Azuka Jebose Molokwu
My wife chose an emerging faith-based hospital in Lagos metropolis to give birth to our baby girl. She would need the love, care and support of the family, living within a centralised locality. In February, she registered with the hospital for her ante natal and delivery of our first child to be born in Nigeria. Doctors at the hospital recommended a Cesarean section to deliver our baby because of past medical challenges.
On the eve of surgery, my wife, accompanied by few members of our immediate family reported at the hospital for bed rest and monitoring. The hospital reception was also a place for patient registration. The air in the hall way of the reception area was already steaming when we arrived. As soon as we approached the receptionist, she got up from her seat and walked behind the counter to attend to my pregnant wife and her crew. She entered her information manually: her name, time she arrived at the hospital and purpose of her visit on a large register. There was no desk or laptop to enter patient’s data from the point of treatment and care. The receptionist directed us to another hallway that led to the doctor’s office: a young brilliant and handsome doctor welcomed us to his office. He calmly explained the procedures professionally, reassuring us that the process would be extremely smooth. The doctor then walked us to the admission building where he handed us, briefly, to the nurses at a chaotic and confused nurses’ station. One of the nurses processed my wife’s admission and allocated us a room downstairs. Before the doctor retired to his office, he returned to us and reaffirmed that the C section would begin by 6.30am on Saturday. He inquired if my wife had taken any meal prior to checking into the hospital, reminding her of the instruction from her last visit, to end any meal by 6pm on the eve of surgery. She told the doctor she had her last meal at 5pm. Soon after he left, two nurses made their routine rounds to the room, they instructed her not to have any meal after 7pm. I protested that the doctor had stated 6pm, therefore, the one hour difference from the doctor’s order was unrealistic and confusing. They insisted on 7pm. About an hour after they left the room, another nurse walked in and ordered her not to have any meal after 10pm. Something was deeply flawed here. The doctor communicates one thing to the patient and the nurse comes in few minutes later to override a doctor’s treatment recommendation or order. Nurses here refused to share information about the patient’s medicine, dosage and wellness. When nurses were asked questions by jumbled patients, their responses were always unpleasant, unprofessional and disrespectful, “Madam, we know when to give you your medication. When the time comes, we would bring your medicines to you. So, wait until we bring them.”
I watched one of the nurses walk from the reception side of the building, she began to climb the stairways toward the new born section, holding onto the stair rail as she climbed two floors. Minutes later, she came downstairs, exited the building, still wearing the same pair of latent gloves. Only God knows how many patients she had contaminated. Nurses are trained to be compassionate care givers but at this great hospital facility, most of the nurses and other staff were rude, careless and unethical. These are the same nurses that would go to western nations and enslave themselves with overtime, compassion, dedication and care to their patients and employers. But here in their own country, they treat patients as favour seekers and regard themselves as oracles of life.
At sunrise the next morning, the family woke up to a cool breezy and wet Saturday. Before 6.30am, we were ready and anxious for the birth of our baby girl, counting down on time for the doctor and the anesthesia specialist to arrive. The young doctor walked in at 7.20am and apologised for being late. He said he was waiting for the anesthesia man who was travelling from Ibadan and estimated he would arrive at Lagos by 8.30am. We agreed to commence the C-section procedure at 9am, two and half hours late. Alhaja was feeling the effects of the baby: early contraction was felt the night before, but she was calm. By 9.45, I began to get agitated over the dragging expectation of the anesthesia man. The doctor came into our room for his hourly routine check. Suddenly, he got a call from the anesthesia man; he told him he had mechanical problems with his vehicle. Imagine waiting hours for the anesthesia man from Ibadan. After two hours of waiting, he called that his vehicle was overheating somewhere along the way. The young doctor was furious. He quickly activated his second option: a call to an anesthesia nurse. The nurse said he would be at the hospital within half an hour. One hour after, the nurse called that the police had detained him for violating the Environmental Day ordinance which restricts movement in Lagos until 10am of the last Saturday of every month. The doctor instructed nurses to walk my wife into the theatre and prepare her. About forty five minutes after, a baby’s cry travelled through the walls of the hallways to pierce our hearts and ears. The C-section was smooth as assured earlier by the doctor. Thirty minutes after the first cry, the head nurse, wearing a blood stained uniform, walked out of the Surgery to me at the reception hall and stretched a black plastic bag at me.
She said, “Oga, here is your wife’s placenta.” I was stunned! I quickly took the bag from her, still surprised and handed it over to my brother in-law who was standing next to me. I pleaded with him to “Please take it to grandma and ask her to burn it.” This was unbelievable. But I am in my dearest country where anything and everything happen. I wondered if the hospital staff and management ever heard of stem cell research. Early Sunday morning, I stood at the entrance of the hospital, a family pushed its sick young relative, sitting on a wheel chair to the reception. The wife followed behind, carrying their youngest child and the oldest walking fast in her infant feet. Half an hour later, the young woman rushed out of the hospital hallway onto the parking lot, weeping. The young man wheeled in minutes before had suddenly collapsed and died. His wife, with their youngest strapped to her back, fell and buried her head under the hibiscus flowers in front of the hospital building, in pains and in tears. Her daughter ran up to her and fell on her mother, screaming “Daddy! daddy!!, daddy!!!” The distressing cry of a young child pierced through the hospital; her tiny voice shook the foundation of the building, tearing apart hearts and souls of the living within the perimeters of the hospital. Her brother also began to cry from the back of their mother.
My sister in-law ran outside, disturbed by the screams; she quickly unstrapped the little boy from the back of his mother and offered him comfort. His mother wailed on. The dead was identified as Tunde; he was the only child of his parents. His mother died years ago. Tunde and his family had life and health challenges; when accommodation became a challenge for his family, his uncle, asked him to move in with his family into his home. Tunde had swollen feet, stomach and was very weak. He was gasping for breath when his uncle and wife decided to rush him to the hospital. The hospital staff said he died from ruptured appendicitis. It was the fastest death I have witnessed in my life. Citizen Tunde was 35 years old. The man walking fast behind his wife earlier was his uncle. The grieving uncle called the dead man’s dad who lived in Kwara State and informed him that his only child died suddenly that day. The old man said to his in-law: “If you do not have a place to bury him in Lagos, then bring him home before sunset.”
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