Perhaps I should not be alive. But I am, despite the odds. I am still frail and fragile. But now, I can stand on my feet again, bearing testimony to those sacred words of the Almighty Allah himself that, “No soul can ever die except by Allah’s leave and at a term appointed (Quran 3: 145).”
It all started on February 19 when I drove myself into a government hospital in Abuja for an elective surgery. The surgery itself was meant to last for a few minutes and I should return home not later than two days thereafter. That was what I was told. But that was not what happened.
Since that fateful Monday morning, I have gone into and out of the surgical theatre nine times for six major operations and three minor procedures. I have spent six days in the Intensive Care Unit, surviving on oxygen and relieving myself through catheters. I have become totally dependent on others for the performance of even such personal functions as cleaning myself. I have lost 20 kilogrammes in five months and was reduced to a mere sack of bones. I have lost the use of my limbs and, like a toddler, I had to learn to walk again. I have spent millions of naira and thousands of dollars of my own and other people’s money. I have travelled hundreds of kilometres to find help. I have reached the very bottom of despair itself; and I had made plans for my own burial. But somehow, I am still alive.
I am someone you could describe as a hands-on person, or even a keep-fit buff, careful about what I eat or drink and what I do with my body. Therefore, I seldom had any need for a hospital. However, since my dad died of prostate cancer 23 years ago, the doctor had warned me that male children of prostate cancer victims are predisposed to suffering the same fate. Since my 40th birthday, I had therefore ensured that a comprehensive medical check-up was a part of my annual ritual. In the course of one of those routine check-ups, I was alerted a few years ago of an enlargement of my prostate. Following this discovery, I enrolled in a public medical facility in Abuja and made sure to see the urologist every three months. At one point, I was also advised to see a nephrologist once in a while.
All these visits, I understood, were merely precautionary. But I was beginning to spend too much time on the waiting line in the hospital than I could afford. Before long, I changed to another hospital closer to my house. Even though it is also a government hospital, it has a private wing that charges higher fees for quicker consultations and services. I thought this arrangement served me better. I was assigned a consultant urologist of my own. And I also saw a nephrologist in the hospital. However, while the nephrologist kept assuring me that everything was fine, the urologist started to raise the alarm. At a point, he told me that if we didn’t act fast, my enlarged prostate might begin to affect my kidney. The only solution, he said, was surgical intervention.
He was the expert, so I yielded to his pressure and agreed to do the surgery. That turned out to be a major mistake. But I only became wiser by way of a horrifying hindsight. My result from the prostate test showed that I was, in fact, in a much better place than several of my friends, who all were surprised that I chose to go under the knife for an ailment that, more often than not, offers a little more than just mere discomfort, as long as it is not cancerous. They were right. The only prostate-related complaint I had was that I urinated twice or thrice at night. I did not have any pains or difficulty in urinating, or any symptom beyond the ordinary. It turned out that all I needed was a slight change in lifestyle, not drinking or eating late into the night, and to continue to take the drugs that were prescribed for management purpose, which, by the way, my urologist had asked me to stop taking.
Although it did not mean much to me at the time, in this hospital, patients do not have access to the results of their laboratory tests. The doctor electronically sends requests to the laboratory and once the patient has made payment, the laboratory will conduct the test and send the results in the same manner back to the doctor. The doctor would access the results on his computer and based on this, make pronouncements on what the patient needs to do next. In my case, the verdict was surgery.
This was why I drove myself to the government hospital on February 19 and spent the night preparing for the surgery the next day. A week before, I had gone through a cystoscopy procedure. That was my first time ever in a hospital surgical theatre. But since February 20, I have been in several theatres, more than an average person would in a single lifetime. It happened that during the first surgery, the surgeons had ruptured my bladder. In panic, they had to abandon the prostate operation that brought me in, hurriedly placed a catheter inside my urethra, and returned me to the hospital ward. It so happened also that the catheter was not properly placed, so urine was not going into the bag. I was returned to the theatre to remedy the situation. When I came out this time around, the urine was reverting to my genitals, which had by now become grotesquely engorged with fluid.
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Three trips back to the theatre did not change anything. And this was enough to send everyone into panic. I was wheeled into the ICU, where I passed out and had to be placed on oxygen. At this point, it had become obvious that the medical team had reached its wit’s end. It had lost control. One of them had, in fact, quietly told my family that my chance of survival was 50-50. They were already thinking of moving to the next patient. After all, they had “tried their best.”
But then, to paraphrase Shakespeare, heaven has no fury like a woman about to be widowed. My wife, Odunayo, rose to the occasion. She thought that what was needed to save my life at that point were some ‘muscles’ that would compel the doctors to give me proper attention. She told my children, their friends, and my colleague, Akintoba Fatigun, who was already weeping after seeing how helpless I was, to stay strong. She picked up my phone and called my Oga, the Chairman of THISDAY and Arise TV, Mr Nduka Obaigbena, to inform him about my condition. All she needed were calls to people in top places on the need for the hospital management not to abandon me. Mr Obaigbena immediately called the Minister of Health, who in turn called the head of the hospital. He also promptly dispatched one of his top managers, Mr Israel Iwegbu, to move over to the hospital and report back to him.
Akintoba also called my boss, Dr Abubakar Bukola Saraki, who was then in the United States. The former Senate President immediately directed Akintoba to get some money across to my wife and also promised to speak with the health minister. My wife also sent an urgent message to my brother, the Senator representing my Senatorial District, Ogun Central, Shuaib Salis. The senator immediately came over to the hospital to meet the Chief Medical Director.
With all these influential forces breathing down their neck, the hospital realised that this was one patient they could not afford to trifle with. I was returned to the theatre where they had to open me up – yet again – to properly adjust the catheter and ensure that I hadn’t suffered any internal damage. I ended up spending six days in the ICU and later returned to the private room. In the ICU, the traffic and calibre of people who came to see me surprised the hospital management. One evening, Dr Saraki himself led a very long and powerful delegation to the hospital such that when he said: “Yusuph, get well fast, look at the whole troops turning out to wish you well,” I could not but agree with him. In the same way, there were the visits of Senator Salis and his son, Kamal, who was always travelling down from Kaduna to see me, just as Senator Tokunbo Afikuyomi once led his wife, children, and friends to check up on me.
After two weeks, I was discharged and went home. It was Ramadan. For the first time in over 45 years, I could not participate in the Ramadan fast. While in the hospital, I said my prayers most times lying on the bed. Although I had lost so much weight, it looked as if I was set on my way to recovery. Until something happened that would change everything, kick-starting another wave of anguish, fear and relentless pain.
It was the second day after Eid-el-Fitri. My son, Oladapo, had persuaded me to take a small pack of Lucozade Boost juice on Sallah day, believing this might stimulate my appetite. This was on April 10. The next day, my wife observed that my urine was the same colour of the Lucozade Boost that I had taken the previous day. She felt something was wrong. However, Oladapo and I thought it could be the effect of the Lucozade Boost drink.
…To be continued
…Olaniyonu is a journalist and former Ogun State Commissioner for Information & Strategy
