By Adewale Sobowale
Having prepared my favourite soup of okra mixed with condiments on that memorable Thursday, I sat at my writing desk browsing my laptops – I have several – looking for useful stories to publish.
I finished a story and was looking for another when I suddenly discovered I couldn’t focus. I felt it may be a result of my not having adequate rest. Since it was about 2 am, I tried getting up in a bid to get some sleep.
I suddenly discovered getting up was a difficult task. I found it more convenient to lie on the expansive floor. I tried to call an ambulance, but I found it to be an impossible task. Looking back now, it didn’t cross my mind to go out to the balcony and call for help.
I was there on the floor for what seemed to be hours. Then, I got enough strength to use the washroom and subsequently use the emergency button on my phone to call the ambulance.
The response was prompt! They came within 10 minutes; it was as if they’d been waiting for my call.
I was strapped to a stretcher after being helped to the ambulance. The paramedics were asking me some questions so that they could assist me with first aid. Within minutes, but it seemed like hours to me, we arrived at Mount Sinai Hospital.
I was taken to what I considered to be an emergency waiting room, and while there, I was given some medications to calm me down, I suppose.
I mustn’t forget a series of questions they kept asking me: what day it was, the date, and whether I smoked.
A student physician attended to me, and he asked that I be transferred to the cardiology ward.
Later in the evening, an elderly doctor, with a dignified gait, came. Some student physicians came with him. He spent some time with me and said I had to undergo some tests.
I had been strapped up in life-saving devices to pass oxygen, water, and possibly blood into my body. I couldn’t help laughing at myself. I was laughing because a whole six-three me was now helpless and left at the mercy of machines to survive.
All the while, they were serving me five-star meals. However, I don’t eat much even on a normal day.
Having settled in, I called my daughter on Messenger to let her know my situation. Being in Nigeria, all she could do was to pray with me.
I was meant to preside over the service on Sunday. As I’d found myself in the hospital, I decided to email the chairman of the board that I wouldn’t be able to. He responded promptly, thanking me for informing him early enough. He then asked a million-dollar question.
“Why are you hospitalized?”
I told him what I noticed about myself, since I had yet to be given a diagnosis by the doctors.
The doctor later came to tell me that the upper chambers of my heart were not pumping enough blood to the lower chambers. He then asked if someone had died of a heart attack in my family, and I answered in the negative.
He also asked if I had ever experienced a heart attack, and I also responded by saying no.
He said I would be going to the lab on the following day.
Meanwhile, the chairman of the board had been emailing church members that I was hospitalized and that they should be praying for me.
Before I knew it, I had received a series of calls and emails from members. Being an alone-but-not-lonely person, I wouldn’t have told the church if not that I was meant to preside the following Sunday. It’s not as if I hate people, but I don’t like inconveniencing them.
I went to the lab, and the doctor said I had made a miraculous recovery.
On Saturday, I received an august visitor in September. The chairman of the church’s board had come looking for me.
To say I was surprised would be an understatement. He asked about my welfare and prayed with me. We took some photographs.
When the bulletin for the service was emailed to me, like it was to every other member, my name and situation were staring me in the face.
The reverend emailed me and prayed with me. He then asked me to join the service on Zoom.
After the service, the reverend came visiting. He asked some questions about my health. He then prayed with me. When he was going, he asked if I wanted anything. He then explained there was a mall downstairs where they sold various food items.
So, I asked for chicken and fries. The Yoruba say, if a person is ill, and food is being taken inside, while the empty plate comes out, then the person has recovered.
In a jiffy, my craving was brought, and the reverend departed.
Later, two African members of the church came visiting, and the lady brought some crackers and some soda. Crackers have been my favourite since infancy. They spent some time with me, and we took some pictures.
The doctor later came and said I’d be having another lab test the following day.
I went to the lab, and that was that.
Another member of the church came visiting later that day. As usual, we spent time together talking about this and that.
On Tuesday, yet another member of the church came visiting. She brought various items. She spent some time with me.
Meanwhile, I had been asking the authorities when they would discharge me. So, the doctor came and reassessed me before telling me I could go home.
But I had to wait for my discharge papers to be ready. And considering my anxiety, it seemed be taking forever.
Meanwhile, I had told the chairman of the board, the reverend, and one other member who intended visiting, of my impending discharge from the hospital.
The reverend was concerned and asked if I felt my health was okay enough to be discharged.
The chairman was also concerned, and when I told him that I planned to go volunteer at the Out of the Cold Meal Program, he said I should be resting at home. When I refused to be persuaded not to go, he told other volunteers that they shouldn’t allow me carry anything.
And they’ve been overpampering me ever since!
Is it not noteworthy that, being without family in this country, the church could stand by me?
