Sitting on His Right Hand

It was 29 October 2018. It had been seven weeks since the birth of my second child, the bouncing baby boy who had joined our little family. What I had anticipated to be a pretty straight forward elective Caesarian Section and recovery, turned out to be quite astonishingly complicated. You know it’s complicated when I, of all people, had no time for social media updates. There was no ‘Hello everyone! Meet Moeketsi Ryan who arrived at 6:34am on 9 September. Mother and Baby doing fine’ – followed by 200 likes and 90 congratulations. Mother was not doing fine. I had spent seven weeks in and out of hospital with endless issues following the delivery. Fever, paralytic ileus, pain, cracked nipples, embarrassing milk supply, sore back, upper respiratory tract infection, sore tummy, sore everything. As an out-patient, doctors passed me on to one another. My gynae said go see the surgeon. The surgeon said go see the radiologist. The radiologist said go back to the surgeon. The surgeon said go see the interventional radiologist. Then he passed me back. I had a pelvic abscess which was treated by ultra-sound guided drainage mainly due to the fact that none of the above specialists thought it was a good idea to open me up again. And back and forth it went on until I left Harare for Bulawayo for “recuperation” when we all thought it was over. Little did I know; the worst was yet to come.

It was 29 October 2018. I had been in Bulawayo for about three weeks. Trying to be brave. I was accusing myself of laziness. Everything was just so difficult. Just picking up my fast-growing son was a battle. At the time I wasn’t aware I was also going through post-partum depression. Nights were long, with breastfeeding and rocking a restless baby. During the day, I faced judgement, mostly my own, to be an able mum, cheerful daughter, pleasant and nice-smelling member of society. I envied able-bodied people, women who had energy to get their hair done, who could walk across the street with a straight back and even managing smiles. All that was alien for me. Still I soldiered on, hoping I would get stronger by the day. Most people wanted to know how the baby was doing. If he was well, then everything must have been alright.

It was 29 October 2018. I woke up with the grand plan of going to the bank that day. Any outing was a grand idea those days. What am I saying, anything that required getting out of bed was pretty much grand. So, my plan was to go the bank. Ubaba was going to be my chauffeur and pal. I was used to pain in general but that morning I had a different kind of pain, the type I could not associate with any organ. The first pang made me fall to the ground. I remember one and a half year-old Anashe coming up to me with a request. With tears in my eyes I asked her to give Mummy a moment. I was determined to still go to the bank. On the way there ubaba kept suggesting we get some help. I used the I’m-the-doctor-here tone to insist I was OK. Then at the bank I was keeled over at the counter, pleading for them to hurry because I might need an ambulance any second. Sounds crazy. It was.

We arrived at Hillside Hospital around 2pm that afternoon and I had already mentally prescribed myself some pethidine, observation and home by the end of the day. I really wasn’t thinking that far in terms of diagnosis. All I knew is I had to get pain relief quick. I feel sorry for the nurse aide who was tasked to take my vitals on arrival. We were alone in the room and after taking my temperature and blood pressure the poor girl then asked to take my weight and height. I growled back, “All I need is pethidine, sister. What on earth do we need my weight and height for? And I know my weight, just write it there”. She blinked very quickly at me not sure whether this animal also bites. Luckily it was the end of her shift and she must have been too tired to argue.

I was comforted to be attended to by a heavily pregnant doctor. I told her my plan for me and she just smiled and said “uh, no.” She chimed that most likely by the end of the day I would be in surgery. I genuinely thought she was joking. She sent me for an ultrasound scan where I went by ambulance to Mater Dei Hospital. The sonographer didn’t have to dig deep into my abdomen to find what she was looking for. There was fluid everywhere. Pus. I was sent back to Hillside Hospital, Preggie Doctor Friend smug with her accuracy, swiftly wrote a referral letter to a gynae for my admission back at Mater Dei. My pelvic abscess was back and with a vengeance. The entire afternoon I had been stable on a dose of pethidine since after I scared that nurse aide. By the time my ambulance came for my trip back to Mater Dei it was about 7pm and the pethidine had worn off…

I will never forget what happened that evening in the casualty of Mater Dei. I was hysterical. I was that last smiley in the pain scale. 10. Only it felt worse. There was a change over of doctors so I had to wait about 20 minutes. It was the longest 20 minutes of my life. I led with I AM A DOCTOR, GIVE ME PETHIDINE! The nurses explained that they were not allowed to prescribe it without doctor’s signature and I would have to wait. I said but the doctor has already admitted me over the phone and previous doctor signed. They just said sorry and went to sit at their desk. I started crying and saying repeatedly please help me, please. Those casualty beds felt really, really thin and made of metal, I don’t know how I writhed and writhed on top of them. I cried. I screamed in pain, because now the pangs were worse and coming fast. I have never felt so vulnerable like that time. I could hear them talking about me. Drama much? I really didn’t care. It felt like the last moments before a person dies. Or I imagined so. This was it. And I was all alone. 

The casualty doctor finally came and I dictated his notes word for word because I didn’t want any more delays. He was a good sport and did the things that make the pots to be done.

The next 24hours were a blur because I was on pethidine. I received 4 units of blood because I was too anemic to go into surgery. I had lots of antibiotics started. My husband drove all night and when he arrived at my bedside I was confused by the look on his face. How bad was this situation? I remember my gynae, towering over my bedside, telling me, as if it was like a trip to go buy bread, that we were going in for surgery, that I might lose my uterus, that I must brace for a long recovery, that he was shocked that I was walking around with potential sepsis. I was reassured by his confidence. He sounded like he had seen this many times and knew exactly what to do. I transferred his assurance to my family and we went into surgery.

I woke up in HDU. That thing on TV we see, it’s true. Voices far away. You blink you see someone; you blink again its now someone else. The faces all looked very worried. Trying to get something out of me. I couldn’t speak, but my cousin says I gave him a thumbs up. I don’t even know what I was thumbs upping for. I don’t even remember thumbs upping. There were lots of tubes, plenty injections. Nurses constantly hovering and doing things to me. Those first hours were overwhelming but slowly the realization came that I was alive and had made it through the surgery. The next few days were going to be crucial. I was asking the nurses to turn my monitor towards me so I could check my own heart rate, BP and oxygen saturation. I couldn’t move.

I was tired of crying. Wanting badly for a healthy body. I thought after theatre I would be better, but I wasn’t feeling better. I now had this large incision on my abdomen and a constant fear that the sickness would come back any moment. I kept being moved into wards that had more patients as the days went by. I refused to make friends. Let them wonder what my story was. I on the other hand would eavesdrop my best to hear their stories. I had issues with breathing. Had a scare that I may have pulmonary embolism. One night I had a fever again. I spent that night crying. It didn’t make sense. I remember reading the nurses notes the next day and she wrote “patient crying inconsolably and hysterically. For counselling +++” That basically means patient is cray. One night I woke up asking to have my urine tested immediately. I loved my Mater Dei nurses. Each and every single one of them. I got back rubs, and counselling and just time to chat and feel normal. They put up with a lot from this one. I had some friends and family on speed-dial. One particular friend was going through a similar situation for a different reason but all the way in the UK, we would check up on each other opening the chat with the same thing every day, “How is the pain today?” Congratulating each other for passing stool or walking to the door. That went a long way to give me strength and courage to keep going on. My hospital visitors were so many. So many. I connected with some people I hadn’t given a chance to in the past. I can’t even begin to mention them by name. The support I received was humbling but I struggled to keep up with the numbers. The whole experience reduced me to a daughter, wife, mother. All the things we think are important don’t matter when you are in that hospital bed. Career, accolades, material things. All nonsense. Only love matters.

It was about Day 9 since the surgery and I was still in hospital. Still in pain. High level of self pity. Things still being done to me, different issues coming up. Tests and imaging. Lots of medicine. Different specialists seeing me. Being pricked like a sewing cushion. I just wanted to go home. I would try bath my best and put foundation on my face to trick the doctor into thinking I was better. He was too good to fall for such stunts. He wasn’t going to take any chances. Then I had the dream.

I have always had the same type of dream. Many people type of dreams. Like if my dreams were a movie they would be musicals. Always some sort of event. But that night I had a dream where only two people featured. Me and God. Jesus. He was standing at the door of my hospital ward and there was radiance. When he appeared, desks were knocked over. I don’t know how it happened but I was then seated on his right arm. Imagine God flexing his biceps, I was sitting on that one, with my legs dangling like I was on a swing. And he said “Sithabiso, you are healed.”

I told a few people of the dream. We praised God and were so thankful. However, I didn’t FEEL healed. I was in pain. I was weak. I would spend extra time in the shower looking at myself in the mirror saying Sithabiso you are healed. Regardless of what I feel, I am healed. This is faith. When there is no evidence, but you just believe it. I spent a lot of time in prayer. I made promises to myself that if I got better, I would jog every day and never ever take my health for granted ever again. I made many promises.

View for recuperation in Bulawayo

And I did get better. I was discharged on Day 12. I spent a few more weeks in Bulawayo. I could appreciate the sky and the birds again. I could get up once in a while without pain. And slowly I weaned off the pain medications. The sickness never came back. 

It took months to process what had happened. Realizing that I was a survivor of a near-miss maternal death. I didn’t want to talk about it though. I didn’t know how it would help. What was the point of rehashing the trauma? But I realized I had a great testimony on my hands here. God had healed me. Where others may not have been saved, I had been saved. Every day was a bonus. Every cuddle was precious. I had to live. I had to write. Writing was therapeutic too. And hopefully I would be able to help just one person out there who was in a situation where pain was their very reality. Let them know that He does heal. That it does get better. To not fear. This was my testimony. Sitting on his right hand. Loved, protected, healed.

Psalm 116

I love the LORD, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy.

Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.

The cords of death entangled me, the anguish of the grave came upon me; I was overcome by trouble and sorrow.

Then I called on the name of the LORD: "O LORD, save me!"

The LORD is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion.

The LORD protects the simplehearted; when I was in great need, he saved me.

Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you.

For you, O LORD, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling,

that I may walk before the LORD in the land of the living.

I believed; therefore I said, "I am greatly afflicted."

And in my dismay I said, "All men are liars."

How can I repay the LORD for all his goodness to me?

I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the LORD.

I will fulfill my vows to the LORD in the presence of all his people.

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.

O LORD, truly I am your servant; I am your servant, the son of your maidservant; you have freed me from my chains.  

I will sacrifice a thank offering to you and call on the name of the LORD.

I will fulfill my vows to the LORD in the presence of all his people,

in the courts of the house of the LORD-- in your midst, O Jerusalem. Praise the LORD.