Tag Archives: baby

Baby Now What?

I wrote about the day I gave birth (blog entry called Childbirth) and described the physical process. Harder to put into words is the emotional process that day and the next few days as my baby and I started on our journey together. I’ll start at the beginning. When I woke up bleeding that day, I knew Savannah (that’s my baby’s name) would soon be here. I was scared. That labour would be painful, more painful than anything I had ever been through. I was scared that when it came to it, I wouldn’t be able to physically push her out and might end up needing a caesarean section. I was scared that Savannah might run into trouble and have complications. I was scared that I was going to be a mother and I didn’t know if I’d be any good at it. The main feeling that morning was fear and anticipation. I could not wait for the scary bits to be over, to hold my baby in my arms, to be a mother.

I had a scan printout from 28 weeks of pregnancy which captured her face. The shape of her face was clearly outlined and you could make out where her eyes and mouth were. I must have built up an image of Savannah in my head although when I thought about it consciously in the days leading up to her birth, I couldn’t quite see a clear picture. It was a bit of a shock when she finally popped out and the midwife bundled her into my arms. I looked at her and I couldn’t quite compute what she looked like. Not like my subconscious imagined because every time I looked away and back, I felt a dart of surprise that this was Savannah. The face I was looking at was the face belonging to the baby who was moving about inside of me just a few hours earlier. She looked like her dad and she had lots of curly hair.

I handed her back to her dad as I delivered the placenta and was examined for tears (thankfully none!) and given a little clean. When she came back to me, she was rooting about so I got into position and stuck her to my still-normal-feeling breast. Lo and behold, she opened her mouth and started to suckle. That almost blew my mind. It was the reality check I needed. My brain was starting to connect the dots. I had a baby. For real. Trying to get milk out of my boobies.

So, did I fall madly in love at first sight as people often describe it? Not quite. Naturally I loved her but it wasn’t a sudden flood of emotion. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the day but it was all a little muted. I was dirty, exhausted and hungry. At my midwife’s suggestion, I mustered up all the energy I had left and shuffled to the bathroom, half hanging onto my husband as my mother held her granddaughter. As I stood under the hot shower (which annoyingly kept stopping whenever I stood still), I started to feel less drained. When I was washed, and dressed and smelling of the lovely shower gel I’d used, I had tea and toast (inhaled it more accurately) then I sat half asleep on the comfy armchair and watched my mama hold Savannah.

3 hours after her birth, the wheelchair was brought in to transfer me up to the ward where I was to spend the night. I sat in it and was handed Savannah. This was when I felt an almost overwhelming feeling of protectiveness. She felt so small, so fragile as I held her close. I pressed my face into the side of her face and felt the warmth seeping into my soul. Up on the ward, my husband and mother settled me in and said goodnight. With the curtains pulled around my bed, it was the first time I was alone with Savannah. As she lay in the cot, I lay down and closed my eyes, my hand resting on her cot. I found it difficult to sleep. Every fibre of my being was attuned to her and I was listening for the tiniest sounds from her. I didn’t sleep much that night (or any night for the next few months). When we were discharged, I sat in the backseat next to her and watched her carefully as her dad drove us home. This watching continued for the next few days until I got used to her face.

So, in the first few days, I felt warmth, protectiveness, love and fear. The falling in love bit came later. The first time I felt that exciting, blood surging, butterflies in the stomach love for her was weeks later when she started smiling socially. Every time she smiles, I feel a surge of in-loveness that makes my knees a little weak. When she smiles deep into my eyes, especially first thing in the morning, I fall in love all over again. She looks at me the way my mother looks at me. With an unconditional deep love that is incredibly humbling. When she reaches out her chubby fingers to touch my face or grabs me when I go past her highchair, I fall more in love. When she laughs with pure unadulterated joy as I tickle her or throw her up in the air, it’s love like no other. Now many months in, as Savannah learns to express herself and her personality is starting to take shape, I feel love for her like I never imagined I would love. I thought the love I had for my mother was unmatchable but it is. It is the same yet so different. Every day, I fall more in love with this innocent, beautiful child. Every day, I feel her essence seep into my very core and wrap itself around all that I am. I know that this love is the forever kind. The I’d take a bullet for her kind. The I am all in and so vulnerable to be hurt kind. The best kind of love. I am in love with her. Totally, madly, deeply.

The Most Precious Gift

It is 2 days before Christmas and everyone here is busy buying last minute gifts, wrapping them, decorating their personal spaces, starting Christmas lunch prep and all the other little things that make these holidays so great. I too am getting ready for a very special day and it is not Christmas. Sure I am looking forward to Christmas. I am going to spend the day with my husband in Oxford on Divinity Road no less with some of my dearest family. It will be wonderful I am sure but the day I am looking forward to comes later (hopefully much later!). I am expecting my first baby and my due date is 2nd of April 2016. Which means that as I am 6 months pregnant now, anything could happen. It could happen any day. Being a paediatrician, I am more aware than most of the unpredictability of pregnancy, going into labour and childbirth. I wake up every morning thanking God that my baby is still in there, safe and warm, their organs developing in the proper environment. I go to sleep praying that the baby remains in there for another couple of months at least.

Since I found out I was pregnant, I have been doing a lot of thinking and planning. As you do. First I have been thinking about time. Am I going to be ready for this? Many people have told me it will be the hardest, best, most satisfying, life-changing, painful and joyous thing to happen to me. I have always wanted to be a mother. I think even before I knew I wanted to be a doctor, I wanted a little girl of my own. I know I will love my child with everything I have and I know I have a lot of stamina (you can’t be a paediatrician and not have a lot of willpower and mental toughness). What I don’t know is will I be a great mother? Like my mother, will I be able to balance love and discipline, teach my child what is right and what is wrong and bring them up to be a decent human being? I pray for that the most. To be as good a mother to my child as mine was (and still is) to me. My mama is definitely a cut above the average mother. She was a single mum yet I never felt anything was lacking in my life. In fact when my sister and I reflect on not having a father, we both think that we have lost out on nothing and probably gained a lot from not having that side of the family to influence us. If our parents had stayed together, we would not have been nurtured in quite the same way. We would not have been encouraged to know and speak our minds in the same way. We would not have known that having a great mum is not just enough, it is the essential ingredient in a happy childhood.

I have tried hard not to think of all the potential complications that comes hand in hand with growing a baby and then delivering it. But I cannot escape the fact that this baby will one day be ready to come out and I will have to get it out (or at least give it my best shot). When I was studying obstetrics in medical school, a lot was said about the shape of pelvises and the birth canal. Particularly about which are favourable shapes (those with beautiful childbearing hips like my beautiful sister) and which ones are not – the android pelvis (damn you all!). I sat in the audience wishing that was a class I had skipped. So yes, I have an android pelvis (boyish in plain speak) so nature is not on my side when it comes to pushing this baby out. Thankfully, both my husband and I have small frames and the predicted size of my baby is small meaning I have a fighting chance. I will give it everything I can when the time comes to deliver the baby naturally. Fingers and toes crossed.

I have started setting up the nursery and not gone mad buying gadgets and fancy things all the moms tell me were never used. I look to my sister as inspiration. Before she became a mother the first time, she was a bit of a shopaholic. She would buy all sorts of useless things because they caught her eye in the spur of the moment. Then she fell pregnant and it seems overnight found self-control by the bucket-loads. She became super-organised and wrote list after list and budgeted. She stuck to her plans and her son had everything he needed but nothing was done to excess. Brilliant! I have made notes and I would like to be just like her. I have lists too and every time I tick something off, my little heart does a jig. I am on the way to being a mother.

Before I hit 24 weeks of pregnancy, I didn’t dare to dream about actually having the baby. That is because medically, I know that few babies born before 24 weeks of pregnancy survive and those who do survive, do so often with a lot of complications and a poor quality of life. I was terrified of having a baby who was more likely not to make it than make it. I did not want to think properly of baby names, of delivery, of breastfeeding, changing dirty nappies or being kept awake at night. Just in case this wasn’t meant to be. I know there are no guarantees in life and anything might happen yet but the longer my baby stays in closer to that due date, the more fighting chance we have of having a long happy healthy life together.

Lastly, I am ecstatic that I get to have a little person that I have (without putting much thought into it) been growing to love and cherish for the rest of my life. This baby is literally eating from my food, growing off the nutrients I have taken on board, sharing my blood, and getting oxygen from the oxygen I am breathing in. My baby is swimming around (I can feel the slow sliding rolling movements and the occasional sharper kicks as I write this) within my tommy, in a little sac of clear warm fluid. Maybe the baby is sucking their little fingers, blinking their eyes, practicing becoming a football player. It is the most amazing feeling to think that as I sit here this little person is being built in the incubator that was once the size of a satsuma which is now larger than a watermelon, shoving all my other abdominal organs out of the way to make more space for the baby. I cannot wait to meet my baby when they are ready to face the world. The one thing I do not worry about is that I will be at their side from the day they arrive until I am no more. I cannot wait for the beginning of the rest of my life.

The Cycle of Life Part 2

Mamie, my late grandmother, was from Mubi and Ribadu. Mubi is a large town in Adamawa State, even in the old days a thriving commercial town with good links to many other towns (that is until Boko Haram decided to move in). I understand that Mamie’s father was one of the successful merchants there and her home in Michika only came about long after her father died because Grannie, her mother was from Michika. Anyway, through one of her parents, she is partly from Ribadu too. My memory of Ribadu is of a little diversion on the road to nowhere, little more than a collection of huts that we got to by using dusty dirt roads off the main highways. Most Nigerians will recognise the name though because of the famous Nuhu Ribadu, arguable Ribadu’s most successful son. He was EFCC’s first executive chairman – Nigeria’s anti-corruption agency and suffice it to say, he went about his business fearlessly, bringing those previously seen as untouchable to account. He was loved by the masses and detested by the ‘elite’ who had enjoyed incredible daylight lootery for so long in Nigeria. He had to go on exile when he left office because of fears for his life. I digress, Nuhu Ribadu is a relative. Of course he is I hear the Nigerians cry. Everyone in Ribadu is related so therefore, he is definitely a cousin of some sort. My point is that before Nuhu Ribadu, Ribadu would have been a name no one except its indigenes noticed on the map of Nigeria. Now it is one of the household names in the country and no Nigerian should wonder about its origins.

The girl I want to write about was called Aishatu Mohammadu Ribadu. We called her A’i for short (pronounced Ah-ee). I don’t know how the arrangement came about but I remember vividly when she moved in with us. She was about to start secondary school. I suspect my mother offered to bring her cousin to Yola where there were more education opportunities. She was the oldest girl and named after Mamie so who better? She was as you would expect a little village girl to be at first. Timid and as quiet as a mouse. Pretty Fulani girl with her long curly natural hair. She was soon enrolled into GGSS Yola (Girls Government Secondary School) and on the first day, we lugged all the usual paraphernalia to the boarding school to check her in. I remember us walking around the dorms trying to find her allocated one. We did and when we had her things moved in, we said our goodbyes and left. I was in primary school then so it didn’t occur to me how hard it would have been for her. Not only to leave the shelter of her little village and move in with us but to then go straight into boarding school with girls from all corners of the State. She never complained about it.

She remained quiet for the first year or so and then by JS2, she came into herself. She joined the cultural club in JS3 or SS1 and flourished more with it. She came back after the first term of being part of the group and started to sing us their songs in her lovely voice. One chorus went:

Sai mu ‘yan Hausa cultural,

Daga makarantar Geeeee Geeeee (GG).

Mun zo ne muyi maku wasa,

Wasan mu ta Hausa.

Mun zo ne muyi maku wasa,

Wasan mu ta Hausa.’

(Translates roughly into: We are the Hausa cultural girls from the school of GG. We are here to entertain you, in the Hausa cultural way).

We particularly loved the bit where they introduced themselves and when she got to Aisha Mohammed (the Hausa-nised version of her actual name), we would grin out loud. Over the next year or 2, we learnt many of her songs (some by Sa’adu Bori, very X-rated for our age but who knew?). In the evenings when there was no electricity, we would lie on mats out under the stars and moon. She’d tell us stories about boarding school and we’d sing her songs. Her love for music grew and the first album she absolutely loved was Brandy’s Never Say Never in 1998. We all loved it to be fair but she learnt the words to the songs ‘Never Say Never’ and ‘Have You Ever’ early and would sing those songs so hauntingly that I can’t hear now even today without thinking about A’i. Just hearing someone utter the words ‘never say never’ evokes memories of A’i to me. I suspect looking back she was going through puberty and probably was in love for the first time. Being a shy Fulani girl, we never heard or saw the object of her affections. In fact, in all of her time, I only knew of one ‘boyfriend’ before she met the man who would be her husband. I cannot for the life of me remember him but I know she suddenly relaxed her hair, started to wear makeup and took extra care when getting dressed to go out.

When she graduated, she met Hamma Z (his nickname) and we all knew this was different. She would light up when his name was mentioned and although she was shy about it, she never hid that she liked him. I barely knew him then because I was in boarding school in Lagos myself and he wasn’t resident in Yola but visited periodically. I heard she was getting married shortly before the event and as it was the middle of school term and we had moved to London then, I could not be there. I spoke to her though and she told me how excited she was. She sounded it. After the wedding, they moved to Ashaka where her husband worked. It is a little removed so it wasn’t on the road to anywhere we would normally go when we visited. I never made it to her marital home (this I am still sad about). One summer holiday, I contacted her to say I was coming. She promised we would see each other as she was planning a visit to Yola and Ribadu in that summer.

One day, there she was. I think this was in 2002. She looked beautiful. She was always pretty but she was glowing that visit. When she spoke of her marriage and her new home, her eyes shone. I was very happy. I wondered if she was pregnant and asked her the question. A little bit of the light dimmed. She clearly wanted a baby and it had been over a year. She was worried. I remember telling her not to worry. ‘These things are written,’ I said. Her baby would come when it was meant. She smiled and said ‘You are so grown up Diya’ in Fulani. I hugged her and we sat by the car parking bays at home in Yola, sharing a private moment. Once again, the two Aishas reunited under the stars and moonlight. Before she left, she told me about how quiet it was in Ashaka but that she had made a few friends. She told me about her small business venture and how she was now making some money for herself and her plans to make it more than a hobby. She told me about her husband and how he was kind and worked very hard for them. When she left, I promised when I came next time, I would make the trip to Ashaka especially.

That next visit never came. I saw her when she came for Mamie’s death. Then I got a call from A’i a few months later excitedly telling me that she was pregnant and to tell my mother. Her voice was exuberant and I was ecstatic for her. We rejoiced briefly before she had to go. Call charges to the UK in those days were astronomical but she clearly wanted us to know because she was over the moon. It was very un-Fulani of her to call and talk about her pregnancy so early. Traditionally, Fulani girls would normally never say a word until their pregnancy was obvious to everyone. I guess she knew with us being abroad, we had to be told to know. It was the last time we ever spoke on the phone. We texted from time to time and she let me know everything was progressing fine. She said she had never been happier.

One morning, I got a call from my mama who had moved back to Yola. She said ‘A’i has a son’. Her voice sounded sombre so I immediately asked ‘and how is A’i?’ Mamie had died the year before and since then, we had lost a few other people. I suspected the worst as soon as my mama began to speak. She said Hamma Z had been informed that A’i was taking a little longer than expected to recover from her general anaesthetic. You see, she had had complications which meant they had taken her into an emergency caesarean section. Although my heart was still heavy, I was a little relieved. I was a medical student then so I looked it all up and was a little reassured. Chances of dying from a general anaesthetic are slim in a healthy young woman. Looking back, I think she had pre-eclampsia or something like that but as usual, in the Nigerian healthcare system, information is restricted so all we heard was that she hadn’t quite woken up. My mama promised to call when there was news.

I sat by my phone and waited. When the call came, it was what I didn’t want to hear. She had died. We found out later that actually she had died pretty much straight after the baby was born but that was kept from her family. In a panic, they pretended she was still alive but unconscious. I was in the UK and she was buried according to Islamic rites so I never got to see her. My mama went for the ‘funeral’ and reported Hamma Z was devastated but their son was healthy and beautiful. When the next summer came, I went to Yola and asked to be taken to him. He was living with his grandmother then and was nearly 18 months I think. He was beautiful, like my mama had told me. Quiet like A’i was at first. His aunties and cousins told me how he didn’t talk much or take to strangers. He came to me and sat by my side all visit, leaning into me when I wrapped one arm around him, despite not saying a word to me. They looked at me in wonder and said ‘he must know his blood’. I smiled and agreed. Yes, he must. I felt an intense love for him at that moment and I wanted to steal him away. I also wanted to burst into tears. I knew how proud his mum would have been of her little boy and was devastated she never got to meet him.

His father remarried after many years and A’i’s son was reunited with his father for good. Although I have only seen him a few times over the years because they do not live where I go on my short visits to Nigeria, his father and I keep in touch and I am told he is happy. He is an adolescent now and he is so much his mother’s son. I looked at the most recent picture of him I have and saw his smile. A’i’s smile. He has her eyes, her nose and her mouth. His colouring and demeanour is very reminiscent of her. I still well up at the thought he will never know her just as she never got to meet him but I am comforted by the fact that she lives on in him. If I ever get a chance when he is older, I will tell him his mother wanted nothing more than to bring him into this world. That I have never seen her so happy than when she was with his father. Nor heard her so excited than when she announced he was in the making. That he would have been the centre of her world. That she would have done anything for him. That he would have been the most loved little boy, the apple of her eye. I hope I get the chance to tell him all that. Life!

The Taboo of Domestic Violence

One of the great privileges of being a paediatric doctor is the frontline seat we have on humanity. Of course we only see this great variety of human life and get to share in their stories because the NHS is still at the point of need free. We get to see how the very poor live their lives and also how the more affluent live theirs. Stereotypes abound within medicine and on the whole they ring true but we doctors and other frontline staff are constantly amazed and shocked by the unexpected. Life is certainly unpredictable as a doctor in the NHS. This is one of the reasons why I love the NHS so.

One of the greatest sorrows I have faced is when I come across a mother and or child who is being abused by the man who is supposed to love her and protect her from the rest of the world. One of our babies has been taken into foster care recently because the mother is being abused and has chosen that option for herself and her baby. I wanted to weep (still do) because I cannot imagine the horror that the mother has gone through and must be going through to carry a baby to term, labour to deliver her beautiful baby and then feel she must give that baby up. Heart breaking! In this case, the abuse is on-going and the father of the child not only threatened the mother with further abuse, he has threatened to kill the baby if she takes it home. Isn’t there something we can do for her I hear you ask? Of course there are ways in which we can help her. We have offered her every viable option including the one she has taken: giving up her child for fostering or adoption. She weighed up her options and came to a decision to give up the baby. Some of us are worried this is not a rational decision but unfortunately, within the law as she is an adult without any mental illness to cloud her judgement, we have to accept her decision whether it appears rational or wise or not.

Unfortunately, this case is not unique. In my 4 years of paediatrics, I have seen far too many cases of domestic violence and its many victims. 1 is too many but there have been dozens in my short time in the NHS. Bearing in mind that I have only worked in 7 NHS Hospitals and have seen but a tiny snippet of what is going on out there, this is a massive problem that is rarely talked about. Even within paediatrics and obstetrics where this is a major concern, we only talk about it when we get a case. Then it gets filed in the back of our minds until the next unfortunate case. Today I want to highlight the evil that is domestic violence and in my little way encourage anyone directly or indirectly affected to do something about it. What we need is more awareness and everyone who can do something to do a little bit so we can get some change happening.

As you may know, my mother is a feminist so I have always been aware of domestic violence in its many guises and how ugly it can get. As a young feminist, it was always one of those issues I was passionate about and I even wrote a radio drama aged 14 on the topic which got aired in Lagos in 2000. From a very early age, my mother taught me to have zero tolerance to domestic violence. I have always said that the minute a man raises his hand to hit me, unless it is in retaliation after I hit him first, that relationship is done and dusted. Some of you may think this is extreme but if you knew what I know, you would understand that zero tolerance is the best way to go about snuffing out domestic violence.

In medical school (here in Birmingham), I opted to do a module on Domestic Violence in my 4th year of study. It was a short module but the quality of teaching delivered voluntarily by the staff from the local Women’s Aid was fantastic. It was sobering to realise that the knowledge I had from what was happening in my hometown in Yola was mirrored in Britain. Britain may proclaim how forward thinking it is but just the same with Yola in Nigeria, their response to domestic violence is still inadequate and there is very little actual protection for the victims. Majority of the work is done by the voluntary sector trying to safeguard those who seek for help. By the very nature of this service provision, victims do not have access to help and unfortunately, many will continue to be victims until they end up in intensive care or even worse in early graves.

Here are some facts and statistics from Women’s Aid (http://www.womensaid.org.uk/domestic_violence_topic.asp?section=0001000100220041&sectionTitle=Domestic+violence+%28general%29) by way of introduction:

  • Domestic violence is any incident or pattern of incidents of controlling, coercive or threatening behaviour, violence or abuse between those aged 16 or over who are or have been intimate partners or family members regardless of gender or sexuality. It is not just physical violence. It can be verbal, sexual or neglect. It can be against a partner, a child or an older relative.
  • The vast majority of the victims of domestic violence are women and children, and women are also considerably more likely to experience repeated and severe forms of violence, and sexual abuse.
  • Women may experience domestic violence regardless of ethnicity, religion, class, age, sexuality, disability or lifestyle.  Domestic violence can also occur in a range of relationships including heterosexual, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender relationships, and also within extended families.
  • The majority of abusers are men, but in other respects, they vary: abusers come from all walks of life, from any ethnic group, religion, class or neighbourhood, and of any age.
  • Abusers choose to behave violently to get what they want and gain control. Their behaviour may originate from a sense of entitlement which is often supported by sexist, racist, homophobic and other discriminatory attitudes.
  • The estimated total cost of domestic violence to society in monetary terms is £23 billion per annum. This figure includes an estimated £3.1 billion as the cost to the state and £1.3 billion as the cost to employers and human suffering cost of £17 billion.
  • The first incident of domestic violence occurred after one year or more for 51% of the women surveyed and between three months and one year for 30%.
  • Amongst a group of pregnant women attending primary care in East London, 15% reported violence during their pregnancy. Nearly 40% reported that violence started whilst they were pregnant, whilst 30% who reported violence during pregnancy also reported they had at some time suffered a miscarriage as a result (Coid, 2000).

The commonest question people who have not been victims ask is ‘why doesn’t she leave?’ To understand the answer, you have to try to understand how they become victims in the first place. The typical victim starts out as a happy vivacious young woman, often pretty with very social personalities. They meet and fall in love with a man who at first glance is perfect. Often these men are older, more experienced who charm the girl with their confidence and assertiveness. Once the young woman/girl is ‘in love’ and moves in with the abuser, he (often he but not always) will begin to isolate the girl from her friends and family. It often starts innocently but becomes more pervasive. Often the man will complain about some character flaw in one friend and systematically will find a way of making her cut ties with majority if not all of her social support network. He will often start with small acts of violence like physical restraint if she wants to go out and he doesn’t approve, seizing her shoes so cannot leave the house or calling her ugly when she dresses in a way that she would normally and in the way he would have previously approved. Then once he starts to isolate her, he will chip away at her confidence and withhold praise so that she begins to modify her behaviour to please him and to get approval. To please him, she often has to isolate herself from her friends and family and cater to his every whim. Despite that, he will find fault with all she does and he will start by criticising her. Eventually, he will physically punish her for not doing what she should. Mentally, because of the slow insidious way of grooming her into becoming a victim, she starts to believe that whenever he abuses her verbally or physically it is because she has failed to do something.

Eventually, she is truly a victim and she stops to see herself as a victim and him as an abuser. She begins to blame herself for everything that befalls her and see him as her saviour. Most will come to believe their abuse is an act of love. What it often takes for her to begin to see her thinking is faulty is either when she ends up in hospital because he has lost control and beaten her so badly that he ‘allows’ her to seek medical help or she has children or other family members she feels responsible for and they get harmed. Even then, these victims will often go back time and time again. Sadly, some will go back one too many time and end up dead. Or their child will end up dead or permanently damaged. Here are some statistics to back that fact:

  • Women are at greatest risk of homicide at the point of separation or after leaving a violent partner. (Lees, 2000)
  • 60% of the women in one study left the abuser because they feared that they would be killed if they stayed. A further 54% of women left the abuser because they said that they could see that the abuse was affecting their children and 25% of the women said that they feared for their children’s lives. (Humphreys & Thiara, 2002).
  • The British Crime Survey found that, while for the majority of women leaving the violent partner stopped the violence, 37% said it did not. 18% of those that had left their partner were further victimised by stalkingand other forms of harassment. 7% who left said that the worst incident of domestic violence took place after they had stopped living with their partner. (Walby & Allen, 2004).
  • 76% of separated women reported suffering post-separation violence (Humphreys & Thiara, 2002). Of these women:

– 76% were subjected to continued verbal and emotional abuse.

– 41% were subjected to serious threats towards themselves or their children.

– 23% were subjected to physical violence.

– 6% were subjected to sexual violence.

– 36% stated that this violence was ongoing.

Lest I forget, I will mention the even more invisible group: male victims of domestic violence. I was heartened to see a poster the other day in a public toilet (female) offering male victims some help. This is just as important because we know that many perpetrators of (domestic) violence were once victims their selves. The man might be the victim in some cases. Learn to expect the unexpected.

So what do I suggest? For anyone who reads this, please share so that we can raise some awareness. If you suspect anyone you know might be a victim, please talk to them and point them towards the Women’s Aid website for help. Do not allow your friend or sister or mother to isolate herself. If you feel you are being pushed away and this is out of character for your friend, please persevere and remain friends with them even if it is only from a distance. Do not cut all ties as you may be tempted to do. Lastly, be watchful. Personally and for everyone you love. If you suspect something is amiss, draw them closer and be there so that if they need help, you might be that link that keeps them real and potentially saves their lives. If you are with a partner who is exhibiting some of the behaviours above, talk to someone you trust about it and ask for help. This help could come from Women’s Aid or even a trusted friend. If you are in a place where Women’s Aid or similar do not exist, turn to friends and family and seek for help early. No man is worth losing your dignity, sanity, health or life for.

Your Body is Your Temple

I don’t mean that in the gym-bunny, mirror-worshipping way mind you! I mean it in a biology-is-amazing way. I genuinely am proud to be a geek when it comes to biology and how amazing it is to study. I knew I wanted to be a doctor before I understood what a career meant but I think it must be because I looked around as a tiny tot and thought, wow! Everything God has made is simply amazing. The trees, the animals, the sky, the insects…I will attempt to give you an insight about the little things (or not so little depending on your perspective) that make me so awe-inspired.

First, the atoms making all matter up. When I look at the structure of an atom and how it greatly resembles a planet, I am immediately amazed. How can something so simple and so tiny be so organised? The bit I love best are the electrons whizzing around like little moons outside of the nucleus of an atom. The fact that there is a space (albeit miniscule in human terms) between nucleus and electrons yet there is an almost unbreakably strong force holding those structures together. And the fact that when you think every small particle has millions of atoms all linked together but all quite independently holding their ground with their electrons orbiting and repelling each other, creating a little force field of protection for their little territory. Then multiply that by millions and you make a little baby whose atoms are organised in equally amazing cells.

Cells are just a feat of engineering. Google the structure of a cell and maybe look at an animation of what a cell is doing all the time. As you sit here reading this, your cells are busily functioning. Making energy from glucose, enzymes and oxygen in the mitochondria and funnelling that energy in the form of molecules called ATP where they are needed for your cell to do more stuff. As the cells work, they are making waste products and heat that they are getting rid of either into fluid around them to go ultimately into blood to be excreted mainly via the skin, lungs or kidneys. The nucleus in each tiny cell is using up some of that energy to copy your DNA either to make little proteins out in the cell fluid (cytoplasm) or copy the cell’s DNA depending on what type of cell it is.

These proteins are what run your body. Your enzymes and hormones. The building blocks to build more cells to replace those that are dying (happening all the time) or  to repair damaged worn out cells (like nerve cells you can’t make more off). The enzymes help you break down your food, absorb it into cells and then process it, making ATP for more energy. They also help you to convert hormones and other chemicals from one form or another to be used in other intricate processes. Some very important security proteins are those that control how your cells are copying their DNA and therefore multiplying – they often have names like p53. In simple terms, they spot if your cells have copied DNA wrong and the new cells are abnormal (those are the cells that either die or could potentially become uncontrollable and may become a cancer). They then stop that cell being made and destroy it. It is only when something goes wrong with these proteins that you fall victim of cancer or more accurately a tumour with the potential to become cancerous. The hormones tell your organs and glands how to function, whether to make more proteins, work harder or relax a little. Other bits like your white cells also help you fight infections by either producing poisons that kill harmful organisms or simply by wrapping themselves around the bugs and effectively imprisoning them.

I will mention cancer briefly because I find it fascinating and scary and impertinent in equal portions. Like I said, cancer is basically a mistake made at some point when making cells. Some of these defective cells will just die because they do not work well enough to process energy needed for them to survive. Some though become super-cells and not only can they make energy, they evade your bodies normal security proteins and start to multiply at a crazy high pace (fascinating!). These cells then take up space they should not normally take up and even more impressively, they somehow hijack your blood vessels by producing proteins that encourage growth of blood vessels around them so they make themselves a nice super-supply of blood, getting extra blood with all that extra glucose and oxygen to fuel their drive to multiply further (making you anaemic and breathless because you are short of oxygen). The ball of supercells (tumour) then grows and grows, taking up space and pushing your organs out of the way, making them function not as well (giving you some of the symptoms of cancer like constipation when they press on something like bowel) or blocking tubes (like the trachea in the lungs so you become breathless eventually or your bile ducts so you become jaundiced and cannot get your digestive enzymes to your tummy to allow you to digest and absorb food so you lose weight). This is the impertinence of cancer. Eventually, it replaces your normal organs and that’s when the real big problems present. That scares me because you have millions of cells all multiplying constantly and mistakes are bound to happen. It takes just one mistake that goes uncorrected and you potentially have a cancer in the making. Goodness gracious me!

Back to awesomeness though. The next thing that never fails to impress me is reproduction. You can’t escape it. People say love makes the world go round. Some say it is sex. Really, it is reproduction. From simple cell reproduction as above allowing a little baby to grow and for a body to keep functioning to actual mating and reproduction. It really is not all about sex. Even ‘simple’ beings like bacteria reproduce by exchanging DNA in a very unsexy way. Have you ever seen snails/molluscs ‘mate’ for example on nature programmes? It is so weird and amazing all at the same time. That is what binds us all living beings together. We are all programmed to reproduce to ensure our all-important DNA is preserved. So sex my friends is beyond physical lust. You are pre-programmed to want to procreate.

Babies in general are simply fabulous (take it from this paediatrician who is daily seduced by their endless charms at work). However, baby girls are a cut above the non-girls (sorry boys). When a little girl is being made, by 20 weeks of pregnancy, she already has ovaries which have made all the eggs they are ever going to make. In fact, she normally has more than she needs in her lifetime (more than one a month for all of her fertile years) and about 80% will degenerate leaving 20% of her (best) eggs ready for when she one day is ready to become a mother. A baby boy in comparison does not produce any sperm so has no capacity to reproduce. At the earliest in a healthy normal boy, sperm do not come into being until the boy is at least 9 years old. So yes, I know I am probably coming across as very feminist but hot diggity! Girls are awesome!!!

I will stop at that incredible piece of biology because I will get too excited if I carry on. When I stop and think about biology, I have all the evidence I need for God’s existence (or whatever you like to refer to that life force that controls us all whether we are willing or not). There is clearly intelligent design at play. Biology did not just happen and continue to happen. It is a true miracle and I thank God that I am human so that I can appreciate all of nature’s amazing-ness.

What does a Junior Doctor Do Exactly?

A letter written to Jeremy Hunt by a consultant currently working in England.
An excellent illustration of how indispensible ‘junior’ doctors are to the NHS and the public as a whole. I couldn’t have put it better myself so I haven’t tried to 😀

…………………………..

Dear Mr Hunt,

My name is Philip, and I am a consultant physician. Not so long ago, I was a junior doctor and like many others I am outraged and angry about what you propose to do with ‪#‎juniordoctors‬ and their ‪#‎juniorcontracts‬.

I thought that maybe, given you have not worked in healthcare, you might not understand what it is that doctors do (much like if I was made, say, head of Network Rail) so I thought maybe I can help you by shining a light on what I used to a few years ago as a medical registrar.

The medical registrar is the most senior medical doctor in the hospital out of hours. In explaining to my friends what we do, I tell them everyone who doesn’t need an operation right away, or doesn’t have a baby falling out of them, above the age of 16, is our business (and often we have to look after those too). We were the ubiquitous shirehorses that carried the hospitals medical workload day and night. And here’s a typical night shift I did at a general hospital. (all details changed and adapted from real cases to protect patient confidentiality).

I arrive at 8:50 PM for a 9:00 PM handover. It’s been a busy day and the emergency department is full. The outgoing medical registrar tells me there are no beds in the hospital. There are 10 patients waiting in A&E for the medical team, and a lot of patients need reviewing on the wards. He’s already admitted 36 patients during the day, and the consultant is still there seeing some of them with the daytime doctors. I wave hello at her as I head into the fray. I know the consultant and she’s not seen her kids since her on call week started. She waves back wearily.

My first patient for review was a young man with abdominal pain. My first thought as I walked into his cubicle, he looks sick. This is a skill you develop after years of training, when you look at someone and know that they are minutes from death. He’s grey, clammy and shocked. I immediately set about treating his shock and assessing why this has happened. Does he have a bad infection? Is he bleeding? Does he have a blood clot on his lungs? A quick bedside test confirms he’s bleeding badly, likely internally, and my surgical colleague (another junior doctor) and I urgently arrange for an operation. He hurriedly talks to his parents and completes a inacapacitated patient consent form as his condition deteriorates. I leave him in theatres with the anesthetists and surgeons as I have other patients to see.

The next patient was an elderly woman who has fallen. Although she has no hip fracture, she’s unable to walk and needs admission for painkillers and rehabilitation. I reassure her as best I can and stop many of her medicines potentially making her fall. There are no beds for her on the assessment unit or the elderly care ward, so the A&E sister arranges for a pressure support mattress and bed for her in the department overnight. She was lonely and depressed, and I spend some time talking to her about her worries and fears but after a while I needed to move on. She squeezes my hand and smiles, thanks me and settles for the night.

Next is a resus patient with an asthma attack. He is drunk and abusive verbally, though he’s too breathless to be too abusive. A blood test show his attack is life threatening and he he fights off attempts to treat him by myself and the A&E team, pulling off his nebuliser mask and oxygen. As I read out the blood test result to the intensive care registrar (another junior doctor) the man goes blue in the face, gasps and stops breathing. I drop the phone, run over and take over his breathing with a manual ventilator. He has had a respiratory arrest. Alarms blare, help comes running, we inject him with various medicines to help relax his airways and the intensive care doctor slips a tube into his windpipe to help him breathe. The consultant physician, still there, helps with what she could, running blood tests and helping to scribe in the notes. After a nervous period, he stabilises and we take him to intensive care.

It’s now midnight.

In the meantime I have reviewed five more patients, seen by the twilight team, and also my night SHO has discussed some patients with me. The consultant finally got home around 11PM. I’m now on the wards, a liver patient with severe cirrhosis is unrousable. I read through the notes. He has cirrhosis and is not suitable for a transplant. The team has tried everything. I sit and talk with his family, telling them I’m very sorry but there’s nothing more to be done. They cry, one of them screams at me that I’ve killed him, but I accept this as part of my job. With more assurance they’re calmer and I reassure them he’ll be kept comfortable.

My bleep goes off as I write in the notes. Is that the medical reg? The hospital is now totally full, can you please choose some patients to send to our sister hospital down the road? I groan, although I understand the necessity patients understandably hate it. I pick four stable patients and liaise with the registrar down the road.

2AM. I send my SHO off for a quick break as I review some more patients. A confused elderly man who might have a urine infection, a young man with severe headache, a diabetic patient with a very high blood sugar, a lady withdrawing from alcohol and hallucinating. The A&E sister makes me a coffee, lots of milk, lots of sugar.

3AM. I’m with a man in resus again, he is vomiting bright red blood in large volumes. He is jaundiced and looks unwell, very unwell. As the A&E team arranges for a massive transfusion to be set up, I ring the intensive care doctors and the gastroenterology consultant. He listens and says “I’ll be coming in”. I then slip a line into his neck under local anaesthetic, a practiced skill that’s hard at 3AM when you’re tired, but fortunately successful. We pour blood, clotting products, medications and antibiotics into him to halt the bleeding. The gastro consultant arrives at 3:40 and he’s taken to theatres where he performs a life saving procedure. The patient goes to ITU.

4AM. A brief moment to sit down for a quick break. I have reviewed three more of the SHO’s patients. This is the first time we’ve had a chance to sit down together, a quick chat and a cup of tea was interrupted by a cardiac arrest bleep. We run to the cardiac ward. A 54 year old gentleman admitted with chest pain by the day team has had a sudden cardiac arrest. The excellent CCU nurses are doing CPR and attaching a monitor. I ask them to stop as it’s attached, the rhythm is ventricular fibrillation.

“Back on the chest please, charge defib to 150, charging. OK, off the chest, stand clear, top middle bottom myself, oxygen away, SHOCKING.” The patient jolts. “Back on the chest please.” I heard myself say.

Two minutes later he has a pulse. We repeat an ECG, he’s had a full heart attack. I call the cardiologist at the heart attack centre 10 miles away. He’s accepted and an ambulance crew transfers him for an emergency angioplasty. I send my SHO back to A&E as I write a transfer note.

5AM. The resus doors burst open. Another patient, an elderly woman with breathlessness. The A&E F2 listens to the chest, pulmonary oedema. She’s given the emergency treatment but it’s not working. I decide to start her on positive pressure oxygen. Strapped to her face was a tight mask blowing oxygen to inflate her lungs, buying time for the medicines to work. The plan works and pints of dilute urine fills her catheter bag, her breathing improves and she says thank you through the mask. Despite the fatigue I smile and give the F2 a fist bump for a job well done.

7AM. Four more reviews. a patient with kidney failure due to medications, a depressed young man who took an overdose, an elderly nursing home resident with pneumonia, and an elderly man with a broken hip whom I assess with the orthopaedic surgeon. I start to round up the patients for the ward round. 18 patients overnight, five transfers out, one death. A relatively quiet night. I check with the clinical site manager and SHO that we’ve not missed anyone and click save on the list. No one is waiting to be seen, a good feeling.

8AM. The consultant from last night arrives, she looks tired but asks us how we’re doing. OK we said. We start in A&E as most of our patients are still there, the site manager is worried as some of the patients from last night are coming up to 12 hours in A&E. We review each patient’s story and tests, and talk to them about their condition. We visit ITU for the two new transfers there.

11AM. The ward round of the night patients are done, and I have completed a death certificate for a patient overnight. I climb into my car and listen to the breakfast show as I drive home, an hour away. I’ll be in bed by 1PM , and back for the night shift after 6 hours sleep. A relative luxury from a relatively quiet night.

This would be a relatively quiet night for a junior doctor and I am sure many registrars would laugh at how easy I’ve had it! But the people doing this work are junior doctors, who show dedication, commitment and goodwill beyond belief. They do lifesaving work up and down the country, working hard without complaining and sacrificing time with their families.

Please, I beseech you, treat them fairly and with the compassion they treat others daily. The new contract is not fair, and the extended hours it’ll cause is not safe. ‪#‎notfairnotsafe‬

I hope this little story will give you some insight into the vital work junior doctors and the NHS do. If you like, please come and spend a night at our hospital, I’ll come in with you and show you around. Please talk to my junior colleagues and listen to them, you may be surprised what you’ll learn.

Best wishes,

Dr Philip Lee

My Very Own UN

My sister is (or should that be was) a social butterfly. She always had more than friends than she knew what to do with and she never had issues making new ones. A classic extrovert. I considered myself an introvert for most of my youth. Now with more self-awareness, I know I am more of an extrovert than an introvert but I am pickier than my sister, the true extrovert. Because I have been so picky, I think I have ended up with the best friends in the world.

Some of the people I am talking about might not realise how much I value their friendship or indeed that I am talking about them but I hope when I describe how fabulous they are, they will realise how great and valued their friendship is to me. When I was little and my mama was my only role model, one of the things I thought was absolutely amazing about her and her life was her array of friends. They were young and old, some local, many from far afield (and being in Yola that is quite something I tell you). Some Muslim, some Christians. Some skinny, some fat. Some beautiful, some not so beautiful. Some quiet, some loud. Many feminists like my mama. All sorts. The one unifying thing about them was that they were kind and caring, they spoke to me like I mattered and they were passionate. If she ever needed anything around the world, all she had to do was pick up the phone or send an email and the cavalry would arrive. Subconsciously, as I grew up, I think I looked for all those things in my would-be friends. I think I succeeded in developing my very own passionate, kind, caring, loving, helpful and loyal circle of friends. The inner circle is a small one compared to my mother’s but I happen to believe the best things come in small packages. I will talk about my current inner circle in no particular order as I value them all fairly equally. I won’t mention my mama and my sister but they are my best friends and are the core circle.

First one is my Ethiopian friend who I met in 2001 who I shall call Lizzie. We were in the same tutor group in Gladesmore Community School (10AH massive) and we both joined in year 10 so we had common group but our big unifier was where lived and that we had to get 2 buses to get to school. So, earlier than the other pupils, we were up and out, dragging sleepy bodies onto the 144 which I caught at the first stop in Muswell Hill and Lizzie would hop on 4 or 5 stops later in Hornsey. We were normally quiet in the 144 but by the time we got on the 41, we were awake enough to chat. It was on the 41 that I got to know Lizzie’s life story and about her very grown up relationships. At this stage, I had never had a proper boyfriend and despite having a crush at school, I wasn’t really interested in a relationship. So I lived vicariously through her. We also bonded over our love of heels (low enough to wear to school and get away from censure) and long braids. Also I have been mistaken for Ethiopian so we had a similar slim innocent look. We have remained friends over the years, closer after school than in school, through her babies and marriage, through my medical school. Lizzie was a bridesmaid at my wedding and she regularly makes the drive up to Birmingham from London to visit. Even though we had periods were we got too busy with our lives, she has remained a constant. We may drift (although not so much now) through complacency but we never fight and we are there to listen. So here is to my yummy mummy Landan friend. For being constant and loyal and inspiring me to be more glamorous and feminine.

Next is my Northern Nigerian friend who I shall call Halima. We met in 1996 in Queen’s College, Yaba Lagos and we were friends from the very beginning. It was the Hausa lessons that cemented the friendship and as we were both boarders, prep times and dinner times were there for us to foster the relationships. In another blog, I have mentioned Na’ima and I was close to a couple of other girls, 2 of whom were boarders. Halima was in a ‘House’ located all the way across the quadrangle which thinking about now wasn’t so far but during those years was enough to make visiting her during weekends a significant event. She was responsible for the one and only time I had periwinkles (the hairstyle) for Sports day in JSS2 (see blog on that). Those periwinkles make an appearance on my first ever British passport and my husband loves the photo so much he keeps it by his bedside. She was one of the only girls whose homes I would visit outside school too and I knew her family so that made her more special than many others. Post-QC, she is certainly the one who would always make an effort to come and see me whenever I went to Nigeria. I knew about her wedding as soon as she had a date in mind because she wanted me to be able to jiggle my doctor on-call to make it there.  I am so glad I did. We shared her pregnancy from across the distance too. In all these years, I do not remember ever fighting with Halima. She is probably one of the gentlest and sweetest women I know and her son and husband are so lucky she is theirs. Despite being many thousands of miles apart and despite our other friends from that era being on social media and living in close vicinity to her, Halima is the one of all that I would be able to count on today if I needed a friend in Abuja. What a sweetheart!

Then there is my Southern Nigerian friend, let’s call her Tolu. I met her through NLI which is a (NGO) Nigerian initiative to promote young accomplished Nigerians living at home and abroad to be the champions that make Nigeria great once again. NLI was in 2010, or was it 2009? I came from here and she came from the US. We bonded over our passionate pitches and speeches. Never before had I met a young woman who seemed so like me. She exuded integrity and honesty and passion. When I told my husband about her, the words I used were ‘Tolu motivates me to be a better person. I wish she lived nearby so I could be in her presence regularly’. Being next to her or chatting with her on the phone or on social media never fails to give me a positive boost. Tolu to me is everything a young Nigerian should be and she makes me so proud to be in the same circle as hers. If I could choose anyone for my baby to be like, it would be Tolu. She went through a very harrowing time a couple of years ago and being so positive and so strong, she didn’t say anything for a long time because she is that type of a person who will be everyone’s shoulder but have no shoulder to lean on herself. She has come through all of that in a way that is no less than heroic. She is generous and kind. She is a wonderful listener. She is passionate about life and justice and selfless in her outlook. Maybe I don’t want my baby girl to be like her, maybe I want to be like Tolu. Anyway, if you are reading this my love, I might not have said in so many words but your strength, honesty, passion and selflessness makes you wonder woman in my eyes and I could not be prouder of you. I hope your dreams for Nigeria and the world come through because this world is so much better for having you in it.

Following on neatly is my only fellow Iro-Nigerian, who I call Irish anyway. She is Irish in all the best ways possible except she lacks an accent being southern England-bred (sadly but she can put on a pretty good one). We went to medical school together and once again it was fate that brought us together because we met in student halls in 2004. Being the only two medics in the flat of 6, naturally we became close pretty quickly as we were together pretty much all day every day for the first 2 years of our medical school. We were up ridiculously early and gone all day. We couldn’t party any night of the week like a certain somebody we lived with. We had plenty of work and exams to keep us busy. The first thing about Irish is that she is a morning person. I am most definitely not. She would wake up at dawn even on weekends and whistle cheerfully. She had these dryer sheets that smelled of fresh laundry…even today, that lovely fresh scent equates to Irish to me. She has tremendous boobs (sorry Irish but I feel they need to be celebrated) and the loveliest bouncy hair which is NOT mousy brown as she used to claim. She is one of those friends I have never fallen out with. It’s strange to think but we don’t have fights at all. Perhaps it is because she doesn’t tend to get dragged into one of my deep philosophical conversations because she is quite squeamish with deep emotional stuff and would rather the happier topics. That is not to say that she won’t indulge me if I need to offload. She makes the best butter icing cupcakes and has managed to teach me to bake a couple of things. She loves sunflowers. That is in a nutshell Irish to me. She is little Ms Sunshine with a spine of steel underneath all the Gaelic charm. She will stand up for what she believes in and will call you out if you do something wrong but all with the sweetness of honey. She has dealt with family issues that would faze many but she remains unfazed and strong. She also has lovely blue eyes and dimples which I would give my little toes for. Oh and she gives the best hugs ever! If Tolu is the girl I want my daughter to grown up to be, Irish is the woman I want to be for my children. I want to be all sunshine and sweetness and quiet strength and I want to be charming just like her when I grow up.

Then there is my Indian friend who around birth was inadvertently called One on some documentation and that is my name for her which I shall stick to. She is the only one of my friends who is younger than I am. We met whilst I was out doing clinical experience in SEWA rural, Jhagadia – a village in Gujarat State, India. She was out there too doing field research and being the only other single girl resident in the flats on hospital grounds, we instantly gravitated to each other and became fast friends. She is a biomedical scientist. We quickly found common love in tea and laughter and feminism. We quickly fell into a routine. She would come over after ‘work’ to put her water in my fridge and we would go over to hers for tea. I would usually drape myself all over her bed and even occasionally on the cool floor for it was pregnant with heat during my 3 months there. My friendship with her is very similar to the one I have with Safa except the age difference and my having a bit more life experience. And our life stories seem to mirror each other down to meeting the ‘wrong’ boy as defined culturally but actually believing them to be our Mr Right. Unlike Safa though, she is the only one of my friends who is shorter than I am so I feel refreshing normal size next to her. One is rather fearless I think and having lived in remote Jhagadia for a whole year, she then applied for a post-graduate course in the US and off she went to live in NY. Now she is in Malawi, again independently sourced job and seems to be flourishing. What makes her so special goes beyond her fabulous tea, her wicked sense of humour and independent spirit. She is also very honest and open, kind and supportive, generous and when she loves, she gives it her all. One is going to be great someday soon. Mark my words!

Last but not least is my youngest adopted mama, Farah for today. I met her in 2009 as a lowly FY1 doctor in the crazy world of City Hospital (Birmingham). She was soon to be medical registrar and had a reputation for being brutally honest and fierce. Did that put me off? No! I love my women fierce and fearless so we became friends in the mess when I was on surgery and actually had time to go to the mess every day. I loved her unconventional ways and I think she liked me because though small and ‘quiet’ on the face of it, I gave as good as she gave and never seemed to take it personally when that sharp tongue was pointed my way. Despite the difference in years, in the hierarchical world of medicine, we remained friends over the years and have grown closer since we stopped working together. She is another one from a Muslim background who was born into the religion and though respects me for practicing, is not of the same opinions about it. I respect that despite being from a middle-eastern background, she is honest enough to say this is how ‘I’ feel about religion and all that comes with it. I love that despite that prickly first impression she gives out, she is a big old softie with a heart that is good as gold. She is loyal and supportive and she is always there for me if I need her. She wore a polka dot dress to my wedding – if for nothing else, I will love her forever. What a woman! Farah I salute you. You are one of my heroes.

There you are dear readers, my wonderful array of close companions without whom I would be less of the woman I am today. I will take this opportunity to say that for the reasons I have mentioned above and for many more that I cannot put into words, I feel privileged to have met and befriended you all. Thank you for all the love and support. I love you all.

I Had a Son

I used to think having a baby boy was as bad as not having any babies. Over the years, I have come to embrace the idea of a being mother to a baby boy and even hope that my second will be a baby boy. This hope came from another one of my vivid dreams. This dream happened 5 years ago.

It was one of those busy dreams with a lot of running around and stress. I don’t recall most of the dream but the first bit I was aware of featured a heavily pregnant me in a room with several other women and in the first stages of labour. I remember being very hot and I was perspiring as the labour progressed and I got instructions on what to do. For some reason, no one in the room was in focus. I could not tell if my mama and my sister were amongst my birth attendants. I suspect there was at least one midwife. All I know is that I felt in control despite the alien event that was unfolding within my body.

Next thing, I was half-sitting, half-lying down with my legs in stirrups and pushing the baby out. It wasn’t real time…time seemed to be moving very fast as I watched myself going through the process. I felt a searing pain deep in my pelvis and I thought ‘I don’t think I can do this’. Then there was a more solid pain that threatened to break me in 2 and I looked down to see a baby. I blinked and the baby was clean and in my arms, all wrapped up in the softest cream-coloured blanket and a baby blue hat. I had a son.

As I held him, his dark brown eyes popped open and fixed on mine. As our eyes met, I felt a surge of love deep in the pelvis which he had just reluctantly exited. The only way I can describe the feeling is that of falling deeply and irrevocably in love. I felt the warmth of my love for this tiny boy spread out to every fibre of my being. It felt like the whole world fell away and the only thing I could see in its full glory was my son. The rest of the room was a blur. I could hear dimly conversation in the background but all I could make out was his breath sounds. My olfactory nerves jangled with the smell of him and even my taste buds tingled like I was gorging on the most delicious meal I had ever tasted. My skin prickled as if electrified and the hairs on it all stood on end. My muscles quivered. Tears dripped out of my eyes. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I felt like I was simultaneously floating on a cloud and being sucked towards the centre of the world. I was in free fall. I was in love.

The heat and pain were forgotten in that instant. My head emptied of all thought and all I could think was ‘here he is’. Like that was the moment that all the preceding days of my life had been leading to. Together with that love came the overwhelming urge to protect him from the big bad world. I shivered as the protective tigress in me snarled to life with a ferocity that scared me. In that instant as I gazed into his eyes, I felt love, pride and an irrational fear that he could be hurt. I knew then that I would love him more intensely that I had ever loved. That I would celebrate every achievement of his with a purer joy that any I had ever experienced. That I would feel his pain like it was mine. That I would move heaven and earth to ensure he was happy. That I would die to protect him.

I was frozen to the spot, staring into his unblinking eyes when I snapped awake. The power of my feelings stayed with me for the rest of the day. I felt exactly as the great romance writers describe being in love. I had butterflies fluttering in my tommy. The colours of the world seemed sharper, brighter and more intense than usual. The weather was perfect regardless of whether there was rain or sunshine. My creative juices were flowing. I had ideas coming out of my ears. I did not feel thirst or hunger. I just felt ridiculously happy and I walked around all day on a high, humming to myself and doing little dances when no one was looking. So, I thought, this is what so many mothers feel when they finally hold their long-awaited baby in their tired arms. What an incredible feeling! I only experienced it in a dream and the depth of the feeling was immense. It was like a high to end all highs (not that I know what an actual high feels like but I can imagine!). No wonder some women carry on popping out babies long after everyone thinks they should stop. No wonder there are women out there who admit to being addicted to being pregnant and giving birth to babies. All I can say is that I pray one day I will have this experience for real. Because it felt damn good. The best feeling ever!

Yapendi

You will by now having read previous posts have seen me posing with a baby. And you have noticed when I talk about my children, I talk about the children I will hopefully have some day. So who is this baby? Well he is my Yapendi. My nephew, born to my only sister and he turned one a couple of months ago. I call him Yapendi because although there is a name for maternal aunt (Yapendo) in Fulani, there isn’t a corresponding name for niece or nephew. This I thought was unfortunate and when I lamented about it, his dad (whose Fulani is limited) suggested Yapendi and I think it is perfect. Anyone who knows anything about me also knows that I absolutely adore children and Yapendi being my only nephew, he comes top of the pile. However, he is particularly adorable so I am not entirely biased.

First he is the chunkiest baby ever. Well done to my sister who pushed out a 4.2kg baby naturally. His cheeks practically beg to be kissed and his eyes being the replica of my sisters are so direct that they make me want to be better. I call him chunky munch when it’s not Yapendi. From week 1 of life, he had a mind of his own. I would place him on my chest in a comfortable position and just as I got comfortable myself and my concentration lapsed, he would throw himself either to the side or backwards, prompting frantic scrabbling to make sure he didn’t fall off. He loved being in the bath, kicking his legs happily as soon as he learnt the joys of water and would cry when taken out of the bath. He became ill in that first month and had to be in hospital for weeks and was discharged on oral medications. He was brilliant about it and would happily guzzle all of his meds without a fuss.

At a couple of months old after he mastered the art of gurgling, he started to wake my sister up every morning by gurgling loudly and kicking his legs. When she told me, I was a little sceptical but I went to visit and true enough, every morning about 6am like a mini alarm clock, he would wake us up with the happy sounds coming from his bed. Now I am NOT a morning person so do you think I was happy to be woken up every morning at 6am during my precious few days off work? Actually, yes I was. It was a revelation for me that I could be up at that time every morning and actually I was happier for it. Now I know that it is not the waking up I hate, it is the way I am woken up (usually my husband slamming a door or talking loudly on the phone). Now he is older, he sleeps in for longer but still, as soon as his eyes open, his smile appears.

Another thing he loves is music. I know most babies love the nursery rhymes on their toys but this one loves all music. Every time a phone rings, he starts to bop to the beat and when I want to settle him, all I have to do is sing or hum or beat-box (amateur though I am, my Yapendi totally appreciates my skills) and he is off, shaking his butt, swaying from side to side, lifting a leg up and throwing his arms out, all with his head held to one side and a big grin on his face. When you stop singing, he will look straight into your eyes and dance some more so you get the hint he is not done dancing. I think that is absolutely adorable and when I have a baby, I pray she is exactly like her cousin.

One of the funniest things about having a nephew is trying to talk to my sister on the phone. In the old days, we would not talk for weeks then get on the phone and spend hours catching up (she lives in Nigeria now and we mostly communicating via social media). Nowadays, every time I call, Yapendi first looks on in amazement as my sister laughs hysterically then he demands to have the phone and although he can’t speak, starts to garble words down the line and when I am put on speaker phone he goes completely silent. My sister says he looks around the room in surprise, maybe expecting me in person. Then I sing to him and he realises I am coming from the phone and in his excitement he always always switches off the phone and she has to call back several times in one call.

So what can I say in conclusion about my adorable Yapendi? He is a joyful little boy who has got rhythm and is the spitting image of my beloved sister. He is chunky and deals well with sickness. He likes to cuddle like me and blossoms under positive attention. He loves to dance and thinks his Yapendo’s voice is good enough. Most importantly, he loves his Yapendo and brings her so much joy, it is unreal. My only sadness is that he lives so far away so I don’t get to hang out with him all that much. But never mind, there are planes and smartphones. Yapendo loving is flexible!

A Frenchie Couple of Days

Ebola is easy [to catch]. In the 1990s scientists in America put an [Ebola] infected monkey in a cage on one side of a room and a healthy monkey in a cage on the other. Two weeks later, the healthy monkey was dead. Following a spate of Hollywood films, most people believe the human race is at greatest risk of annihilation from a giant meteorite or some kind of religious nuclear war. But if Ebola ever gets on a plane, experts say that 90 per cent of us will be dead within six months. It is known in America, where they are good at names, as a ‘slate wiper.’

I am quoting directly from Jeremy Clarkson’s ‘The World According to Clarkson’. I have been trying not to lotl (laugh out too loud) as he brilliantly ridicules everything from the Lottery’s Heritage fund to the British Government’s then PM His royal Tonyness to the fact that Germans actually rule the world. Of course, the Ebola bit is not in the least bit funny. It is kinda scary in this period when Ebola has taken nearly 1000 lives in Africa. Having read half of Clarkson’s book so far and finding myself agreeing with him on things I never thought we would have in common, I came across this quote on Ebola and it prompted me to put the book down and write this blog. I am currently sitting in Charles De Gaulle Airport (Paris) and trying not to be suspicious of everyone that passes by me. I am especially trying not to be racist against my own race since majority of known infected patients are from West Africa like me. I am to my shame eating my first Mackey D’s meal in 5 years because it was a choice between a McDonald’s, something piggy or a dry bit of chicken for the price of venison in a Michelin-starred restaurant in England. In the end, it was an easy choice, if a little disappointing.

This is one of my main gripes with Paris. On British telly, all the chefs are always saying how all food French is simply amazing and many a guidebook or review will agree with that. Well, that’s a lot of kaka I tell you. The first time I went to Paris, I innocently believed in these chefs’ believes so imagine my horreur when I asked for a bit of authentic French fod (onion soup) and when it came it tasted like dirty boots with no salt and the texture was not much better. Now I am one of those people who once I make a choice to have a meal, I can usually eat a fair bit of it and remain positive even it is not the best meal I have tasted. With this soup, the crushing disappointment combined with the disgusting taste and I couldn’t manage more than a couple of spoon fulls. I had to resort to sharing my mama’s salad which thankfully was more palatable. Then on my 2nd trip this time with my mama and dear sister, we were on the Avenue de Champs Elysee when hunger struck and we decided to chance the overpriced restaurants there. What we got was edible this time but my good God! It really wasn’t worth paying an arm and a leg for. I mean my sister enjoyed her frogs’ legs but my badly done chips were not worth the plate they were served on. The best food I have had in Paris was either from a fast-food joint (mostly crepes) or from the home of a family friend who lives in the suburbs. Maybe the reviews should specify this salient fact. You can get good food in Paris if you like baguettes or crepes or if you happen to know any Parisians who would cook for you.

My 2nd gripe is related and is about how expensive everything is. A can of pop in England ranges anywhere from 50p to 80p. In Paris, and not in a posh area, I have just paid 1 euro. I walked past a plastics shop and a cheap tatty toilet brush would have set me back by 6.90 euros and a single croissant in the land of croissants was 90 cents or 1 euro. What a scam! My ‘cheap’ McD meal is 7.70 euros (compared to something like £4 in England). A single to the airport, their equivalent to Heathrow is just under a tenner. A simple phone charger was 25 euros and a £100 mobile phone costs 200 euros. Don’t even get me started on their ‘fashion’…the simplest vest top would buy me a lovely dress in H&M England. To be fair, my cousin dragged me into their H&M and I realised that H&M is amazing even in Paris and it has French fashion to boot so I know where I will be going for my ‘French fashion’ the next time I visit Paris.

My biggest gripe is the stench. Don’t get offended if you are Parisian and reading this but man alive! I stepped off the plane and 100m away from the first restrooms, I could smell the stale urine. I declined to use the ladies at this juncture because I thought this is because they are the first restrooms after getting off the plane so maybe that why they are so smelly. Not so! Just before immigration, I spotted a seemingly isolated Ladies and off I went. The stale urine smell was pervasive even though the floor looked clean and dry. As I really did need to go by then, I inhaled and ran in to do my business. I came out and joined the ‘queue’ for immigration. I use the term queue loosely because apparently people here do not know the term. After 2 families squeezed in front of me in the queue and I was forced to endure the body odour coming off them, I cottoned on to the technique and pushed and shoved with the best of them. By the time I got to immigration, I was sick to the gills with all the smelly people around me and hacked off by their disorderliness. I almost forgot I was there because my one supportive uncle had invited me to come and spend a bit of time with him and his family as they holiday in Europe for the summer. And over the past 48 hours, the only bathroom I went without the stench was in a mall at La Defense so if you have to use a public restroom in Paris, I suggest you hold it until you get to this oasis of true hygiene.

There are numerous other things I do not love about Paris but I shan’t go into them all for fear someone labels me an anti-Frenchie and tries to stab me to death. What I will point out is that there were not even cute babies and young children to soften the disappointment and lighten the heart. So where are all the pretty Parisian kids in their designer clothes, enjoying frogs’ legs and foie gras? Maybe they all go to the French Riviera in the summer and are not due to return until the school term is about to start. I did have a good laugh at some of the fashion though. Lots of uncool ‘edgy’ fashionistas on show but the one that made me pinch myself so I would not lotl was a middle-aged lady in knee high cream pop socks tied up using wisps of netty material worn with open sandals and a long flowing black coat of shiny pseudo-suede material. OMG! Give me our English goths and emos anytime. I did clock a cute white baby who might be Parisian in the airport but doesn’t matter, plenty of mixed race and African babies going through Charles De Gaulle to brighten up my day. So now I understand the comments of some of my friends who greeted the news that I was going to Paris with a look of bewilderment and quite a bit of amazement that I had been to Paris twice already and was willing to go for a third time. Je suis une ‘silly’ saucisson! Hehehe.