Let us circle back, or if you may, reflect on the day that was yesterday—Father’s Day.
First, I loved just how much publicity this year’s Father’s Day received. I mean, never have I ever seen so much recognition of the day. In fact, I saw Murugi Munyi on her I.G page say that men needed to create more P.R around their day so that its celebrated more. Well, Of course it cannot be celebrated as much as Mother’s Day, but even half of it wouldn’t hurt right? Maybe in the future, baby steps.
Anyway, back to my very strong opinion on the day.
First, of course, as earlier stated, I loved that I saw many people make appreciation posts in honor of their fathers, including those who have departed. I love that people have gained enough courtesy and compassion to acknowledge that it might be a gloomy day for those whose fathers are not alive.
Second, and this might be the most important. You know how I am always preaching unlearning and relearning? I loved seeing it yesterday. I saw it on contemporary mothers who albeit being single mothers did not make the posts of wishing themselves father’s day. Now I am not saying this is bad. Single mothers step up and have to fill into the shoes of both parents. But you see, the bitter truth is that as a mother, you can only do so much. So I loved that despite these women acknowledging that they are the sole parents of their children, they also acknowledged and made peace with the bitter truth that they cannot be their fathers. And what I loved most, is seeing such women acknowledge the man (men) in their lives who in one way or the other filled the gap of a father figure, that their children needed. If you ask me, that is just beautiful.
Third, I loved seeing men raised by single mothers posting their mothers yesterday–I might not say it with enough weight, but I honestly, really loved that. To me, it was so deep, because it means that these men actually feel and appreciate that their mothers filled the void that they lacked from having a dad. They might not have literally been a father figure in their lives, but they worked hard enough that these men felt complete and content–even without a father figure in their lives.
Coming from men, I found these posts extremely rich seeing that men always complain that single mothers are acknowledged on father’s Day. So, to me, the idea that some men, do feel the need to acknowledge their mothers of Father’s Day is also part of what I advocate for, relearning, and it’s wonderful.
Fourth, I noticed that in most, if not all of the posts, the underlying message was, “Happy father’s Day to all deserving fathers.” Now this is to mean that many people understand that you can be a father just by the title, but if you don’t own up to it, or wear the shoes or the title, then are you really a father?
Finally, I just loved reading the appreciation posts on fathers. It makes me feel so warm inside knowing that many people had fathers and or father figures who really hoisted them up and shaped them into the people they are today. Yes, I agree, sometimes fathers are forgotten. It was good to see them remembered.
Because even though it silent, a father’s love is priceless 😊😊
We had quite a smooth trip after which we arrived at the hospital around 10:30 a.m. I remember thinking, we are only thirty minutes late, that’s got to be some kind of record I’ve made(I’m always late, which makes everyone late) However, just as we were about to get in the hospital, we got the shock of a lifetime. We had left behind the most important documents of all. Well, not literal documents–the CT and MRI scans. This is what would have been referred to as a classic Joyce move, had I been the one given the responsibility to carry the images. I still don’t understand how the images were left behind. But in hindsight, I believe that it was really God’s way of showing us that–like my mother had said before–everything was happening just as He had planned.
December, 2022
Despite our disappointment, we really had to think fast, and organized for the images to be sent through a matatu. This would take 3 hours for us to get them but what choice did we have? Also, coincidentally that day, Dr. F.Koech, the one my mother had an appointment with, was running late. Now this was a blessing in disguise, and part of God’s plan, because we could not see him without the scans. Three hours past and the driver said he was still on his way. Apparently, there was a lot of traffic jam as the road was under construction. At this point we had started to panic because doctor F.Koech had arrived. But who is God? Turned out he first had to go round the wards checking on the other patients and possibly discharging those he deemed fit. I must say that, the wait had become too long that we had started to get sceptical about the efficiency of the hospital. But it’s just because we were anxious and scared of history repeating itself–shame on us for doubting them.
In an hour’s time, we already had the images and we were carefully directed to the waiting room–just me and my mother. There were quite a number of people waiting which was sad because they all had the big CT and MRI scans. It was sad because I realized just how many people are dealing with health issues everyday, and just how far some travel to find medical help. Seeing my mom, the nurse who took her blood pressure was so sympathetic. She pulled me to the side and told me, “I really wish you could see the doctor first, but it will be unfair since the others have also waited, seeing that he was late today.” However, she told me that after the first five patients went in, she would squeeze us in. And to her word, she did. That meant that in less than 30 minutes after the scans arrived, it was our turn to see the doctor. 😊
Finally, he sighed, looked at my mother and asked, “Mama you mean all this time you have not been helped?” “naona umesumbuka na umezunguka sana,” he added. He then finished with, “Lakini usijali, umefika.”
At this point I really had to ask whether he could help her just to be sure, and he said yes. Again he rechecked the images (which I loved, because it showed he really was being meticulous in his work). The interesting thing was that he never even once examined my mom. Nothing, he just carefully analyzed the images. After around 15 minutes, he now started explaining to us, her exact condition and what really needed to be done to treat her. He told us that as a neurosurgeon he would be the main surgeon, but her tumour covered other areas. Thus, he needed a team of surgeons; an eye surgeon, an ENT surgeon, and a beautician (I intentionally avoided using their professional names since this isn’t a medical blog). My mother was shook when he heard this because she had heard it before in her previous hospital and it had taken a year. But to our surprise, Dr. Koech started making the phone calls immediately. My mother and I were in total bewilderment when he said that she could even have the surgery that night! I mean literally, “tulikua tumefika.”
Sadly, the ENT specialist was not available as he was scheduled for another surgery later that night. However, he promised to be fully available the following day. By this time, it was around 5 p.m. so we really did not mind waiting until the following day. I mean, my mother had waited a whole year! Plus, actually it was for the better, so that we’d all have settled in and rested from the journey. We thanked Dr. Koech and headed to the admission desk where he directed us.
The following day, February 19th, we were told by the hospital that my mother would need at least 12 pints of blood for her surgery. This meant that we had to find donors so that the world blood bank would provide the paints of blood. Remember my brother and I had never once, set foot in Eldoret. Luckily, Leroy’s dad had, and his cousin-brother was fortunately in Eldoret. We then called my cousin who called some of her friends to come donate–she had schooled in Eldoret and pretty much grown up there. God was seriously overseeing everything for us because when we could not find enough people to donate—some of us were deemed ineligible to donate–we were given an exception.
Finally, around 3 p.m, my mother was wheeled into the theatre room, and we did not see her until the following day. Get this, my brother and I were the signatories to her surgery. I know I’m a mother, but that has to be the most “adult” responsibility ever. During the surgery, my brother and I stayed outside the hospital, trying as much as we could to avoid that discussion–I honestly think distraction is the best way to handle tough situations. Still, it was hard to avoid the many calls which kept coming in, especially on mom’s phone.
At around 9 p.m, one nurse came and told me that my mother was out of surgery and had been wheeled to the I.C.U and we could see her the following morning (I was the only one allowed to sleep in the hospital, as the caretaker) She said it with a smile so even though she didn’t tell me, I knew the surgery was a success. I called everyone who had contacted me, informed them and finally I could sleep.
The following morning my brother was at the hospital by 6:30 a.m. and fifteen minutes later we went to see her. Miraculously, she was already awake, and the swelling, was gone! We could barely acknowledge the bandage on her head, nor the discomfort she must have been in from excitement. She was back to her “old self.’’ Believe me, it was almost unreal! The good thing was that she was not in pain as the stitched part was still numb, and she was under heavy pain medication.
The third day, she was stable and she was transferred to the ward. At least there, I’d keep her company so she wouldn’t get bored. We stayed at the hospital for ten days through which we were treated with uttermost professionalism, hospitality and kindness. By the time we were discharged, my mother might not have been fully healed, but her improvement was nothing short of a miracle. And for that, we’ll forever be grateful to God, and the entire Tophill hospital fraternity. Because that is where we got help.
One year later, my mother is doing so much better and resuming her normal life 😊
This past Saturday, 19th February 2022, marked exactly one year since my mother got her life-changing surgery. Over the past year, I have mentioned in several of my stories about taking her to the hospital but I have never really written about it in detail. I have intentionally avoided writing about it because of various reasons.
First, I didn’t want to attach her before pictures to the story, because they just break my heart. Second, part of me felt (still feels) like by writing about it, I would be trying to use her illness to popularize my blog which would be the last thing I would want to do. Finally, I don’t know. I just wasn’t (still isn’t fully) comfortable writing about it.
So why I’m I writing about it today? Because my mother—God Bless her Soul—insists that the story could help someone.
“You know you’re scared of posting the before pictures because of how bad you think they are. But those are the ones that need to be seen the most. There could be someone in the same or worse situation and once they – or their friends and family see them – they would know where to turn to.” Her actual words.
She had been going to KNH for almost a year following a twisted web of appointments that led nowhere. Her condition got exceptionally worse and turned into our worst nightmare. Of course, she’s right. Nobody should go what she had to when there was another way out.
So now more than ever, the story needs to be heard.
After my mother had been in Kenyatta for a while, we started looking for options. That’s when I learnt about Top Hill hospital. I mean I had heard about the hospital before, but it so happened that Leroy’s father had recently taken a friend of his to the hospital and he had received the help he deserved. What amazed me, was the convenience with which he went and got his treatment (which happened to be a surgery).
So one day I was telling him (Leroy’s dad) about how my mother had not yet received help, and she kept on getting worse. Her face was literally swelling by the day. That’s when he suggested that we try taking her to Top Hill. I had thought about it, but it was just one of those thoughts that you did not fully have because you brushed it off too fast. Somehow, I did not find it feasible to ask my mother to travel all the way from Thika to Eldoret to get treatment. I myself had never even been there. Also, you know the typical thing is for a patient to travel from Eldoret to Nairobi to get treatment. I also didn’t think that the thought would even be embraced by my mother herself, leave alone the rest of the family.
Either way, I googled Top Hill, trying to get their contacts, and I did. You know what even seemed more unbelievable to me, as soon as I texted via WhatsApp, I got instant feedback. And not, it wasn’t the WhatsApp autoreply messages. The hospital actually had a functional customer care service desk and helpline.
I told my brother about it and he told me to pursue the enquiry before I could ask mom about it. However, ” the guy I was talking to” through the helpline number asked me for my mother’s medical history. You see, he wasn’t a doctor, he was just the receptionist, so for him to confirm whether the hospital could help my mother, he needed her medical history to confirm with an actual doctor. I had told him that my mother was in Murang’a at the time, so it would really be a bother to have her travel all the way when she had no assurance that she could get the help she needed. And honestly, he really got me.
However, this also meant that I had to call my mom to ask for images of her medical records, and so I had to tell her about “my plan”, ready to do a lot of convincing if I had to. But contrary to my expectations, I didn’t have to. She was ready to try anywhere else. With the excruciating headaches she was having, she said was ready to try anywhere. “Handū ha ndūre ngirītīte Kīnyata,” as she put it–Kikuyu to mean instead of always trying to pursue help from Kenyatta Hospital.
After my mother sent images of her medical history, everything moved really fast from then on. I forwarded the images to the guy and within two hours or so, he confirmed that my mother could get help. He further advised that it was best for her to meet the hospital’s main surgeon, who is also the founder of the Hospital, Dr. F. Koech. Now the tricky part was that he was only available on Tuesday and Thursday from 10 a.m. When I received this information, it was on a Tuesday evening. That meant that if my mother was to make it to see him that Thursday at 10 (the much-desired outcome), she had to travel the following day. So we had to act fast, and I wasn’t sure such a long journey could be planned in such a short time. Either way, I called my brother and according to him, Thursday was the only option. (He had taken mom to KNH the previous day, and according to him, her state was an emergency).
So that evening he went home and together with my dad they made the necessary arrangements and my brother was to travel with my mom the following day. The plan was for them to come and spend the night at my place, Kaplong, which is a reasonably close distance to Eldoret. Either way, we still needed to wake up early the following day since it was still a 3-4 hour drive to Eldoret. I had not seen my mother for a while so when I saw her, I understood why my brother thought it was an emergency. Her eye and entire left face were so swollen that she looked nothing like my mother😞💔.
19/2/2021: the day she was to receive treatment
I couldn’t even get myself to look at her. I felt bad that she had been going to KNH from the time it was just a minor swelling up to the point where her face was literally deformed. What broke my heart the most was that all they had done on her last visit was tell her they would call. As if they hadn’t told her that before. And I felt I had failed her terribly for not seeing her often enough to know she needed a way out. But, she kept on saying not to worry because everything was happening as God had planned and I just could not fathom the faith in that woman. It was admirable, palpable even. And as we later found out throughout her treatment process, she was right again, it was all in God’s timing.
Working from home, I mostly love to sit in my bed (my office) and write alone in the silence. It is so quiet and serene which is great both for my thoughts, and my writing. Although sometimes it can get too comfortable that I lose a whole day 😭. Today, my quiet was interrupted by the wailing and screams of a woman, whose voice sounded familiar. These screams followed a loud thud from what I believe was a man hitting her. The thud sounded again and this time, she screamed even louder. By then, there was commotion as I started hearing the voices or two more women, and that of a another man—aside from the attacker.
The argument continued for quite a while and I couldn’t help but thank God their older kids were not around to watch—being a school day. I could not quite comprehend what they are saying because they are speaking in Kipsigis, but I could hear the clear cut pain and hurt in her vibrating voice. To be honest, such incidents scare the hell out of me 😱 However, every time I pray to God that I never become that woman on the receiving end. I always find myself thinking, but that woman never asked for it either. She too, prayed to never be in that position and yet there she was. So what makes me think I am so special?
You know the saddest thing about such cases is that sometimes—most times—these women stay. They stay, hoping, and praying that it gets better. Because when is it really the right time to leave? And you know, sometimes it is not about traditions and the aspect of women being told to stay, “vumilia” and pray. It is not about, “ what will people say?” It is about a woman who still sees the good in the man she loved. A woman whose heart still has not come to terms with the fact that that man hitting them, is not the same man they fell-in-love with. I woman whose heart is so broken, but one who still loves. 💔💔
Over the past two years, I have seen so many of these cases that, I have involuntarily turned into a really bitter woman. It is very unfortunate for me that I might never see marriages and partnerships in as much positivity as I did before. Or was I just naive and living in a cocoon of the Disney happily ever after? — I loved it better there.
I read on a blog I love (they had shared the post) that the society should stop viewing single mothers as to having broken homes because theirs is not the typical home of a father, mother, and children. Their homes are not broken, they are a conventional home, and happy family of the mother and her kids. Broken homes are unhappy homes filled with chaos, homes where the children live with parents who are always fighting, or homes where the parents do not talk to each other. Such homes and families are so broken that they can only be best described as roommates!
Whenever I hear a child scream because they saw their dad hit their mother, or their mother throw something at their dad and it almost hit them, or the story of how such events happened, my heart (even in a movie, because having seen it in real life, I no longer see it as just fictional acting) I imagine the pain, confusion, anger, and resentment in children brought up in such homes, and how it will affect them as adults, and I wish I there was a prayer, or a magic potion that could make sure they happen.
Visual Representation of a Frustrated Boy
You know I wish there was a way the contemporary woman could tell and know that their long-term relationship and or marriage would not work in the future. That the person you trust will one day turn into the one that wrecks you, and the family you built together. Then we would simply let them go when it is easy. Because honestly, teaching your heart to leave when you have spent 15 years and shared 2 to 3 kids with them, (and you don’t know who you are without them) that has got to be the literal leap of faith. Sadly, most women do not get the strength to choose themselves and do it. Instead, they choose their families; they stay for their kids. They just are oblivious of the fact that they choose broken families themselves and their kids. We really need to unlearn, and re-learning the definition of a broken home.
