I woke up on Friday morning with all the things I had to get done at work on my mind and some severe pains in my belly, and the more I tried to get ready for work the harder it became.
I knew at that point I had to get to the hospital.
I managed to carry all the things I needed for work believing strongly that I would still be able to go to work after seeing a Doctor. My absence at work that Friday was going to mess up my whole plan for June.
After the long wait at the hospital and an injection and medications, it just made more sense to go back home.
I got back home in the afternoon feeling better and wondering why I bothered going to the hospital, I thought I could have endured the pain, used some pain medications and went to work instead. I tormented myself with that thought for the rest of the day.
On Saturday morning, I woke up with this pain again. No way! This isn’t going to take one more day from me. I took my medications and did my best to go on with normal activities. Until I couldn’t anymore.
By Sunday morning, I could not stand or walk on my own so I had to go back to the hospital.
After some examinations, the Doctor wasn’t quite sure what could be wrong; they needed to carry out some tests. He said I couldn’t go back home, he was going to admit me!
That was the first time ever a Doctor told me that. I have never been on admission at a hospital before.
A part of me felt relieved that this could mean I will get better, but I was so afraid. My eyes welled up.
Just the week before I had read a story of a woman who woke up with abdominal pain, went to the hospital, was admitted but died over the night due to nurses’ negligence. This story and many more filled my mind in just few seconds after hearing I wasn’t going home yet.
Then a Nurse came in, I don’t know her name, not sure I can even recognise her if I see her again. I was in so much pain, I couldn’t even see clearly.
I asked one question after the other, and she patiently explained what would happen next – the Doctor will come back to get me ready for IV fluids and they will give me some medications to ease the pain and make me sleep. But they will have to first move me from the examination room to the ward.
My glasses wouldn’t sit properly on my ears, my long braids were all over the place and she kept picking them off my face as I struggled to get up. She helped me sit me up and dashed out to get a rubber band and then she lovingly packed my braids making sure every strand got tucked in.
She held my hands and supported me as I was transported to the ward; she led me to the room, handed me to the nurses on duty and assured me I was in good hands.
In between the examination room and the ward she kept on assuring me I will be alright, and although I knew she doesn’t have the ultimate say in this, it was just so comforting.
She discovered two strands of braids had escaped the rubber band, she said something (I can’t really remember) about them that made me smile, and then she struggled to get them into the rubber band.
It was such a short encounter, and everything happened so fast. The time we spent together was probably about 30mins. But it felt like I had my sister beside me.
I ended up spending almost one week on my back in that hospital, and my braids remained firmly packed, but I never saw her again.
Many drips, medications and tests after, I am back at home. There is no single day since then that I don’t remember this Nurse, every time I pack my braids.
My name is Shola Okubote. I am the Publisher/ Editor of Woman.NG
You can contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org