I have always had an unexplained dislike
for the colour red. Perhaps, it is because somewhere in my subconscious I have
associated it with danger or blood. However, in the morning of Thursday, February
23, 2006, I put on an oxblood shirt and a red-brown-black blend tie over black
trousers to go to work which I just resumed two days before.
Having only completed my National Youth Service in September of the previous year, I thought I was rather fortunate to have landed that job, considering I did not have to stay at home for long. So it was with great expectations that I commenced training on the job. I remembered praying that morning as I always do before setting out, for God’s protection.
Having only completed my National Youth Service in September of the previous year, I thought I was rather fortunate to have landed that job, considering I did not have to stay at home for long. So it was with great expectations that I commenced training on the job. I remembered praying that morning as I always do before setting out, for God’s protection.
After a rather hitch free commuting via
public transport from Ajah to Airport road where the headquarters of the
company is located, I had an exciting day at work and before the close of
business that day, I was given an invitation to attend the company’s annual
retreat which was holding at Nike Lake resort in Enugu that year. Things were
looking great! I was excited about the retreat of the following week as I had
never been to the eastern part of Nigeria before that time.
Here was I, fresh from school with a law
degree, NYSC behind me, and a promising job ahead of me. Life was good! Those
were my thoughts as I made my way back home. At Oshodi, I boarded a non-stop
bus to Ajah. Since I was the first to
get into the vehicle, I took the front seat as it usually has more room. Soon
after, a male passenger came to join me in front and I made room for him to
take the inner seat while I retained my window seat. I would never know now,
how that decision played out.
As the now filled bus made its way
towards the third mainland bridge, the ride was smooth, things looked normal.
When the driver started to ascend the bridge, at the intersection where the
road forks towards Ibadan expressway to the left
and Lagos Island to the right, he should move
towards the right and continue on the bridge. I just started to think that the
vehicle was too close to the kerb and… (I didn’t quite finish the thought) when
everything happened in surreal slow motion in my mind. The driver violently hit the kerb with the
left wheel, which made the bus travelling at about 100 km/per hour careened out
of balance, fell on my side and continued sliding on the concrete highway till
it spent its velocity and came to an abrupt halt right in the middle of the
road. Fortunately, there was no other vehicle coming behind to run us over.
The noise of the crash was deafening. The
windshield had shattered to a thousand places sending pieces of glass fiber
everywhere. Metal had squeezed, seats were pushed into each other and there was
silence for a fraction of a second before the cries, wailings, and screams
emanated from all around as if people were zoned back into the present to
confront the horrors.
It has often been said that people who
have had near death experiences usually see their lives flash before them. It
is true!
I must have been disoriented for a few
moments until the noises started and I realized I was not pinned down. I came
out of the vehicle through the space where the windshield used to be and sat by
the kerb of the highway. It was when I tried to assess my situation to know if
I sustained injuries or not that I discovered my right palm had been badly
mangled. I could see my right index finger hanging by a shred of skin, the
other fingers were also broken with gaping wounds; I could see the bones,
ligaments and all the stuff that flesh used to cover. And there was blood! I
remember it just kept pouring from my hand wetting the pavement in front of me.
(pix: nairaland)
(pix: nairaland)
Then sympathizers from nearby and fellow passengers who were lucky not to have sustained injuries crowded around me, putting their hands on their heads, screaming as they looked at my injury and generally mourning my plight better than I was doing with my shocked silence. I couldn’t tell if other passengers sustained injuries as well, seeing I was in a critical condition which was already raising a lot of concern at the scene of the accident.
I soon realized the injury to my palm
resulted when the vehicle came down on my side and I had on reflex, tried to
use my hand to break my fall and prevent my head from hitting the concrete highway;
even as the vehicle continued its sideways slide thereby crushing my palm to
pieces. Amidst the chaos, one woman who could no longer stand the sight of my
now torn bleeding palm, threw what I thought was either her headgear or her
baby’s dress over my injury to cover it.
From when the accident happened till I
came out of the vehicle was not up to two minutes. But it felt like a lifetime
already. One sympathizer suggested I started walking to a nearby hospital.
While we made our way towards the base of the bridge, the pain kicked in and it
wasn’t just from my hand that it was coming from but all over my body.
I realized at some point that the MP3
music device I had plugged to my ear before the accident, kept on playing.
Before yanking it off, I had wondered how strange it was that my life was
threatened and the music just continued playing undisturbed by the chaos
surrounding me. I also realized I had left the folder containing the letter
inviting me to the company’s retreat in Enugu
and some other documents at the scene of the accident. It was amazing how
everything was looking bright and beautiful one moment, only for hell to break
lose without any warning the next.
After walking about 300 meters , we got to the
hospital at Bariga where I barged in screaming ‘I need a doctor’ even as I
continued down the hallway, looking for anyone who could attend to me. I
remembered the lady at the reception had run after me, trying to get me to calm
down even as my hand kept dripping blood all over the place. The doctor that
showed up almost immediately removed the piece of cloth that lady had placed
over my hand at the accident scene, took one look at my injury and declared it
too severe; that I needed to see a trauma surgeon right away. He referred me to the National Orthopedic
hospital at Igbobi. I froze!
It was then I realized the magnitude of
my injuries. It occurred to me then that I was encountering the Nigerian
medical service issues. I started remembering all the stories I had heard
regarding government owned hospitals. I became afraid. I had just survived an
accident, but now I would be at the mercy the Nigerian medical system with its
poor facilities and ill motivated personnel who could embark on strike action even
the next day. I became very afraid, because prior to that accident I had never
been an in-patient in any hospital my whole life.
As the doctor made to leave after
delivering his gloomy news, I suggested to him if I could at least get some
medication for the pain that was shooting all over my body. He thought about it
for a second and agreed. After instructing a nurse standing by on what drugs I
should be administered with, he left. The nurse made sure I paid for the
medication before it was administered. I have always wondered how medical
practitioners around here always insist on fees before attending to people even
in emergency situations. Anyway, I paid, got my medication that gave me
temporary relief from the pains; abandoned my change and returned to the
reception area of the hospital to figure out how to get to the orthopedic
hospital.
(pix:vconnect)
(pix:vconnect)
At this point, I tried to call my brother
Israel
with whom I lived then; but his phone just kept ringing till I remembered he
was in church that evening and eventually sent him a text message. I called my
friend Hycent, but he was far off too.
As I sat there wondering how I would get a taxi to Igbobi hospital, one
gentleman who had just brought his daughter to the hospital came over to me and
inquired what the matter was. After narrating my ordeal to him, he volunteered
to ask his driver to take me to the orthopedic hospital. Before we left, he
gave his driver some money to pay for whatever I may be required to and stay
with me till people I had called showed up. I could not believe my fortune.
Despite what anyone thinks about Nigerians, there are still a few good men
around here. Even though the bible account of the Good Samaritan was only a
story, I knew I had encountered an individual with a kind heart like the
Samaritan in Lagos .
I managed to get his phone number before the driver and I set out. I remember
taking my necktie off and dumping it at the reception and parting with it and
its red colour permanently.
As we arrived at Igbobi hospital, I suddenly
remembered Tutu, a family friend who lived in that neighbourhood and promptly
called her. She showed up almost immediately.
Upon entering the emergency section of the hospital, I was put on a bed,
even as my personal data was collected.
A doctor soon emerged with a nurse and some kit, to work on my hand.
They had to cut my shirt away before pouring saline over my wound to get dirt
off and started to stitch what parts they could.
Just as I was beginning to think that
okay, I was getting attended to quickly and efficiently, a government hospital
may not be that bad after all, the power went out! Fear gripped my throat
afresh. To my shock, the nurse casually whipped out her mobile phone and held
it over my hand to give light to the doctor doing the suturing, even as they
continued their subtle conversation under their surgical masks unfazed. I
realized that, that situation must have played out so often they were now used
to power going off in the middle of a procedure. Soon they were done, and
swathed my hand in gauze.
It was at this point that the driver of
that kind man (whose name I never got) left, sure that I was safe. By this time
my friends Tutu and Hycent had arrived. Soon after, my brother arrived with
some church members. In a way, I had felt sorry for them all. To get that kind
of news after a long, hard day’s work must be overwhelming and frightening.
The attending doctor on duty that night
came to assess my injuries and told me frankly that my hand would not be the
same again. He confessed to not guaranteeing what fingers they would be able to
save. But he was sure the index finger on my right hand was gone seeing it was
barely hanging by a slice of skin and I had left part of its bones at the scene
of the accident. The ring finger next to it was so severely damaged too, he
could only hope it would survive. As I looked at him blankly, he asked if I
understood what he was saying. I merely asked him if I would be able to write
again. He gave me his optimism and left.
Prof Onyebuchi Chukwu
Until recently, Nigeria's Minister of Health
(pix: Nigeria.gov)
With nothing left to do afterwards, the
family and friends who had responded to my distress call, called it a night and
agreed to be with me the next day. I spent that night at the emergency ward,
surrounded by accident victims of varying magnitude. Sleep would finally put me
out of my misery even as I hoped the whole surreal event of the day was a bad
dream from which I would wake up. That
was how I spent my first night ever on a hospital bed.
It was the pains that woke me up the next
morning, dragging me back to my shocking, painful reality. It wasn’t a dream
after all. The day began with the doctor from the previous night coming to
check on me. When he removed the gauze covering my injury, my index finger
still hanging by the shred of skin had lost colour and turned a deathly grey. The
ring finger next to it which was declared critical the previous day seemed to
smile at me with a fuchsia colour promising to stay with me.
As the second day of my stay at the
hospital went by, efforts were made to get me admitted. I would later see the
clinical summary of my injury which said ‘crush- Avulsion injury of right hand
D3-D5’
When I was finally admitted to the
Mobolaji Bank-Anthony (MBA) ward 5, I was told I needed to supply my own water
for immediate usage as the facility was lacking water at the time. My mouth
dropped. How can a hospital not have water running for one moment? I asked no
one in particular. Anyway, Tutu my angelic family friend came to the rescue.
She sent Muyiwa her steward to bring a gallon of water to me at the ward. This
Muyiwa, (God bless his heart) would later faithfully and tirelessly bring meals
and provision from Tutu to me at different times in a day for most of the
duration of my stay at the hospital.
While the no water situation at the ward
did not last long to my relief, I remember the power going off again during my
first night at MBA5 and lanterns were lit as
the nurses came around to tuck in our bed nets properly. As time went by, I would later admire the
dedication with which the medical personnel of the National Orthopedic Hospital
Igbobi carried out their duties regardless of the huge institutional and
infrastructural challenges they face daily.
As I lay on the hospital bed, the
grimness of my situation started to set in, and with it heavy depression. It was either the second or third day of my
stay in the hospital that the consultant in charge of MBA5, came around with a
group of young doctors I believed were on internship to do a ward round. When
they got to me, the consultant discussed my injury with his group and promptly
scheduled me for two surgeries- debridement and skin graft.
After some days at the ward, I fell into
the rhythm of things there. Wake up, do personal hygiene/ clean up, the nurses
administer drugs, meals get served, injuries get cleaned up and redressed,
sleep or interact with other patients or nurses/ receive visitors, lunch gets
served, more medication is administered, dinner is served, medication, bed time
and the cycle begins all over again the next day. I felt imprisoned by my body.
My hand which was heavily bandaged and put in a cast slab was required to be
elevated to reduce the swelling. I sunk deeper into depression from the surreal
situation my existence had become. Each day my injury was opened up to be
cleaned before my surgeries, I looked at the horrors my palm was becoming, and
the sight must have added to the weight of the depression I was having.
Friends and family ensured I was not lacking anything to make my stay at the hospital comfortable.Israel , my
brother would call me at intervals during working hours to ensure I was fine
and dutifully drive down after work all the way from Ikoyi to the Mainland to
see me, amid the traffic before heading home in the other far flung part of
town. I had to tell him to space his visits since I wasn’t leaving the hospital
soon. Tutu would increase the quality
and quantity of meals and provisions she was sending to me through my man
Friday-Muyiwa,( which no doubt ensured I ate less of the hospital served meals
that I surprisingly found decent, and gladly offered my ward mates). My dear
friend Christy Nwachi would demonstrate a high degree of selflessness, care and
devotion to me during those trying days. I can never repay her for her true
kindness. They say it is when you are down you will know who your true friends
are. It is partly true! The people who stood by me all that time are too many
to be enumerated. They know who they are, and I will be eternally grateful to
them.
Friends and family ensured I was not lacking anything to make my stay at the hospital comfortable.
When the day for my first surgery came,
it was an open and shut matter. The surgical teams at Igbobi hospital are quite
knowledgeable. I was put under general
anesthetics so that by the time I woke up, the surgery was done.
With my right hand banged up, I resorted
to doing everything with my left hand. Now that I think of it, it’s amazing
what we can achieve when our survival depends on it. I realized that it is not
true that you cannot learn the use of the left hand at old age. I even began to
scribble with my left hand but soon gave up when my writing looked worse than that
of a two-year old.
Soon after, the day for the skin graft
surgery came. I was prepped and wheeled into the theatre again. I remember the
anesthetician asking me to count down from ten with her. I cannot remember
going beyond eight before losing consciousness. The next thing I knew was nurse
Orugbo calling my name with her deep firm voice. Only in my drowsiness, it
sounded like a call from the supernatural. When I woke up, as before the
surgery was done. Only the pain from my left foot where skin had been taken to
close up the extensive injury on my palm, shot to my head. Now I had my right
hand and left foot in heavy plasters. It looked like things had to get worse
first before they got better.
Back in the ward, I was given a crutch to
aid my movement since I couldn’t put pressure on my left foot. My depression
increased. Here was I, hitherto never admitted to any hospital but going
through the whole works now. I began to reflect on the things we take for
granted- safety, good health, mobility, sight, sound, two hands, two legs,
sunshine, bird songs, family, friends and all the other excellent things about
life. If it was possible, I could have
given up every material thing I possessed in exchange for my health and that
hospital experience and those ordinary things of life. There was a partial
eclipse of the sun that year. I experienced it at the hospital!
In retrospect, I think I fared better
than most of my ward mates. Some had only hospital meals to rely upon, less
visitors and worse still, most had debilitating aggravated injuries that made
mine looked like a scratch. One of such individual was Kayode, the fellow whose
bed was just beside mine. Kayode had been on that bed for about six months
before I was admitted. In all of that time, he had never left the bed, never
set foot on the ground. His injuries, which were extensive burns from his neck
down to his toes, resulted when he was attending to a fuel tanker discharging
the product which had caught fire just as he was trying to turn the engine off,
bathing him in a fiery liquid. He was lucky to have survived it.
(pix:electives)
When I was admitted to MBA5 ward, I found
him bandaged from neck down. Cleaning and redressing his wounds was always such
an ordeal as he was always screaming.
And when the physiotherapist came to exercise his limbs to ensure his
muscles don’t atrophy or his bone stiff from disuse, his screams were louder
and heart rending. There is no human that would not be moved by the sight and
screams of Kayode. I remember one afternoon after the physiotherapist was done
with him. He had screamed so loudly from the pains that, after the session was
over Kayode continued to sob aloud and asking/praying at the same time in
Yoruba language ‘ha you God, what did I do wrong? Please have mercy on me, have
mercy on me, have mercy on me….’
It had been nearly three weeks since I
had been by Kayode’s side seeing him go through that ordeal daily. From when I
was involved in that accident till that afternoon of Kayode’s sobbing aloud, never for once did I have a
soft moment to feel any sorrow other than anger and frustration my depression
had left me with. I did not have the patience to shed a tear in sorrow for my
condition or anyone else around me. In my mind, it was a war on recovery I was
determined to win, determined to stay tough to win. But as Kayode continued to
sob that afternoon, and kept on with the rhetoric question/prayer, that element
that makes us humans, that enables us to recognize our shared humanity, common
pains and sufferings (the burden and ordeal of the other person) gave way in me
as I felt the tears I had held back for many days begin to flow for a long
time. There is no one that would see
Kayode and hear him scream and not be moved.
As I reflect upon my experiences
following that accident many years ago, I realized the magnitude of
institutional failures in Nigeria .
The Nigerian Medical Association (NMA) has always locked horns with the
Government over welfare of its personnel and provision of infrastructures. As
this annual cat and mouse game between the NMA and Government continues,
patients are usually at the receiving end emergency situations or not.
Critically injured or sick patients have had to resort to private Medicare
during those doctor’s strike days. My greatest fear when I was hospitalized was
doctors embarking on one of such strike actions. Mercifully, they did not.
In other climes, their medical
institutions and response to medical emergencies are just amazing. All you need
to do is dial some short magic numbers. In a few moments, a response ambulance
of paramedics would just show up. Where the location is not accessible by road
or traffic is heavy, they would resort to air ambulance and lift the person to
save the life. We have seen it on television how choppers hover over the sea or
rocky terrain just to rescue one person even in dangerous weather conditions.
The regard those developed countries have for human life in putting all those
measures in place and ensuring the services are available to everyone is
amazing. I am aware of the Flying Doctors in Nigeria who run air ambulance
services. But the cost to run that kind of privately owned outfit in Nigeria is also
reflected in the fees they charge patients.
During my hospitalization, in my
depression and delirium I had nursed a mad thought as I wondered if Nigeria
will ever have a functioning dedicated line that I could have dialed and waited
for a few minutes to be rescued as I sat bleeding on Third Mainland bridge on
Thursday 23rd February, 2006.
On April 2nd after over one
month of being hospitalized, I was able to hold a pen with great difficulty
with my injured hand, opened the bible I had with me and wrote ‘great is your
faithfulness oh God my father…’ After forty days of being hospitalized, my hand
had healed enough for me to be discharged. My left foot healed nicely too, and
I had dropped the crutch. I left the hospital with mixed feelings, but I was
grateful I walked out of there on my feet. I would later relate the forty days
I spent at the ward as my own wilderness experience when I reflect on my name,
the ironic period hospitalized, the story of Moses in the Bible and the series
of ‘forties’ in his experience vis-Ã -vis the biblical significance of the
number ‘forty’.
While I was glad to leave the hospital, I
saw too many amputations among ward mates to leave me depressed for a long time
afterwards. Some of the people I met at the ward, I sadly left there. Many
months after I left the hospital I stayed in touch with Kayode. I called him
one day and he was excited to tell me he had also left the hospital, and could
walk again. I was ecstatic with relief! I also called the number that good
Nigerian who sent his driver to take me to the hospital gave me. I spoke with a
lady I supposed is his wife, narrated my encounter with him to her and asked
her to please convey my message of gratitude to the kind hearted fellow. Sadly
enough, I lost the number eventually. While our paths may never cross again, he
sure had made a lifesaving impact to me that God will reward him for.
On February 14, 2007, a few days before the
anniversary of my life changing accident, I paid a visit to MBA5, the ward I
occupied when I was hospitalized to renew hope to the patients there. One boy
was depressed just as I was during my stay there. When I finished sharing my
story, the countenances of all the patients glowed with hope as I assured them
they would all eventually go home. That visit, was one of the most fulfilling
things I have ever done my whole life! While I was hoping to make that
anniversary visit a continuous one, to my shame I have not been able to do so.
Over the years, I have had cause to
remember that lone vehicle accident I was involved in every day. I still feel
some pains in my right palm from time to time. It must be the strung out nerves
and misaligned bones. I have now become
ambidextrous as I can effectively utilize my left hand as much as my right. And
the only driver I completely trust is me. But then, I also thank God daily for
allowing me to live through it all.
Accidents don’t just happen. People make
them happen. Seeing most accidents and resultant complications in Nigeria are caused by a combination of the
recklessness of unqualified drivers, bad roads, poor implementation of
regulations by the authorities and failing medical institutions in Nigeria ;
if it is not too much trouble, can the government please look into these issues
and prevent continued needless deaths and maiming around the country?
-------------------------------------
Obroku, a Lawyer, Migration Management & Document Forensics Expert contributed this piece to SCRUPLES fromLagos . mosesobroku@gmail.com
Obroku, a Lawyer, Migration Management & Document Forensics Expert contributed this piece to SCRUPLES from
I was especially touched by the good samaritan that asked his driver to take you the hosipital and your visit to the ward the following year. I think its important that we all try to do something to help as our government keeps failing us.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing your story.
What an experience to have, to go so close to the edge and still return back whole. I can't imagine the fear you would have had to deal with knowing that you might loose the use of your right hand.
ReplyDeleteAs to the state of our hospitals, i find the neglect by the Government rather distasteful and embarrassing. We have lost our real priorities and are instead focused on chasing oil and wealth.
Good medical facilities are part of the basic amenities offered in civilised countries. Alas we choose to to act like animals and disregard the health of the masses. Private hospitals have become a "go-at-your-own-risk" money spinning business. Several months after being treated there and coughing out your savings to foot the bill, you are left wondering if truly your health was worth the funds expended!.
Fantastic that you could narrate your ordeal with so much colour and depth. Wish you nothing but the best.
Mr. Obroku, thanks for bringing me back to the realities of life. we take a lot for granted. i take a lot for granted. i even take for granted the fact that a lot of infrastructures in our country are in a sorry state. i remain thankful to God, even for the things i have taken for granted.
ReplyDelete