The Chronicles of a Survivor

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In life, some events are better imagined than real. Some experience sometimes appears as a narrative while in some cases, fictions are much more real and arguably for us to believe. But this one is beyond a narrative as it happened all to my face. I choose not to forget any mother who I know or who I have heard was dead as a result of childbirth. I believe I went through this for a purpose. Maternal mortality is a horrible phenomenon that is all too common in this part of the world. Approximately 10 woman dies in Nigeria for every 1000 that give birth, compared with 1000 maternal death for every 10,000 women that give birth in developed countries according to statistics.
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When I remember my experience, tears come to my eyes. Not just for myself - (I made it) but for all the women who went into the labour ward expectant, who had the joy of recognizing that they were delivered of either a male or a female child but who did not leave the hospital alive. Mothers who did not hear their babies being called the names they had chosen for them. Mothers who never breastfed their offspring. Mothers who never ever saw the faces of the children they had carried for 9 whole months! And the children whose naming ceremonies were a day of mourning, who grow up without a Mama! Husbands and fathers suddenly thrust into the role of Widowers and single parents. This is my survival story...
I remember walking out of the house and carrying my 'Akpa nwa' to the hospital. I was looking forward to giving birth. My thoughts were of going into hospital, an easy delivery, and coming back home with the baby. Little did I know that the process would not be that simple. I had painless contractions and did not even realise at first, that was what they were (my first time!). I was not to eat anything so I was quite tired but finally after spending a little under 24hours impounded in the labour ward, I was delivered of a very healthy baby girl on the 4th.
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The first hint that anything was wrong (apart from the very painful process of being sewn up) was that in trying to get me off the labour couch to a wheelchair to be taken to the maternity ward, I fainted. All I remember was being told one minute to get up and the next waking up to resounding slaps by the attendant nurse and the loud prayers of my mother. I got into bed but I was in such pain. I requested for pain killers and got a lovely supply that made me snooze. I had not seen my daughter but I was still in such pain when I got up that I refused to feed her. I complained but the doctors said they had given me the most powerful thing they could and the pain would soon ease off.
At the childbearing ward, I discovered that of the 4 of us that had put to bed that day I was the only one who could not walk around without almost bending over. It was torture but I had no idea what was wrong. Early morning of the 6th, my husband and my younger sister came to see me and they brought food. It was a significant day as my brother-in-law was getting married (a wedding I already sewn an ‘ashoebi’. I told her I wanted to see what she was wearing to the wedding before she left for the service. That stance saved my life.
In the space of time she went to change clothes, I had 'stubbornly' insisted on going to the look myself instead of calling for a bed pan. As I bent over, I felt a sudden gush of blood and knew I was bleeding. I made it back to the ward, got into my bed and called a nurse. I told her I needed a doctor as I was bleeding. She looked this way and that, made a show of going somewhere but did not go far before coming back (like a guinea fowl under a spell) and telling me that she could not find one. It did not concern her that I was bleeding.

   My sister returned shortly afterwards all decked up in her attire and a lovely ‘gele’(headgear) to boot. When I told her about the bleeding she took my pulse and with fierceness I had not seen before introduced herself as a Doctor and requested the nurse to get help. She went out of the room and quickly returned with a consultant who had been her teacher a few years back.  When he took my pulse and blood pressure, he ordered her to quickly get a number of instruments. Removing her gele she rushed off. He cordoned off my bedside and I knew all was not quite right. I started praying, my husband started singing. Even as I write, I cannot forget that day... my baby was crying and a nurse took her off to be fed. 
  When my sister returned with more instruments, she found the doctor in charge of me. He wasn’t calm, he was fidgety and sweaty and I knew I needed to pray harder. I was immediately taken to theatre even though I had just had my first meal in 3days. I reassured myself it was just a routine operation to stop the bleeding.

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After surgery, I had no idea much was wrong. I looked up and saw my sister in tears. I told her to wipe her eyes. It did not occur to me that she was a doctor and she knew that things seemed a little bleak. She later recounted all that happened during the interval between being put to sleep and waking up.
The doctor’s first discovery was that the episiotomy had been badly done and after searching and searching he could not find the source of the bleeding to stem it. By this time my swab bucket (which my sister could see anytime the theatre doors flung open to admit more personnel) was gradually filling up with my blood. After a while, and not surprisingly, the doctor came out and, in a voice, filled with fear called out (very loudly) for FFP (fresh frozen plasma) so I don’t go into DIC (Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation). My sister knew the meaning of all the terms so this did not make it any easier for her; she was crying while running around looking for plasma. After a long day, I was given 7 pints of blood, had a severe reaction to one of the bags and realized I had become incontinent! Without my control, I was passing stool.

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‘What is happening to me? Why is this’? I asked but no one seemed to have any answers. My sister was looking exhausted by this time and every fresh problem seemed to shake my solid-stolid sister. She kept reassuring me that I'd be fine but I could see from her features that she was worried. She told me later that she had not seen a case as bad as mine where the patient survived...Yes I survived, though the long months on the road to recovery were tiring, exhausting and painful (physically and emotionally); I had to go back to the hospital several times to have the badly done episiotomy (with the accompanying suture breakdowns and infections) repaired.
The naming ceremony was held 7days after very early in the morning before the ward round. It was a nice small ceremony with immediate family (my in-laws) and their friends. I insisted on standing throughout and of course tears rolled down my cheeks almost throughout prayers.
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I was so grateful to be alive, so grateful to be able to call my daughter’s name - Nkem (my own), so grateful to be able to hold her.
I could also imagine what my mother went through to bring me to life. In the pains of child birth women miss death in the face of many complications. I will always be indebted to all mothers who have sojourned this path, despite the class, creed, race and age. They are the best gift God has given to the world. Try reflecting on the risk your mother went through to birth you, you should then be forever grateful to her. It’s also hapless that most people do not regard their mother as anything despite the sacrifices they made, if you are one of such persons I suggest you have a rethink and appreciate ‘Mama’. Have you ever thanked her? Or bought her a gift for her endless love and sacrifices towards you from cradle to adulthood. If you have not let this article challenge you to buy a gift or render a service to mama in appreciation. But then don't forget to click vote here if you truly love 'mama'.
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I dedicate this article to all mothers who have made this world an amazing place…Keep living! I love you all.