A walk of healing

Coming a long way

The neighbourhood nurse was here today and he was the first here just after I left hospital, he has paid the most visits and basically knows the most about the progression of the lesion wounds under my feet to date.

We both inspected my left foot and came to the conclusion that it was healing very well and apart from patches of dry skin that were pulled off, the only thing left was for the sole skin to thicken up just as it should be for normal soles.

Critical to his observation was the fact that the wounds which were quite severe had healed over a relatively short time. The neighbourhood nurse is used to seeing and dressing wounds like mine which never seem to heal.

A miracle, no doubt

In my case, it appears the natural process of healing had been speeded up in what one would call a miracle without bating about the bush. When I suggested it was like a healing miracle, the nurse who is generally an agnostic quickly concurred. We agreed his last visit would be on Friday.

I had a miracle working in me all the time and I never really realised that was happening, in the last few weeks, the progress has been quite rapid, I am off most of the pain medication apart from the patch which seems to run well over the 72-hour period without any noticeable discomfort.

I have not crawled round my home for about week, the crawling necessitated by a few areas of acute pain I used to have in my foot, for the first time in almost 3 months, I was also able to wash under running water my right foot.

Walking has been very comfortable, it might end up giving up my orthopaedic shoe after meeting with the consultants today and start using normal shoes from now on.

I still use crutches for support but soon, I might just need a cane and eventually ditch that altogether.

Thanks and gratitude

Great thanks indeed should first of all go to God, there is no way I could have successfully come through any of this without His mercy and His grace upon me, I have also seen amazing advances in medicine and healthcare that have helped me through these times and finally my friends and well-wishers who contributed in ways that leave me in deep gratitude, I just have not found ways to be thankful enough.

My neighbours who cared for me in the darkest times doing the most menial tasks and feeding me at strange hours when I was completely without strength, my dear friend who came to live with me and cared for all my needs beyond what friendship demands – I thank you all.

The only way is up from here, God who has seen me thus far is helping me rebuild my life again, my hopes are high, my expectations are great, my vision is gaining clarity and purpose.

Thank you.

Opening the mouth of the father - Part 2

The first part of this series of Opening the mouth of the father – Part 1

Bells, phones and rings

Did I say maybe the pealing of bells? The colloquial for calling by phone is bell me as opposed to ring me, the bell rarely tolls, it rings and does it cost a bomb?

But what love can separate you from the sound of your beauty that you have seen in glorious pictures of native attire, each time I look at the pictures; my heart skips a beat or two; Oh! my beloved as I smooch kiss after kiss into the photographic paper.

Every waking moment, I am on the phone making arrangements far ahead of the realities that try to pull me back, my head is too logical for my heart that is drawn to the dawning of the bliss of the fairy tale that ends in happily ever after – does anyone really believe that stuff anymore?

Seeing is the clincher

Meanwhile, I had been introduced to mama, brother, sister and any other sibling or relation in sight, no doubt the presents on my first visit should account for these acquaintances who might become prospective in-laws.

Father is playing too big to be involved in flirtations even though now he has realised there is an affair on the line with daughter continually engaged in sometimes giggly or overly serious conversation – I find that I am setting the tempo of everything, nothing of initiative comes from her, my doubts trouble me deeply, but my friend says different.

In the West, sound is as good as sight in conversation and communication, but back home speaking is sight and sound, this makes for a good meeting and the assurance of trust.

Having come so far in conversation, one must see, feel, touch this jewel of the South before one invests or divests, this is a journey I must make into the unknown for the dream of life untold.

My beloved is mine indeed

All sorts of preparations were made as moneys were sent to meet all sorts of eventualities, exasperation at the lack initiative almost ruined all, but my friend asked that I keep the faith until we met.

My trip to Nigeria was to consolidate the prospect of a life companion, the end of a search for something good, unspoilt and naively verdant.

We first met in a big city, her family is from Harcourt’s Harbours, and did I think, could this be love or was it overtaken by urges beyond the control of the parties?

Plans were apace to meet the family as she returned home having once missed her flight because we succumbed to the lackadaisical attention to time-keeping that our countrymen love to revel in without an iota of concerned responsibility or sense of necessity. It was as inconvenient as it was annoying.

Off to Harcourt’s Haven

I feel ill or maybe love-sick but my body was weakened that the meetings were postponed for my body to gain strength, when it appeared I was well enough, new arrangements were made to meet the family, hope and trepidation, mixed-feelings and expectations – am I on the cusp of a dream?

The journey was so nerve-racking as one had not fully recovered from a bout of malaria, but duties need be performed if one were to be a reliable husband soon, well, no one expects a reliable husband in these parts, they expect a responsible husband, one ready to shoulder responsibilities till bilked – cynicism depart, optimism come forth and I shall be the best gentleman about to be bridegroom – I am excited – somebody cool me down.

The father presides

When we got to the typically unimpressive residence, I was crestfallen, I had seen a man earlier that day who I almost despised, and I restrained myself for once from comment, that man was eventually significant to all proceedings – it was the father.

We entered the residence or rather room in a tenement where a curtain of the proportions of Solomon’s temple separated the living room from the bed chamber, it was not worth thinking how a family could comfortably live in these quarters but live they did – I am here for the bride, let’s talk man-to-man with the father.

Gifts were offered and those were moved into the inner sanctum with such speed as if giving with my right hand could be so quickly rescinded with my left hand – a word of thanks and gratitude could have helped but reality was to dawn soon that this was the facade of a merciless marketplace bargain where the buyer would pay up and still end up cutting his losses without the goods.

The deal is in the list

This was a mission of fledgling love as one tried to explain but the mind of the patriarch was centred on the opportunity for filthy lucre, I was to be lassoed in by the bride and the desire for the bride.

After the meeting, my escort had been surreptitiously been given the list, a six part list of items that fulfilled part of what might end with happily ever after.

The wedding list was to prepare us for the wedding ceremony, I surveyed the list as I touched my bride, I argued with myself, it appeared I was to be sold a woman for a slave rather than being given a lady for a bride – love conquers all, my love for her must not wane but will we hear, “You can now kiss the bride” at the end of the nuptials?

To be continued...

A youth driven from wisdom

I move with comfort

For long I have been amazingly wise in my own conceit and survived my journeys with means well provided.

In Amsterdam, the bicycle comes in handy for most trips till I saw the playback of my big fall in the slippery icy patch that was just 10 metres ahead, indeed, I did fall and great was my fall as my pride was dented in the presence of no one to observe.

Wet as it was, I dusted off myself and swore never to ride in thawing snow again. For short and long trips for convenience a taxi-cab has sufficed, the bus comes in handy if the landmarks at embarking and destination are clear.

Trams and metros could be fun if there is a place to sit, trains are such a bliss for long journeys, if there is time then the plane loses out. Before I fell ill I used a cane for a sometimes troublesome back, I became a lot slower when my feet succumbed to cancer and I had to use elbow crutches. The feet are mostly healed but a bit of support will help the full rehabilitation of my walk and gait.

No contraband in cars

However, at over 40 I do not know how to drive, that has a history I dare not repeat and a refrain I would be smart to keep quiet.

My cousin came all the way from London last Saturday having driven in his car, the advantage of car travel in Europe cannot be overstated, in his last journey I had goodly cooked Yoruba stew brought over, a thing you cannot accomplish by air travel.

His journey was probably the best part of 7 hours or less, including the ferry connection from Dover to Calais, just about the time it would take by train, but with booking in times and interchanges you might add another two.

Driven to wash

At 45, my cousin has been driving for 33 years; he loved to wash his father’s car and in the process got to move it back and forth to the point that there was enough confidence to handle the car.

I never like those activities, washing the car came usually as punishment for some misdemeanour rather than a present willingness to be helpful, I did jump at opportunities to change punctured tyres though because I knew to do that from when I was 8.

In some ways, I was a child of privilege, my father had a driver and sometimes two official cars, it was the driver’s job to ensure his office was in order, we were sometimes stopped from fraternising with the staff, but never escaped rebuke if we disrespected the staff – there wasn’t much you could do if the staff were the carers when our parents were out though.

Mobile parenting

So as my mates got out of secondary school and assumed the responsibility of being in post-secondary education, they had about 4 of 5 years of driving experience behind them, I did not because my dad decided the cars were too heavy to learn anything on and I did not pursue the idea of driving school because my expert colleagues began relieving the drivers in the weekends.

I just was not going to stand for that kind of treatment, but I learnt something new about the experience of driving your parents and their friends at that age – there are some conversations, insights, meetings and experiences that would never happen in any other environment but when you drive your forebears to places, what they talk about, who they meet, who you get introduced to and some indeterminate network that you end up building along with a certain relationship of trust.

Steering into wisdom

I would appear if you drove your parents at that age, you became an adult to them a quicker and you earn a level of respect that others have to struggle at by coming first at school by 10 percentage points or you have underperformed.

Suddenly, as my cousin shared that opinion I was slightly overcome with the shame of thinking how lowly the job of driving was that I never drove or properly learnt to drive, there was a repository of insight I missed out on – but then I can no more cry over split milk.

I still dream of having my own car and for all said and done, it would probably be a Bentley Continental because in my view it comes standard with a chauffeur. Like I clearly stated to a chauffeur service I had in my last contract, the whole purpose for having a big car is to sit in the back seat with room to stretch and read your papers, not at the steering wheel.

If you really must drive a luxurious car you own, then get you a two-seater vehicle or a trailer cab and put it in top gear.

6 Hurrahs to Blogging

On the 6th anniversary of my blogging hosted at Blog-City, I have decided to simultaneously post my blogs there and here. However, the blogs would appear here a bit later than when they are originally published.

There would be a link from this blog to the original location too. Thanks for visiting and reading my blog.

To blog one must

On the 8th of December 2003, I believe I was in a hotel room in Berlin watching a news story on this seemingly passing fad called blogging or web logging as it was originally known. I thought for a moment, this sounds like an opportunity to just put my everyday thoughts on “paper”, there is lots I would like to talk about but without the company or companionship necessary to share these thoughts with your mind is in constant overdrive.

I had done some experimental writing before, some friends had before encouraged me to try technical writing and at one time I sent out a religious newsletter that related to very personal matters to a closed group of friends.

That day saw the first blog of now almost 1,300 blogs now.

Where to start and how

Blogging appeared to be a good outlet from where I was; after surveying all the different blogs online, I decided on a young Scottish company with the catching community feel of Blog-City.

Somehow, I felt the service can be better tailored in a smaller outfit than the megaliths that were reviewed on that programme.

Beyond that, Blog-City offered the easiest registration and management functionality I could find then – the landscape has changed.

Within a month, I had published over 20 blogs on all sorts of topics with many of the blogs exhibiting a rather complex writing style and recording great reading scale difficulty that I have had to work on without necessarily compromising the essence of my voice.

I also decided to keep the faith with Blog-City and took up a subscription with a 5 year duration, it was necessary to allow my blog a professional and uncluttered look with the adverts, pop-ups and other things I did not publish but were inferring by the service provider’s initiative.

Fun and more blogs please

I did not know for how long I would keep blogging up for, but it was fun to maintain but I think it was not until early 2006 that I really got into it with consistency and a broader range of topics which cover Nigeria, human rights and the bizarre.

I have created in the right gutter a section called My Themes which links to related blogs I have written with that particular theme.

Nowadays, I try to encourage other friends who have stories to tell to start blogging, they do not have to write a treatise, probably just two paragraph about the simple blogging concept of yourself, your views, your environment, how things affect you and maybe what that could mean in general.

You cannot tell your story in another man’s voice; it is why I do not read pretend autobiographies of the successful non-lettered cadre who have their pulp non-fiction ghost-written by some hungry arts major.

You have a voice, give it volume and let it be heard, I had to improve my writing from difficult to easier, you can improve your writing too from what it is now to better, it takes practice and review, apparently, only a blog can give you that kind of training.

Thanks

Finally, this is a note of gratitude to all who have read my blog in the last 6 years, more so to those who have left comments and ever more so deeply to those who regularly read my blog for all sorts of reasons.

And really, without Blog-City, where would I have had a soap-box to bellow from, now and again. Though it has changed from its humble beginnings, it still behoves me to be thankful for their consistently prompt, professional and friendly service.

Here’s to another 6 years of blogging.

A chemo picnic with tea

Bandages and dressings

The day started as usual but with a spiritual revelation that never occurred to me that clearly before, it gave me more confidence that the outcomes of all the situations I find myself would be good, better, rewarding, prosperous and fulfilling – if I asked for more, I would get more that I ask or think of.

Just as I went to bed, my right foot just took on this interminable itch, the only option was to take off the bandages and dressings, then get my talons to the annoying areas and scratch them sore.

Well, not that really, I applied Vaseline as one has been advised for the dry skin and massaged the sole and foot for minutes, in the meantime, I got lots of necrotic tissue off and found that most of tender areas were firmer and less painful.

Looking young, fresh and healthy

This morning, the nurse arrived at the usual time of 11:00 AM, I let him in and we worked on the dressings of the left foot – usually, I cut off the bandages and take off the dressings and we both inspect the condition of the foot – he has better sight of it and I use a mirror at times to get a good look.

We had every reason to give thanks, after the first layer of necrotic tissue and skin had been removed, which revealed very tender and raw healthy tissue, I thought the second layer of dry tissue that had formed over the healed skin was going to be the same, but no, it was better revealing young healed skin when we pulled away the dry skin, we took pictures of the foot.

The pictures are not necessarily ready for publication until there is uniformity in texture and colour so that one can see the progression from the original fungating tumour when I sought treatment to the situation where no support or pain is required to use the feet properly.

For teacups without hiccups

My chemotherapy appointment was for 13:00, so like the last time, I made a large flask of Smoky Earl Grey tea, and took my mug; well, one cannot take a teacup and saucer, that would be over the top. With a few sachets of sugar, a teaspoon and bottled milk, let’s say, I prepare for my chemotherapy sessions as if I am going for a picnic, not forgetting a box of chocolates to share with fellow patients and the nurses.

I arrived without a minute to spare, set myself up on the seat, made my first cup of tea and offered my left arm for the chemotherapy infusion, for the first time, I watched the needle go in without feeling a fainting sensation to boot.

Relax! You’re being waxed

At first, they ensure the insertion works by lowering the saline solution to see if blood flows out, suddenly you see the basic laws of pressure and gravity put to use, then the Caelyx solution gets attached after you have answered the question correctly about your date of birth – you then realise, at least in my case that my birthday is in two weeks.

The red fluid then seeped into my system over the period of an hour during which I surfed the Internet on my phone, listened to some New Testament chapters a few times and reclined my seat to adopt an almost horizontal position.

By the time it was over, I am sure I had already had a good refreshing nap and it was time to pack up and leave. For a while, my watch would be on my right wrist until when I pull off the plaster holding down the cotton wool over the needle puncture close to my wrist.

I already know enough about the sensation of waxing with hairs growing in places where adhesive tape is required to hold devices down on the body or keep the medicinal patch in place.

That ended my fourth chemotherapy session, I see the shoemakers, cobblers, or rather the mobility rehabilitation consultants in hospital in 9 days to assess if the in-sole needs adjustments, the oncologist in 17 days and a possible fifth chemotherapy session, the weekend after Christmas in 3 weeks.

Arrgh! I think I will give that a little while more.

Opening the mouth of the father - Part 1

Maybe just maybe

Maybe just maybe, it was a recommendation from big brother, a nice girl who would make a beautiful wife, I know her family well.

Maybe indeed big brother is unto something that would redeem the unbrotherliness of time past, fingers crossed and all boxes about to be crossed too.

My friend said at first, you cannot have similarities, having spent more than half your life in Europe, the idea that you are of similar cultures is just out of the question, you change and adapt when you live elsewhere, the pretensions to keeping abreast of developments at home in terms of culture is delusional at best.

Are we like them too?

Beyond that, we would probably never get wives like the generation of our mothers whose forbearance in the midst of untenable circumstance can only be considered legendary, they in some cases served their husbands like slaves and were under the stress and constant threat of the other woman, real or imagined.

The generation of our fathers cannot be said to have been the most gentlemanly in terms of the way they sometimes wielded power in their fiefdoms.

Partnerships of today call for cooperation rather than unquestioned submission; there has to be adjustments on all sides. The subjugation of the wife to the point that she cannot be self-reliant because of the egotistical demeanour of the husband would put the marriage in the divorce courts long before the bridegroom has been opportuned to kiss the bride.

Many long distance calls

The groundwork had been set for the beginning of a wonderful partnership as each party tried to determine if the other was the person with whom vows intended and pretended could be made.

With numbers acquired, the affair began on the phone, a girl in university, irrationally scared of her father but seemingly interesting, for months, the expectations blossomed into possibilities with niggling doubts.

Maybe, just maybe the peeling of the bells will be heard soon.

To be continued...

Blog - Opening the mouth of the father - Part 1

Blog - Opening the mouth of the father - Part 2

Blog - Opening the mouth of the father - Part 3

Blog - Opening the mouth of the father - Part 4

Blog - Opening the mouth of the father - Part 5

Blog - Opening the mouth of the father - Part falls apart

More chemo but not worried

The early bird, I was

It was exciting as well as the fastest time I have been in and out of hospital; it was all over in just an hour and much really was done.

My appointment was for 9:30 in the morning, which was early, I had to set my alarm for 8:00 AM and after 3 “snooze” knocks, I was up and out of bed in 15 minutes.

I had to get my wounds paraphernalia that is the Mepitel silicone film dressing, the absorbent material and the bandage. I have never said that the bandages are self-adhesive, the nurses love those bandages, it means they do not have to fiddle with sealing tape and there is no danger the bandage would suddenly come off.

Quick to the point

With the bus and the tram, I was in hospital by 9:23 AM and within 5 minutes I was called in by the doctor, the consultant oncologist is away in New Orleans on some peer junket as these very senior people and wont to and I have met this youngish affable doctor before.

I hobbled on my crutches to his office and chatted about my condition, the condition of the wounds, the sudden occurrence and disappearance of dysentery over the last week, the couple of time I was so nauseous I was sick in the toilet and my sometimes itchy hay-fever eyes which he thought might be related to the chemotherapy.

The doctors usually require a nurse to do the bandages, but I am already a dab hand at doing them myself, I wanted him to see the condition of my two feet in the hope that I could persuade them not to put me on another course of chemotherapy.

I got out my scissors and snipped of the bandages and he was quite impressed at the technique first and then the condition of my two feet.

Six courses were prescribed

The minor detail I did not have about my treatment was that normally for Kaposi’s Sarcoma six courses of chemotherapy are recommended – my heart sank, but for good behaviour, if that count he has written in my notes that maybe I be let off after the fifth – it would all be well, I am quite hopeful.

The fact was I thought an assessment was done each time to ascertain the efficacy of the chemotherapy before offering another course – you learn.

Immediately after that, appointments were made for Christmas Eve for another date with the oncologist and the Monday after Christmas for the fifth course of chemotherapy, the fourth course is on Monday.

The trick of a prick

They also needed to do a blood check which was quite an express service, I got my number, I was called and I did not have to wait be get to see the nurse, as I pulled up my sleeve the veins are glowing ready for the needle prick, before I knew it, the cotton wool was on my skin and we were ready to say good bye.

She hoped I had a wonderful day, I wished her a rewarding day which gets quite slow in the afternoons and she was going to be there until 5:00 PM.

When she mentioned the weekend, I hoped she would make the best of it and before I knew it I was talking about my guest from Stockholm who had contacted me through my hospital season blogs, who became friends and is now visiting.

The nurse also blogs about embroidery and I found myself giving her the address of my blog page, I hope I get to see hers if she leaves a comment on my blogs.

The compassionate priest

Then, one final thing, I had promised myself that on days without chemotherapy I would visit the catholic priest who came to my bedside when I was in hospital, so after he attended to patient, customer, parishioner – really what do you call someone who sees the hospital chaplain?

He invited me into his office, offered me a drink and we chatted at length about so many things, I kept in mind he had an appointment in 30 minutes and really, I do not want to take up his time on a seemingly social visit.

I however learnt that it is rewarding for the priests too to know that patients they have seen before are recovering well and though there are dangers of getting emotionally involved the situation is a priest cannot really be apathetic in their ministry which is one that should thrive on compassion.

The hospital parish

A hospital might well be a parish, but the parishioners do not have the essential quality of permanence as you would have in a local community, they come and go, they are old and new, they are ill or well and mostly every time, they are different.

One interesting insight in our conversation was about the professionalism of doctor that do not necessarily have to be empathetic and the caring nature of nurses who are involved in the everyday treatment and recuperation process – the latter do always get the chocolates or flowers but the former, go home sometimes with bottles of wine as gratitude from their patients.

My visit to hospital was no doubt very pleasant and fulfilling, it is however another wonderful course of chemotherapy on Monday again – Thank God always.