One thing I have noticed with most people who suffer from one disease or another, in the African continent, is that faith plays a major role in their ability to make sense of their sickness. Faith becomes an anchor when one has asked all manner of inexhaustible questions about why one has such a disease. However, issues about pain, management and looking after oneself are the same for anyone living with sickle cell.
I lost my dad when I was two years old. I had a medical test that revealed I had sickle cell anaemia. I had a major surgery before I was four years old. But it didn’t matter much and I didn’t understand the effects of all these until I had to live with an aunt far away from home. My nights were filled with nightmares and most times, I thought I had died in the dream only to wake up and realise that I was still alive to face whatever plight from my aunt’s discipline. My aunt made sure I had everything books and clothes. She made sure I went to church and followed church telecasts. But 80 per cent of the time, she was that woman I wished I could run away from.
I had to leave my aunt’s home back to my family for medical treatment. But we realised that there was nothing the doctors could do. The disease had rapidly progressed to all my joints leaving only my neck and ankles free from stiffness. Things got worse when at a time I had to use a drug known to be effective for sickle cell anaemia and I reacted to it. My stomach got protruded and I could barely breathe well. Since the hospital had told us there was nothing they could do about my health, my mum felt it wasn’t necessary to visit the hospital with the reaction. She believed my stomach would return to normal. But it never did.
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