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. 

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.

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.