn the first tears
And everywhere, every crevice of our lives,
Bear litters of broken hearts.
Born to seek love and light,
We've been at war with our souls,
Searching for their faces
And always,
We are left with fate straws.
“You'll never find someone like me,
Your heart will be broken all the time,“ you said yesterday, when she walked away.
You gnashed your teeth,.
Praying for pain,
For her.
Then you sat down and
And your demons attack......
You remember Your own words,
During the summer .
“I have someone, I have someone else,”you said
to the other crying soul.
You laughed as she walked away
Her tears wetting the earth.
Now your soul speaks to you
Those words you never loved to hear,
“The journey is stormy,
And fair,
Like the waves of the old sea;
Unfair like the stories of war
And victory
And loss.
We feel the rattling
On the loose pieces
Of our fleshy boats and,
We get what we deserve”
You see it now?
A big round earth
And, we are all going full circle,
Scurrying around, like rats
In full glares of night light.
Round and round and round
We go.
The mirrors tell us.
........
So, weep not, child;
Feel normal.
Tell your stories;
Do not be shy.
Because,
“We are here, all losers
And then, winners.
Betrayed by life
Then, blessed.
Hurt people
Then, get hurt.
Love and then, be loved,”
The old sage said.
“By life,
By friends,
By the gods.”
It's a new year of rains and sun,
Of tears and laughter,
Of loses and victories,
Of hate and love.
It's a new year of glories.....
At the end of the story.
The stormy rain has come and gone.
We are now only different souls,
Shorn of the unifying fear,
Gathered at the foot of the whistling tree,
Peering into the early sunset.
Our stories have different names;
Our tears, different colors.
But, we have all felt the pleasure of sin and,
The sourness of purity.
We have all drawn the first tears
And everywhere, every crevice of our lives,
Bear litters of broken hearts.
Born to seek love and light,
We've been at war with our souls,
Searching for their faces
And always,
We are left with fate straws.
“You'll never find someone like me,
Your heart will be broken all the time,“ you said yesterday, when she walked away.
You gnashed your teeth,.
Praying for pain,
For her.
Then you sat down and
And your demons attack......
You remember Your own words,
During the summer .
“I have someone, I have someone else,”you said
to the other crying soul.
You laughed as she walked away
Her tears wetting the earth.
Now your soul speaks to you
Those words you never loved to hear,
“The journey is stormy,
And fair,
Like the waves of the old sea;
Unfair like the stories of war
And victory
And loss.
We feel the rattling
On the loose pieces
Of our fleshy boats and,
We get what we deserve”
You see it now?
A big round earth
And, we are all going full circle,
Scurrying around, like rats
In full glares of night light.
Round and round and round
We go.
The mirrors tell us.
........
So, weep not, child;
Feel normal.
Tell your stories;
Do not be shy.
Because,
“We are here, all losers
And then, winners.
Betrayed by life
Then, blessed.
Hurt people
Then, get hurt.
Love and then, be loved,”
The old sage said.
“By life,
By friends,
By the gods.”
It's a new year of rains and sun,
Of tears and laughter,
Of loses and victories,
Of hate and love.
It's a new year of glories.....
At the end of the story.
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