Tag Archives: paediatrician

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.

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Appreciating the Small Things in Life

I don’t know if I mentioned that I got married last year in April. I must have somewhere. We have made it through the first year baptism and we have grown as a couple so much. Of course it hasn’t been smooth sailing but I would not have expected that being that we are both passionate about what we care about, both rather opinionated and both not the types to shy away from an argument. My post is not to pretend it is all paradise, a fairy tale. Perfection. It is in fact about the opposite. About how it doesn’t have to be perfect but you can be perfectly happy especially if you stop sweating the small stuff and instead start appreciating the little things that make the relationship great.

My husband from time to time gets a little insecure (particularly after a few days of me getting increasingly irate when he is not doing his boring chores) and asks if there is anything I think is good about him. I always react with a bit of disappointment because I know what I am like and when anyone does even the littlest thing that makes me smile or happy or proud, I am the first to say it, usually using the word ‘amazing’. So this here post is to tell you about the little things the husband says and does that makes me go all  mushy inside and makes me forgive him when he does the big things that make me want to cry in anger or in frustration.

I will start with a little thing he does which always sets my day up nicely. He makes me a cup of tea or if I am lucky a sandwich for work. I will admit now I am not usually a morning person so finding that he has made time for me in the morning and so saved me some time makes me go all warm first thing in the morning. It just used to be tea in my travel mug to drink on the way to work or on weekends in a nice mug by my bedside. Today, he presented me with the flask pictured above. Not only has he made me tea, he has gone out and bought a little flask to keep it warm knowing how slowly I drink tea and how it goes cold before I get to the last drop. And the flask is in a colour I love and the writing on it is paying me a compliment. What better way to start the day I ask you? I look outside right now and it is a grey rainy Monday morning but my heart and soul are smiling like the sun is up and shining Yola-style.

The other day, he went out and came home in the early hours to find me in bed. I was curled up on my side, tensed up waiting to see if his hands were cold from being outside. Imagine the relief when he placed his warm hands on the small of my back. Better yet, his hands were covered in oil and he gave me the loveliest backrub I could have asked for. I drifted back to sleep and it was the best night’s sleep I had for over a month. That’s #2 of the small things he does. He gives me impromptu massages, backrubs, foot rub, head massage when I need them the most. When I come home after a 14-hour day at work and collapse in a heap and I am so tired I cannot muster up the energy to take off my shoes or eat dinner. In the same vein, he will also fetch my dinner and a drink and make me eat it all then when I start to doze off with my plate still in my hands, he takes it all away and even carries me up to bed. How could I help but love him?

He pays me compliments all the time. I am quite a low maintenance girl if I say so myself and I have a healthy appreciation of myself. I don’t have any great hang ups and my self-image is good. I do not need compliments but I do appreciate them. Who doesn’t? Like the compliment on the pictured flask, 4 years and counting since we met and I know he thinks I am hot. Let me be honest, I do not see myself as hot. I know some people think I am pretty, my mama and sister certainly say I am beautiful and so do my closest friends but I sort of take it for granted that they see the beauty within as well as without. I know I am not ugly and even strangers have paid the odd compliment to me. Omosede Ighile even called me beautiful many years ago when no one outside my family had ever and I won’t ever forget that compliment because those days, I was a little less self-confident and it meant a great deal. Anyway, I digress. Sorry. Some days I look in the mirror and think ‘niiiiiiice’. Some pictures I think ‘wow wee’ maybe he is right I am hot but mostly I don’t remember to look at myself because honestly I do not care how I look most of the time. He does though and what I think is too skinny to be womanly, he loves. He looks at me like I would expect a guy to look at Shakira, Jennifer Lopez or Halle Berry. He gives me a smile that I know means he thinks I am sexy and you know what, it feels damn good. Because I know with many men, after that initial honeymoon phase, they stop seeing your beauty and it all becomes boring routine. Not for my hubby. He sees my beauty even when I am at my scruffiest, usually post night shifts wreck and he tells me verbally and with his eyes. Aren’t I a lucky girl?

Linked to his complements is that he is proud of me. Not only does he think I am hot, he also thinks my brains are hot. I mean, I can’t pretend not to know I have been blessed academically. It’s all on paper from the time I was like 2. So yeah, I know I am no slouch in the intellectual department. However, being a doctor and surrounded by lots of doctors who are not just intelligent but many are in the genius sphere (unlike me), I do not feel as special as I did say back in primary school when I was the school’s big brain. But when I am around my husband or when I hear him talk about me to his friends, I go back to that happy place where my mama was bursting with pride at her baby’s academic achievements. When my sister used to tell everyone who would listen how much of a Brainiac her little sister was. He is so convinced of my intellectual prowess that he would rather listen to me prattle on about religion, nature, culture, psychology and even art than consult Professor Google or people in those fields. What is best is that despite not being medical in any way, shape or form, he swears I am the best paediatrician ever. Even after I was facing my first ever exam failure (post-grad paediatric specialisation exam, 1B). I laugh but really, I am delighted that someone has so much belief in me that even when I doubt myself, he is there to shake me back into believing and therefore being great again.

Following on from there, he likes to hold hands. Small thing #5. He is so proud to be my husband. He was proudly proclaiming that even before I agreed to be his wife. My sister and I used to try to curb his enthusiasm and point out he wasn’t even my fiancé at the time but he was irrepressible. It was ‘my wife’ this and ‘my wife’ that within the first year of our courtship. Silly man! I got used to it eventually but it took a while. Now he will get upset if I fail to hold his hand or kiss him long enough in public. I know he takes it seriously so I try but I am a shy Fulani girl. Public displays of affection (PDAs) do not come naturally. Particularly when it goes beyond a quick kiss. I still get embarrassed. Not because I am not proud of him but because I have been brought up a certain way and PDAs are a no-no in Yola. The attention it draws is just a little embarrassing for this Fulani girl. But I am working on it.

Last small thing in this post because I will be late for work otherwise. He will dance with me whenever I give the slightest sign that I am in the mood for it. As soon as I start singing a song or I start nodding my head to music, he will duet with me and he will want me to get up and do a dance. Unfortunately for him, I don’t have the energy he does after work (it is physically and mentally draining being a doctor if you are not one). So I will usually bow out after one dance but he will happily dance for me whilst I cheer him on. His energy and enthusiasm, whilst in need to curbing most of the time is an amazing quality and I might not say this to him often, it is what stops it being boring round ours and we are always up to something or the other. Keeps it all fresh and turbulent and exciting. Much better than boring which I have a very low threshold for. Might explain why I am a paediatrician. It’s a lot of things but so very rarely boring.

So there you are dear husband and dear readers. I have told you all today about some of the reasons why I love my husband so much and why despite all the big faults, I love him to bits. Tell me what little things you love about your husband/partner/lover/wife/girlfriend/fiancée too. I would love to hear it!

p.s this paragon of ‘small’ virtues is called George. My Georgey boo 😀

Being a Paediatrician

I knew I wanted to be a doctor when I was about 4 years old. I can’t explain now how I came to that conclusion or why I was so sure. I just knew and now I am a doctor. In my 2nd or 3rd year of medical school, as part of career guidance we were given a link to a website where we could input our data and get a psychometric analysis done on us. I had to answer a series of questions about how I felt about certain things, my beliefs, my principles, how I solved problems. Eventually, I answered the numerous questions and it took a minute or 2 to load. Then it gave me the list of medical specialities ranked according to the ones I am most suited. Pathology and neurophysiology came last as I would have expected but I was taken aback by the top 3 choices. It said: Paediatrics, Palliative Care and Neonatology. I poo-pooed the test and dismissed it. When I went into medical school, one thing I was certain of was that I loved children and I never wanted to see them sick and suffering. Therefore I sort of ruled out paediatrics very early on. Back then I thought I might end up being in Obs & Gynae (obstetrics and gynaecology) because it was a good mix of medicine and surgery and I thought the variety and acuteness would suit me. I also thought I could be a GP because it retained the versatility of all of medicine without having to make a choice.

During my Obs & Gynae posting as a medical student, I found that although it was interesting the speciality did not set my pulse a-racing. There was no eureka moment. The specialists were nice but I didn’t feel any kinship with them. My paediatrics was my last medical school posting and the moment I stepped into the Children’s Hospital (BCH), I felt an excitement. Even though most of it went over my head and there seemed to be a lot of calculations and there was the issue of small people who were not well, I felt right at home. Over the 6 week placement, I grew to love BCH. I loved the patients, the child-friendly wards with their play areas, the kindness of the nurses and most especially, here were doctors I wanted to be like. Who I enjoyed spending my time with. Who seemed to derive pleasure from their work even as they were rushed off their feet with the number of patients. By the end of that placement, the career puzzle for me was solved. I was going to be a paediatrician. And to my surprise, the patients I loved spending time the most with were the little premature babies born with complex problems needing surgery to survive.

As an FY1 (first year after graduation from medical school), I met a patient in her 30s who had inoperable incurable ovarian cancer. We bonded as I tried hard to get some blood out of her for some tests her consultant had ordered. When the ordeal was over, I thanked her for being patient and she called me back to say she thought I had a way about me that would be perfect for palliative care. She said she didn’t know if I already had my career mapped out but that I should think about going down the Palliative care route. I thanked her for her kind words and left in a reflective mood. Despite my psychometric prediction, I had never given it much thought. I considered it over the next few days and concluded that although I was a listener and when it came to my patients very patient (unlike in my personal life then), I wasn’t sure I could handle all the emotions that are linked with patients who are dying. So I filed the idea away under ‘unlikely’ and didn’t give it any more thought until just recently.

Earlier this year, I stumbled across an online course on paediatric palliative care and signed up to it. As I worked through the course modules, I realised that I was into all the issues that were being raised and although a lot of it was challenging, it was exactly the kind of challenge I relished. A lot of it was to do with talking about options and choices. About spirituality and counselling. About co-ordinating care. About letting the dying patient and their relatives dictate the terms about how these last days/weeks/months should be handled. I realised that palliative care is not just about the advanced care pathway which outlines what to do when death is imminent but also about actively keeping the patient well enough to reach certain goals. It is about enabling the patient to die in a way that is most acceptable to them. It is about being there for the patient and their family so that when things become scary or unexpected, there is a comforting presence to guide them through the darkest hours/days. So I have come full circle and now I know that I would like to sub-specialise in paediatric palliative care. I wish I knew where my Obs & Gynae patient was so I could share the news. I wonder if she is still alive today.

I love being a paediatrician by the way. If I don’t end up sub-specialising, I would happily be a general paediatrician. There is a different vibe on a paediatric ward or in a paediatric hospital like BCH. There is a friendliness that is missing in adult medicine. People seem to go out of their way more to be helpful in the paediatric world. Nurses do not seem to be as difficult or as disconnected as they can be in adult medicine. The paint on the walls is brighter happier colours. There are toys, music and games everywhere you go. The best bit about my job is the children. It is such a privilege to work with kids. They are amazing little packages, mostly untainted by the negativities that come with growing up. They come out with the best statements and questions that make you stop and think or laugh until your belly hurts. Their bravery is comparable to none and watching them as they struggle with illness and develop ways of coping is inspiring.

Of course paediatrics is a complex speciality by its very nature. Our patients are often too young to tell us how they feel and exactly what their symptoms are so we have to be more observant than our adult counterparts and we have to go on what other’s (parents/carers) impressions are more than the patient’s own words. Many do not understand why they feel poorly. They just know that they are not happy and they want it to be fixed. Parents are often not at their best when they meet us because they are anxious and stressed about their sick child and are frustrated because they have no solution to put them out of their misery. So yes, it is often the most difficult part of the job having to face irate upset parents who want to find someone to blame for their helplessness. Who want to take out their frustrations on someone else and make demands because it makes them feel they are doing something…anything. Sometimes, these parents do cross the line of anxious and stressed parents to parents who are abusive (mostly verbally but occasionally physically). Unfortunately, it comes with the job but we deal with it in our own way. Usually by being patient and reasoning with but where necessary we call on services to support and protect us. Luckily, these horrible encounters are not an everyday occurrence.

I have so many examples of the beautiful little people I have come across in my job but I will tell you about a recent one. I was on-call over a weekend and covering the haematology ward (haematology deals with diseases involving the blood cells). A 2½ year old boy with severe haemophilia B came in with bruising which meant he needed an injection of factor IX (the bit of blood he doesn’t make enough of which is essential to prevent you bleeding without much force). It was my job to treat him so with his parents and a fellow doctor assisting, we held him still and I injected the medicine into his vein. He cried as I did it and when it was done (it only took a minute), his parents prompted him to say thank you. Through his tears, he turned to me and said ‘thank you’. Then as I tidied up, they got their things together to leave and he waved and said to me ‘bye lady’. With no resentment. Despite the fact that I had just poked him with a needle for reasons he was too young to understand. I thought wow! Only a child would be as forgiving as that. The momentary feeling of guilt for making the gorgeous little boy cry passed with that exchange and off I went, to do more things to other children which might make them cry in the short term but looking at the bigger picture, everything I do is in their best interests so when I go home and I go to sleep, I feel happy and satisfied. And thankful for another day where I have done all I could to make another child’s life that bit better.

Tell Your Truth  

I quoted Clint Smith’s comment about fear in an earlier blog and this one here is inspired by the something else he said on the same YouTube video. He is an American who lectures in the States and he says in the video that the only thing he asks of his students when they are in his class is to tell their truth and that nothing leaves the room without their permission. This got me thinking about truth and its importance. I know everybody lies sometimes and actually sometimes a lie is the kinder thing to say. However, I do think these days too many people lie willy-nilly for no good reason and it baffles me why.

My mama and I (in case you haven’t realised it yet from the number of times I mention her in every blog) are very close and I think one of the biggest reasons why that is with each other, we tell our truths. My sister and I never went through ‘teenage rebellion’. We didn’t have anything to rebel about because everything in my home was out in the open. My mama has always been truthful when asked anything directly. Of course, there are things she held back from us when we were too young to understand but as long as she thought we would understand the answers and that it would teach us something, we were told. I knew about the birds and the bees from very early on and so it was never a big deal talking about sex in our home. Because my mama is a feminist and part of her NGO work is empowering women and girls, I attended a workshop she organised in the early 90s back when HIV and AIDS were in the headlines. So before I was 10 years old, I knew about safe sex, condoms, how to put them on and dispose of them safely. Even before that, I knew all about periods and puberty and everything else that was necessary to face growing up.

In the same vein, whenever I made friends with anybody, I would invite them to our home at the earliest opportunity so that my mama could meet them. I knew that if my mama was okay with such a friend, then they were good enough to keep as friends. I could rely on my mama to be truthful. So over the years, we have talked about friends, boys, men, sex, drugs, alcohol, travel, homosexuality, religion, war, the potential for an apocalypse, death and anything else I was ever curious about. We are so comfortable and open that people often get surprised by how much my mama knows about the exact things people would try to hide from their parents. It is only as I have got older that I have started to edit what I tell my mama. This is mainly to do with my significant other relationship and I keep things from her not to withhold my truth but so as not to sour the relationship between my husband and his mother-in-law. After all, ‘they’ say that if you tell your parents about the ‘bad things’ that your spouse does to you, they will harbour it for aeons whereas you might forget it the very next day or week. I am a very lucky girl because in my home telling my truth was not only actively encouraged, it was expected. I am now trying to teach my husband the same and I hope to emulate the same culture with my future children.

In my profession, telling your truth is a GMC requirement and it is set out as part of the duties of doctors which we are sent in paper copy periodically to remind us of our oath. I am a paediatrician and definitely not a surgeon. However as the cookie crumbles, I happen to be doing a surgical rotation (which is ending today. Hoorah!) currently and I have had major issues because of a lack of truth and the surgical culture of aggressive competitiveness and subtle bullying. I particularly had a problem when my father-in-law was taken ill and I was delayed going in for a shift. Long story short, I couldn’t leave him until he was safe and so I was going to be late for handover. The doctor that was meant to handover offered to swap shifts. I thought how lovely, swapped shifts and thought nothing more of it. Then rumours started to fly after I was late for another shift about how I was so late I didn’t turn up for my shift. After a couple of weeks of ignoring the immaturity of it all, I found the senior doctors involved and asked if they had a problem with me particularly if swapping that shift was a problem. They all denied having any issues but I had heard enough to take it to the top consultant and my supervising consultant. They were both lovely and reassured me. I thought ‘Great. All sorted and I’ll put it all behind me’. The rumours continued and I eventually found the source of it all. Disappointingly, it was a registrar senior to me who always made out we were cool. So I had it out with him and asked him to be professional. I am pleased to say once I confronted him, he has behaved in a more professional manner but I must say I will be glad not to have to work so closely with him anymore. I just think that there is no place in a professional setting for lies – everyone is there to do a job and if you are not interested and focussed in the job, maybe you should quit and go do something else.

I have a confession to make. I am rather feisty and not afraid to speak out in most situations. Even as a child, the worst thing you could do to me was lie about me. I remember way back in primary school, someone jealous of me for something or the other said to one of my friends that I had said something about her behind her back. My friend promptly told me because she didn’t believe I would do such a thing but I was so mad that the girl had accused me wrongly that I cried. Unfortunately, in these situations, I still get so angry that I often end up crying because I feel helpless to do anything else. I am getting better at dealing with the anger though so hopefully by the time the kids come along, their mummy won’t go round embarrassing them with her tears. As far back as I remember, I made a vow to myself. Unless there is an absolute need to hide the truth, I shall always tell my truth. And honestly, it feels great!

Silence is the Residue of Fear

…Says Clint Smith (find him on YouTube) on the topic of ‘the dangers of silence’. I am sure we all have had things that we have been afraid of and that we have sometimes let those fears get the better of us. I know I have but as I have got older, I have learnt to deal with it better. The way I see it: either we let fear rule us and it limits our lives or we rule our fears and find ways of neutralising them and despite them make progress in life.

I used to be scared of heights, snakes and spiders. Many children are frightened by these things too. I guess one reason is that these things are potentially dangerous so we are physiologically and psychologically programmed to have a healthy fear of them. Secondly, children listen to their parents and siblings and as these phobias are the commonest in the world, we tend to feel that if mum/dad/older sister/brother is scared of them, there must be a good reason so we copy them.

I know personally that my fear of heights came from the fact that whenever I have gone higher than 4 metres off the ground, I feel this irresistible pull to jump off the edge and that scares me. Over the years, I know that the urge to jump is weaker than my desire to live so I am not so scared anymore but honestly, there is still a seed of fear in there somewhere when I am in a glass elevator over 10 floors high.

With snakes, it is simple. My mama is scared stiff of snakes. She will not wear anything with the image of a snake on it. She doesn’t want to see snakeskin shoes or bags. She can’t stand jewellery in the form of snakes. She doesn’t even like harmless cartoon snakes like the ones in Jungle Boy and Aladdin. So I was scared of them. Despite that, I loved the 2 cartoon snakes I have mentioned and I am happy to look through a glass wall in a zoo at the prettily coloured snakes and watch a documentary on them. Plus I would not turn down a ring or earrings shaped like a snake. However, I draw a line at having to handle one (God forbid someone tries to drape it over me) and I would never buy anything made up of snakeskin.

Icky spiders – I just don’t like the rough fuzzy texture of their skinny fragile legs. And they are a little stupid aren’t they? Because when you try to lead them out or catch them gently and release them outside, they run at you, try to climb all over you or cling to you and then in your irrational fear, you squash them. Oh dear!

A fear that was harder for me to deal with was my fear of commitment. My parents were divorced before I was born and I didn’t know very much about the reasons why until more recently. What I knew back then was that he must have been bad because my mama is an angel and he hurt her. Also through my mama’s feminist work and from attending feminist conferences with my mama, I heard a lot about the bad things that men do to women. Naturally I thought it was crazy that any woman would subject herself to a committed relationship with a man.

I didn’t have a proper boyfriend until I was 18 and that didn’t last long because he, rightly, wanted a girl who would keep in touch regularly (it was a little long distance, he lived about 2 hours away from London) and I resisted his requests because it felt like too much commitment to me at that stage. My next relationship was nearly 3 years later and this time, he was keen on being more intimate and yet was happy to be non-committal. I guess at 21 years, I had matured a little bit more and wanted some commitment. My fear then became that he wanted to use me and that I would fall in love with him then I would have my heart broken. So I broke it off.

I met George, my husband, when I was nearly 25 years old and he is the first to tell anyone who would listen that he knew he wanted to marry me within 48 hours of meeting me. Well, I embroider slightly. He insists he knew in the first hour of us meeting that he wanted to marry me but I think he is being rather dramatic. He did tell me on our 2nd date, 5 days after we met, that he liked me and he thought I was potentially the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Wow! Honestly I wanted to run away as far as my little legs could carry me. Instead, I sat in the reception of our favourite Chinese restaurant and tried to shush him because I didn’t want anyone to hear. I also told him that he was lucky I was leaving for a year abroad in the next week because if I hadn’t been, the fear his words had struck in my heart would have sent me into self-destruct mode and I would have sabotaged that relationship too.

The time and distance made me realise that here was a man who made me laugh, who loved me for me and whose heart is good. Here was a guy with whom the chemistry was just right. Here was a man who I could be myself with. So I meditated about it for many months whilst I was away. I talked to my mama, my sister and my friends. I prayed for guidance and I realised that although I was scared, petrified even, of committing to George, I was more afraid that I would throw away the chance to be happy. So I took a leap of faith and 3 years later, I am married to him.

So are you fearless now? I hear you ask. No, not quite! I have many small fears. I have one big irrational fear and I have one proper grown up fear. The grown up fear is my fear of failure. I have been lucky never to have failed at anything I set out to do until I failed my specialist paediatric (the dreaded 1b) exam last year in June. That failure threw me for six. I knew I had to retake the exam because I cannot progress beyond ST2 year (level 1 of specialist paediatric training). But I hated every minute of it. The fear crippled me. I couldn’t sleep, eat or work properly for many months in the lead up to the repeat. My ability to deal with the normal stresses of my relationship and work was at its lowest level ever. I even got to the point that I was thinking of giving up on the career I love because I was so scared I would fail again.

I got over that fear by thinking up a plan B. There are so many things I could be. I might want to be a paediatrician first and foremost but actually the underlying love is of children. So what else could I be that would allow me to work with children? As soon as I gave myself the permission to imagine, the list of alternatives was extensive. Top was human rights activist, academic teaching medical students, author of children’s books and even babysitter. The last one was particularly tempting especially because I know from my doctor colleagues that a babysitter taking care of 2 young children full time can earn as much as I do without any of the stress of being a doctor. Food for thought.

The last fear I will confess to is my irrational fear of mice/rats. I love Tom & Jerry – and as a child, I would always root for Jerry the mouse over Tom the cat. However, in reality, I hate those rodents. It comes from the time we cornered a mouse in our kitchen and tried to capture it. it poked its head into the drain hole of the kitchen sink and then squeezed through that tiny aperture. That was the freakiest thing to me! How can a round mouse do that? Bleurgh!!! So now I am petrified of them. A decade ago, I was in an uncle’s house in Nigeria and went into the guest bedroom to grab something. As I turned round to leave, I spotted a tiny mouse flash past the doorway and it must have been behind the chest of drawers beside the door. I jumped onto the centre of the bed and tried to work out a route of escape. My 2 year old cousin came to find me and joined me on the bed. We tried to shout for my sister and friend to come and save us but we were too far or too quiet to be heard. My sister finally came to find us about 30 minutes after we disappeared. She still laughs about it because when she came, I could barely speak in my fear as I tried to warn her that the mouse was there. She had to coax me off the bed after proving to me that the mouse was not laying in wait. That is one I still grapple with and I am not sure I will ever outgrow my fear of mice but luckily, I rarely have the misfortune of tangling with one.