Tale of Two Cities

This is the tale of two cities. Lagos and London. One has a healthcare system that would make you weep. The other, so advanced, it would make you smile. Let us begin.

The Beginning
Crash. Crash. The helpful passersby extricated me carefully from the wreckage. The pain was unimaginable, rippling through my body, one nerve at a time. I called my dad and he arrived five minutes later. They placed me in the car and my papa raced me to a specialist hospital in V/I. If I was in London, an ambulance would be called and the paramedics would have stabilised my C-spine (C stands for cervical) with a collar, placed me carefully on a backboard, transferred me to a gurney in the ambulance and rushed me to the nearest hospital. When I got to the specialist hospital in Lagos, the gurney came out and I was immediately transported to the X-ray machine. I had to be turned on my side to get a better picture of the fracture in my back. Can you imagine having a broken back and being asked to turn on your side, not once, but twice because they failed to get the proper image the first time? In London, this would not have happened. They would have given me morphine and gotten it right the first time.

In Lagos, my skin was on fire, sensitive to every touch. Even placing a finger on the side of the gurney sent a ripple of throbbing pain throughout my entire being. After the excruciating ordeal in the X-ray torture chamber, the diagnosis was a T12/L1 fracture (T stands for thoracic; L stands for lumbar). Arrangements were made for an ambulance to take me to the Hell that was Igbobi Hospital.

Igbobi
When we got to Igbobi, my mother was presented with a list of things to buy. Bedsheets, mosquito netting, bucket, bowl, you name it. The instructions were to purchase from the Yoruba vendor, not the Igbo one. It was so ridiculous. In London, there was no way this would have happened. Everything would have been supplied and the bill would be presented at the appropriate time. After the list was presented, my mum had reached her limit. She was frightened, angry, sad and acutely aware that she had no idea what was going on. She had had no previous experience with spinal cord injuries. I just remember her shouting and crying; arguing with the nurses. They told her she could sleep in the car. I mean, wow! In London, my mama would have slept at home or in my room at the hospital on a sofa bed. There is no way she would have been asked to sleep in the car.

Finally, I was admitted and I spent my first night in Igbobi, flat on my back hurting to the n th degree. Obviously, I could not sleep. The pain, the cries of agony from the other numerous patients packed like sardines in the same room as me, the lights that were never turned off, mosquitoes as big as a fist flying around looking to feast on their next blood meal. All these things contributed to a sleepless night. In London, they would have rushed me to the O.R to undergo a much-needed surgery to stabilise my spine. The first night would have been spent in the ICU (Intensive Care Unit), carefully monitored by the nurses. They would have made me extremely comfortable with only a few other patients in the same room. Meanwhile, in Lagos, dawn was upon us. A gruff nurse grabbed my arm with unnecessary force and began washing my arm with water and a sponge. I yelped and said, “Don’t you know I have a broken back?” She cursed at me in Yoruba. Luckily, a kind nurse rushed to my rescue. The anguish was unbearable. I requested no sponge bath, because I could not stand being prodded in any way. In London, the nurse would have given me such a gentle sponge bath and my back would have already been fixed. She would be kind and intuitive, picking up on the fact that I was scared and lonely.

MRI Centre
My tale of woe continued as I spent another night in Hell, sorry, I meant Igbobi. It was as inhospitable as the first. The sun rose and it was time to head to an MRI centre in Ikeja, owned by some lovely Indian doctors. My first thought upon arriving was this must be heaven on earth. After my heartbreaking experiences in the other places, the Italian marble floors, the scent of lavender and comfort wafting in the air and the professionalism of the staff made me feel welcome. It was Nirvana come to life. The MRI machine was meant to give a clearer picture of the break. It was futuristic-looking and surprisingly quite comfortable. Forty-five minutes later, I was out of the machine and begging to stay there. If you could have heard me pleading, your heart would have broken. Unfortunately, it was time to leave and head to the next private hospital owned by one of the doctors at Igbobi, somewhere on the mainland in Lagos.

No Morphine
We arrived with no idea what to expect. By this time, I was still in distress. The clinic had two floors. The bottom level was all offices and there was no elevator. Surely, the best solution would have been to convert one of the offices to a patient room. Instead, they placed me on a wooden slab and carried me up the stairs, turning a sharp corner, leading me to a room. How imprudent is that?! This became my new place of torment. Since they had no morphine, a lovely nurse gave me Paracetamol (yes, you read that correctly) every two hours. Imagine the worst pain imaginable and then basically nothing to relieve you from that misery. Everything you just read must have horrified you. In London, the MRI machine would have been in the same hospital and the MRI, done before the surgery. The hospital would have had elevators leading to the different floors and the rooms would be accessible by gurney, whether it is the operating theatre or a patient room. And most importantly, they would have hooked me up to a morphine drip that I could control.

Over the next couple of days, my mother spent her time trying to get the necessary visas because we decided that it was time to take me to London for a decompression and stabilisation surgery. As soon as we decided not to do the surgery in Lagos, the Igbobi doctor abandoned me at the private hospital. I would never have been deserted by a London doctor as they took an oath to help and save those in need. They take that oath very
seriously.

Conclusion
When the air ambulance arrived, bearing Chinese and German doctors, they wrapped me in a cocoon of warmth. The level of patient care was galaxies away from what I had experienced. The healthcare system in Nigeria is sorely lacking and we need a total overhaul. The hospital staff are incompetent and unprofessional, the amenities are laughable and the need for exceptional surgeons is great. Until we face these problems together, we are going to be in the most basic mode of survival. Essentially, the moral of this story is that you would be surprised by the level of strength one exhibits when you are tested. For five days in Lagos, I was flat on my back in indescribable agony, unable to move, in so much pain, that I could not think and yet I was able to summon every ounce of strength I had to navigate the troubled waters. The determination to subsistand live to tell the tale gave me the forte to persevere. Without God in my corner, I would not have made it. If I was in London, it would be a different story entirely. As Christopher Reeve said, “A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.” I am not necessarily calling myself a hero, but can you really argue with Superman?