It’s been a long time since I read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, but one line about grief resonates deeply: Grief, she noted, turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. It’s a bizarre and terrifying place.
In the past few years, I lost my cousin, Edi Loum, and a childhood friend, Sulay Barry (Sulay Boy), to kidney disease. I remember Edi’s dialysis sessions; they were expensive and painful. He was only 41. My good friend, Sulay Boy, was misdiagnosed, and by the time the issue was identified, it was too late — he was around 37 when he passed. Both men were married and left behind young children. The Gambian healthcare system failed them miserably. Their deaths serve as a stark reminder of the brevity, fragility, and finality of life.
Misdiagnosis and Catharsis. In my case, the Gambian healthcare system almost killed me, but in a strange twist, it, along with my village, ultimately saved my life. In 1998, when I was 12 — almost 13 — years old, death stared me in the eyes, beckoning and summoning me. Within days, fortune, the god of modern science, and my village came to my rescue.
For nearly a year, I traveled back and forth between the Serekunda and Roland clinics due to severe stomach pain. At every turn, I was advised to stop eating “ground” soup and ebbeh — essentially street food. I followed this advice diligently, but nothing changed. Then, one Friday evening, as was tradition in my childhood, I accompanied my father to his campeh in Halfdie. That day, one of my dad’s good friends, the custodian of Njofen pharmacy, was present. After hearing about my stomach pains, he took me to his pharmacy nearby, even though it was late and he had already closed shop. After examining my belly, he quickly concluded that I probably had a ruptured appendix and needed to get to the hospital immediately. We made the longest and scariest five-minute ride to the Royal Victoria Hospital.
Upon arrival at the ER, there were no beds available, so I couldn’t be admitted or seen by a doctor. A kind nurse provided some cartons for me to lie on. After four hours, my dad was growing increasingly anxious. He made a couple of calls, and finally, a doctor arrived. My dad informed him of my suspected ruptured appendix, prompting the doctor to order an X-ray. Once the results were in, the doctor confirmed my diagnosis of a ruptured appendix and indicated that sepsis had likely set in — I needed immediate surgery.
If you know my dad, you can imagine how frantic he was. Half of my family from Banjul had already gathered at the hospital, including one of my favorite cousins, Ya Ngum of Perseverance, and one of my dad’s childhood friends, Pa Ousainou Corr, whose home was nearby. The Njien crew from Allen St. and New St. also showed up. A couple of weeks ago, after my aunt — Ya Ngum’s mother — passed away in Birmingham, England, I reached out to her to offer my condolences. She reminded me of the importance of keeping in touch, recalling the many nights she spent at the hospital when I was admitted. She had a point; my village was there for me at my lowest moment, and I should do better as the younger one who, in our culture, should reach out to the elders.
Be that as it may, around 10 PM, I was taken to the surgery ward. A tall man in a face mask ushered me in, followed by a team of medical staff. The lead doctor, an Egyptian man, introduced himself just before I was injected and fell into unconsciousness. The only other memory I have from the operating room is the sound of their shoes and their tools — the noise was deafening. The next morning, I woke up in the ICU wing, with my mother by my side. I was hooked up to various tubes, and as the anesthesia wore off, the pain in my stomach became excruciating.
The Sound of Death. By high noon that day, an elderly man in the bed next to mine was drawing his last breath. The sound was heart-wrenching. My mom tried to reassure me, saying he was just in pain. Within minutes, the medical team entered, covered him, and took him away. I spent another week or so in the ICU wing before my release, and during that time, several other patients died. The sounds of their death cries in the middle of the night would wake me, leaving me acutely aware of my mortality. Despite my mother’s attempts to console me, I was old enough to grasp the reality of the situation — I heard the nurses state, matter-of-factly, when someone had died.
Thankful. All of this took place just three weeks before my common entrance exams. My favorite teacher, my undefeated champion and one of the most amazing people I know, Mr. Lamin Sise, rented a van and brought my entire class to visit me at the hospital, even conducting revision sessions with me. After my release, he continued to bring classmates to our home to study with me. He truly is a beautiful human being.
During the common entrance exams, special arrangements were made for me to get up and walk around, with my uncle Alieu Ngum’s longtime driver, “Mbaring” Jonkong Camara, chauffeuring me to and from both days of the exams. I soaked up all the attention — I milked it for all it was worth!
An Antiquated Healthcare System. A handful of years after my surgery, I found myself in the United States, attending college. One day, a classmate didn’t show up for class, and when I asked him the next day, he mentioned he had a minor surgery the day before. I inquired further, and he casually mentioned he had his appendix removed, with barely a scar to show for it. In my case, they ripped apart my entire stomach! I was gobsmacked. Based on my experience, I thought appendicitis was a major surgery, only to learn that in some parts of the world, it isn’t and is usually easily detected.
All of this highlights how the Gambian healthcare system almost failed me. However, Edi, Sulay Boy, and countless other Gambians suffered worse fates due to a healthcare system trapped in the decadence of an antiquated era.
The Burden of Life is on the Living. In the searing words of June Jordan: “I realized that regardless of the tragedy, regardless of the grief, regardless of the monstrous challenge, some of us have not died. Some of us did not die…And what shall we do, we who did not die?”
Well, the onus is on us — the living, who did not die — to work together to create a better, modern, and humane healthcare system that is worthy of the resilience, love, and dignity of my village. If only Edi and Sulay Boy had visited the Njofen pharmacy, perhaps they would still be here — living, breathing, and being the wholesome human beings they were. I miss them both terribly.
Given that I stared death in the face and returned to tell this story, I am, as always, thankful for life and the living of it.
Rest in perfect peace, Edi and Sulay Boy — you now belong to the ages!
A better Gambia is ours for the asking
Sulayman Njie
Dallas, Texas.
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