So This Is 25 - Part I

OK, time for some real talk...

Let me prefix this by saying, this is about to be a long read, so strap in.

You've probably realised from the cover photo being me (disclaimer: that was me before the big 25 but it's one of my favorite of the few photos I've taken this year) and/or the title, that this isn't just another story. It's a lot more personal and is taking a lot more of me to share. I prefer to write fiction because I have a veil in the characters I create, to shield me from vulnerability. However, I wanted to mark my 25th birthday a little differently - what with it being such a major milestone and having a fully formed frontal lobe now. That being said, I turned 25 well over a month ago. This is brought to you a little late courtesy of me being a serial procrastinator, various ailments, and life severely 'life-ing'. Funny how my last series was unintentionally about just that - how making plans can be an exercise in futility. This year has shown me that in more ways than one, so let me tell you a bit about a few.

I remember in February how I had such big plans. For the year, for this blog, for my birthday, and my career, and my love life, and on, and on. I'd been looking forward to being 25 since I turned 21 during peak COVID-19 times. The same way I still look forward to graduating from a Masters I haven't started because I also didn't get a graduation in 2020. It seems I've turned into the poster child for 'expectations versus reality' when it comes to marking big milestones. I went as far as to begin to make plans with a friend for how we'd mark this one. However, the thing with plans is they never quite go according to plan.

Let me take you back even further. October last year, I'm battling continuous nasal congestion. I felt like I had a cold constantly and my nose always felt blocked. Key word being "felt". I didn't sound it, you couldn't see it, but I felt it. I have a lot of allergies, so I chalked it down to my sinuses being irritated by pollen, or cold, or dust, or smoke, or just whatever was in the air that day. Only, it kept getting worse. It became constant headaches, my ears ringing, and days where I couldn't get out of bed because my head was so heavy but I also felt so light-headed. Thankfully, I was working from home then. In December, I realized this wasn't going away. So, I did what any young 20-something enjoying holiday festivities at home would - I told my parents.

Come January, I get a new job which now requires me to be in the office 3 days a week. I knew I had to do something. My dad found me an ENT, and I went on a random Thursday, after going to the studio to take professional headshots for the afore mentioned new job - a first of many firsts this year. Long story sort of short, I see the ENT and he sees nothing wrong with my sinuses, or my hearing, in the initial examination. He recommended a month of medication, followed by a CT. You should have seen the reckless abandon I went about that month with. In fact, I even contemplated not getting the CT. But that nagging little voice of worry in the back of my mind kept going "what if". What if something is actually wrong? That, and the fact that commuting to and from work, the carpet and A/C in the office, and the fumes from matatus, would leave me with headaches that no amount of paracetamol helped.

Fast-forward, I'm in the CT machine a month later. Trembling. Partly because I was freezing in the room, but mostly out of fear, especially with how the radiologist bolted out after settling me in on the cold, narrow, metal bed. Seeing as it was my sinuses being looked at, I had to make eye contact with the red light of the CT machine, as it roared and whirred loudly in circles around my head. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the privileges of modern medicine (and being able to access and afford said privileges), but that's not something I'd want to do again. Less than a week later, I was back with the ENT. A quick study of the scans and the attached documentation - which I had painstakingly Googled to assess how bad things were, to no avail - and he said the dreaded word. Surgery. He explained the procedure well, calling it "minor"- one hour in and out. I didn't hear much over the sirens ringing in my head. On one hand, I knew where the issue was, on the other hand the available intervention was the last thing I wanted. A turbinoplasty. You know those little red things you see on the inside of your nose? Turns out, those are bone and tissue that help keep your nose moist. Mine had gotten quite enlarged, to the point where they were blocking my nose and ensuring air had a tough time getting through. It's likely why my breathing has always been laboured when I sleep, even as a child. It's also why I was sleeping, and waking up even more exhausted because my body would go into autopilot and I couldn't mouth-breathe like I would during the day. Essentially, surgery was to reduce the size of these turbinates so I could breathe normally again.

I still remember being in the matatu on my way back home. Scans balancing on my lap, looking out the window, absolutely terrified. The doctor had given me his card and said to call when I was ready. It wasn't an emergent issue, so I had time to mull it over. I talked to my parents, my friends, my new colleagues (because how would I even begin to ask for extended time off when I'd just arrived). I continued with the meds, and settled on getting a second opinion. Only, life "lifed" and I got so busy it would be another two months before I could see another ENT. This time, I went home. I knew that even if I did decide to get the procedure, I wouldn't want it be in Nairobi, where I live alone, on the fifth floor, and only sort-of-know three of my neighbours. The second ENT ended up being the surgeon who did my procedure - spoiler alert. But first came the long wait.

Allow me to segue slightly. I don't have personal medical insurance - I have NHIF, and an insurance benefit at work that I am yet to start enjoying. My surgeon helped me put in the NHIF request, and the hospital I was to have the surgery at told me I'd get a response in 3 business days. 3 days became 3 weeks very quickly. Mind you, I'd gone home without my work laptop, and with 2 pairs of jeans and a few shirts to my name, as I was only supposed to see the doctor and stay for the weekend. However, when it became surgical and I was told it could be scheduled in a week, I stayed. NHIF had other plans, plans including approving Ksh 5,000 of the 90, giving me the run around for "having another insurance cover", plans that required my mum to know people who know people, and for me to get a letter from my place of work before I could get the approval.

This experience, and my hospital stay, was why taking to the streets to protest on the 25th of June was extremely personal and absolutely necessary for me. Even being a month post-op, even with the prospect of inhaling teargas, even knowing I wouldn't be able to outrun anything, even with my fear, and the concern of my loved ones, I turned up to add my name to the number. I went because I saw first-hand how systems in this country don't work. I saw 4 years of contributions to a medical scheme that I had never used before almost mean nothing. A scheme that barely works for so many yet has typing errors leading to plunder in the millions and pays out dubious claims in the billions (yes, with a B). It's unacceptable. I had to show up and say enough is enough. I'm so glad to see the current level of political consciousness and civic education amongst people my age, those older, and even much younger. We will be the change. We must, because our country must work for all of us. It's still and will continue to be #RutoMustGo - together with the current political and ruling class who have amassed riches by spitting in our faces and stomping on our backs with their red-bottom shoes paid for with our stolen taxes. No more.

That said, back to another first. Admission in hospital. After the eventual NHIF approval, and getting sick leave from work, I presented myself to the hospital in the second last week of May. It felt almost dystopian. I walked myself in the day before my surgery was scheduled, looking absolutely fine, and walked out two days later barely able to stand. This is thanks to NHIF protocol, admission a night before surgery. I had wanted a private room, not because "niko na maringo", which maybe I do, but that wasn't why. I've never really lived with anyone or shared a room for an extended period with someone I'm not related to - I didn't go to boarding school, I didn't live in shared hostels in uni. So the thought of having to share one big room and a bathroom with several people wasn't the most appealing. I also hate hospitals. The way they smell, how they all feel cold and desolate, and how they make me feel worse off than I am.

More than that, I was scared. I've always been one to process my emotions in silence and solitude, it's one of the things I'm working on. It's something I hadn't really even vocalised to my friends or family. I didn't want to have to feel my fear of hospitals, of surgery, of anesthesia, and all these other firsts, in a room full of strangers. Especially considering I would likely be the only one not actually "sick" there that night. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I didn't end up getting one of the 3 private rooms in the hospital, and despite me protestations and balancing tears, my admission to the ward had already been processed. Stressed. Frustrated. And very, very scared, I called the ward home for two nights. I think I slept all of 3 hours, if that. I also have trouble sleeping in new environments, and this was the newest of new.

Morning came, and I was still scared. But that day, more than anything, I was bored. Aside from being overwhelmed and understaffed, this hospital was also rather underequipped from an infrastructure point of view. I was scheduled to go in at 4 PM for my procedure, that ended up being after 7 PM because their one theatre (the other being for maternity cases) had been occupied by an emergency surgery. The wait wouldn't even have been that bad if I wasn't ravenously hungry the entire time. I'd had tea and a few slices of bread at 6 AM that morning, then I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything - I ended up going hungry for over 24 hours, save for an intravenous infusion of glucose after I threatened my surgeon I would pass out before we got to the theatre.

The waiting also felt much longer because nobody would say why. I must have paced the entire length of the wards before someone gave me any answers. Eventually, I was taken into the recovery room of the theatre, steam blowing from my ears, the heavy surgical gown billowing beneath me drenched in sweat, holding my IV bag of fluids. There, I sat and waited, again. About an hour later, I walked myself into the theatre (also very unsettling) and sat up on the surgical table. My 20 seasons of Grey's Anatomy watching really set me up - there were no orderlies to wheel me in, no reassuring words from my team of surgeons who could all pass for runway models, no handholding from family or friends. I simply walked in on my lonesome, climbed a few steps, and laid down as the entire room was abuzz with activity around me.

By the time I laid down on that table, my fear had turned into anger, then frustration, then it had settled into a peace I didn't think I'd have. If you'd asked me in that moment, I'd have told you I didn't know where it came from. Now, I see that I made peace with the waiting. Rather, I found peace as I waited. While I was waiting, I was praying. A big part of my fear came from all the stories I've heard of people going under the knife - for cosmetic reasons, for quality of life reasons (like me), for more life-threatening reasons - and never waking up again. Here I was, this as my only frame of reference, because I've been so fortunate thus far to never have had any serious medical encounters. I'd never been admitted in hospital before this, let alone being put under anesthesia, or having surgery. I was hitting the trifecta in the space of a day. So, I prayed, and I told God that for all the challenges, for all the waiting, for all the collective effort it had taken to get me here, I'd be grateful just to get to wake up. I also said thank you, that I had never had to do this before. I'm not a person who really fears death, but in that moment, I knew I had so much more I wanted to live for. In my waiting I found comfort, and I found gratitude.

I don't remember anything from the surgery itself, of course. I remember my surgeon asking what music I liked right before - I said afrobeats, he heard urbantone. I remember the anesthesiologist injecting me through the cannula on my hand. I remember him asking me something, then jokingly taunting me as I tried to answer and realized I couldn't move my mouth. Then a few seconds later I was out like a light. Honestly, I just felt like I went to sleep. Regular sleep. Deep, but nothing otherworldly. I do remember waking up for the first time, barely. I was still in the theatre, and I remember feeling a cold piece of plastic in my mouth. Only, it wasn't just in my mouth and between my teeth, it was down my throat - a realisation I had when I felt someone pull it out. I fully processed that I'd been intubated the next day when I went to speak and only a whimper came out. Again, Grey's Anatomy really duped me because all you see is people coughing a little and clearing their throats as they're extubated and suddenly they can speak. My voice still isn't fully back to normal, and it's been two months - not all the tube's fault, but still, expectation met reality real quick (and I wasn't even expecting to be intubated).

The second time I woke up, I'd been wheeled into the ward and my parents were staring down at me. I didn't know where I was really, or what time it was, but I knew I was there. Alive. Still. I don't remember much about that interaction, just that it was short, and they looked stressed but relieved. If my face was showing emotion, that was probably what I looked like too. My nose was in bandages and I couldn't feel much. I was breathing through my chapped and cracking lips - I remembered a meme after that I had seen years ago about how if I was ever in a coma, someone should be designated to bring the Chapstick. I forgot to send out the memo, and I'd regret that deeply a couple of days later when my lips fully peeled and doubled in size. In the moment, I was just exhausted. I slept and woke up again around dawn. I needed to use the bathroom, but trying to raise my head felt like trying to upheave a cement walkway. I also couldn't speak, so I had to whimper to another patient to get a nurse to unhook me from the IV bag. I resigned to my fate and slept again until the nurses came in to take my blood pressure. What felt like a few hours later, but in truth was likely an hour or so later, I tried to get up again. This time I managed to sit up, but my legs wouldn't budge when I went to stand. It took several more tries before I actually made it to the bathroom, wobbly and more nauseous than I'd ever been, and I used to get violently car sick.

Fast forward a bit into the day; I tried and failed to eat breakfast, only able to stomach a few sips of porridge after spilling my guts out; I had my doctor come in to remove the packing from my nose (he gravely undersold the pain under the guise of a "bit of discomfort" because it felt like he was pulling my brain out through my nose); he started my discharge - again, under threat, because I had refused to stay another day there; and my mum came to help me get the rest of the process done. I'll never forget how the gents in that office looked at me as they finalised my discharge. I must have been a sight - tired, hungry, nauseous, hospital gown splattered with bits of blood I didn't know had came from where; but with no visible scarring, bandages, or bruising to show for all of it. I braved their inquisitions and multiple asks of "Uko sawa?" (Are you OK?).

I only had one thought - home.

Little did I know, the journey to recovery that lay ahead would be longer and even more taxing than those 3 days had been.