“If anyone claims to be able to save you, they should perform a 24-hour miracle.”
These words my consultant radiologist spoke when I’d been diagnosed will ring nonstop, living rent-free in my head for the next couple of months as I watch my life slowly slip away, sifting through my fingers like fine beach sand. I look at my daughter where she’s hunched over my bed, her lips moving soundlessly in fervent prayer, fingering her rosary beads without cease. And I think, we haven’t done anything together yet. Not the shopping sprees, not the bonding trips, not omugwo. Nothing at all. It is at once overwhelming, this pain that lances through my core and threatens to split me in two.
When I’d first started to notice strange bleeding episodes, inconsistent with my regular period, it gave me concern. I’d visited the local general hospital and they’d told me that the irregular bleeding was a symptom of hormonal imbalance. I was placed on contraceptive pills to correct it, and the bleeding stopped after a few weeks. For a while.
But then it came back. Here this month, gone the next in a rogue hide and seek fashion. I was losing blood. I was anaemic, with the attendant lethargy. And I was nearly out of my mind with worry. I was only 45, with young children to love and raise. What did this all mean? I went back to the hospital and there, they tell me at first that my body is preparing for menopause. When I go back a few months later, they say I’ve an infection and place me on medication that does not finish for months. In the months following, the scans show a tiny growth of fibroid, but the doctor says this shouldn’t be causing me so much distress.
In all this time, I’m religious with taking my medication, topping up my prescription when the drugs run out. I also go from church to church, because my symptoms persist, and the doctors aren’t much help. The scans I’ve run never indicate anything clearly enough. My OB/GYN had recommended a hysterectomy to remove my womb in a bid to avoid future complications. But I wasn’t convinced, not when he couldn’t provide a definite diagnosis. Besides, the surgery was so expensive. When I speak to my family , everyone worries, concerned that my illness might be spiritual. My sister promises to consult her prophet, and comes back affirming this suspicion . My friends say the same, inviting me to pray in every corner of Lagos. Prayers. Fasting. Seed offerings. Sacrifices. Herbal tonics. They were well-meaning, I see that now. But what did they know? What did any of us really know?
To live a long, happy life with my family is all I’ve ever asked, nevermind that every day in this country is a grueling struggle. I was doing everything right, and after a while, it seemed that my prayers were being answered. The bleeding stopped. The pain and lethargy were gone too. Ecstatic with the relief I felt, I shared my testimony with everyone who’d listen. My hallelujahs rang loudest in church, because I was grateful. For healing. For everything that was to come.
It is a year later before the bubble bursts, before anyone realizes just how terribly my health has deteriorated.
The bleeding resumes with a vengeful force, ejecting clump after clump of dark congealed blood. There is an intense painful pressure hanging low in my pelvis, and it feels permanently lodged. There is also a continuous watery, offensive-smelling discharge that keeps me bound to my bed. I become a shadow of myself, pale and frail. Sick with pain, and anxiety. Oh, the anxiety! It is a miracle every day that I wake, a miracle I find I’m obscenely thankful for.
This time, when I go back to the doctors, they perform a biopsy. Then, they tell me I’ve got Stage 3 Cervical Cancer, and that it was fast becoming terminal. I’m at once shocked and confused, and my world comes crashing down. I’ve seen the movies, and read the SOS ads. How? How in God’s good name did this happen to me? I’d lived by the rules. No illicit sex. No abortions. No drugs. No smoke. No fucking alcohol! But this, this cancer was happening to me, or so the doctors said. I block them out, feeling faint. Phrases like poorly differentiated adenocarcinoma and chemo-radiation therapy fly above my head. These words I didn’t understand, didn’t want to.
The doctors say cervical cancer is caused by HPV, Human Papilloma Virus, that it spreads through sexual contact. And all the time I’d been experiencing strange symptoms, the cancer had been growing. Spreading through my body, and now threatening my vital organs. My body would shut down soon, without immediate treatment. I take one look at my husband who’d gone with me to the consultation and he’s staring right back at me, greyer than I’ve ever seen him, his forehead creased, his eyes pinched with worry. I collapse into his arms. Mustering courage, I ask with a shaky voice, “What are my chances? How much time do I have left?”
They mumble something about how patient response to treatment varies across board, but my best bet was to begin chemotherapy and then radiotherapy as soon as possible, as my cancer was beyond surgical intervention. They’d write me a referral letter.
From this point, there is no turning back. There is only extended hospital stays and stabbing needles, and people hovering around me, praying round the clock. And morphine. A lot of morphine for the pain I’m slowly getting accustomed to. I see the worry etched into everyone’s face, that they try to hide behind jokes I’ve heard a thousand times already, and I’m determined to make it through. I’ve a life to go back to. But I’m at Stage 4 now, and hope is fast becoming a flimsy thing to cling onto, like slippery china.
The doctor comes to stand by my bed, clasping a hand over my daughter’s shoulder. She smiles warmly at me and asks, “How’re you doing today, Mrs. Nwanneka? I smile weakly back, ignoring the bile in my throat as I respond, “I’m fine, doctor.” She nods back and turns to discuss the latest developments with my daughter. I listen as she talks to my daughter about surrounding me with love and care, and about getting screened for cervical cancer too. I watch my daughter’s face crumple, watch her bend over to clasp her knees for support, breathing hard. I watch the doctor pull her up into a hug, and smile at me as she leaves. I sigh in resignation. What if I’d known earlier? How much would have changed? How much time did I really have left?
I reach for my daughter’s hand and smile. “My life is the hands of God,” I whisper. Then I shut my eyes and begin to pray, for the umpteenth time since I’ve woken up this morning. I’m still praying for my miracle when the exhaustion slips over me, and sleep steals me away.
