I woke up on a Thursday morning with a headache and general body pains. Nsanawu umachita kutsina zosowetsa mtendere zija and that was in addition to the sore throat and runny nose I had. I forced myself out of bed to take a shower in a bid to gather some strength and start to punch holes through my to-do list. Everything started well and I managed to do almost all the things I had on my list. In the late afternoon, however things changed for the worse. I increasingly grew weak and I could hardly do anything beyond lifting the bottle of water that was on the bedside. I got worried that I might be having malaria.
The thought of the possibility of malaria was not a far-fetched one. Mandala, the area I live in is plagued by the worst mosquitoes I have ever seen. To keep them at bay, I use an insecticide treated net (often retiring early to bed to seek refuge in it) and either an insecticide coil or spray. The interesting thing, however, is that I still wake up with some bad skin reactions from mosquito bites. Having had a fair dose of the mosquito bites, I thought that might as well have been malaria and that led into a chain reaction of thoughts of memories and thoughts about my previous malaria and pseudo-malaria attacks.
In the days before I moved out of my parents’ home, illnesses like the one I had on this particular Thursday used to be dealt with a dose of Novidar SP straight from the shop. That was the first resort before turning to the hospital. Do not get me wrong. In our family we go to the hospital a lot, but even before that, my mum always made sure that we had used the means at our disposal to sort things out.
When I advanced into the clinical years at the College of Medicine, I began to disagree with my mum’s methods. Being “educated” had made me realize that not every fever could be attributed to malaria and we would get into heated debates when it came to such illnesses. On one occasion, I had a fever and upon going to the hospital I tested negative for malaria. I was given some antibiotics with the presumption that I had a bacterial infection. My mum was not impressed and she insisted that I get some antimalarial medication on top of the antibiotics I received. I protested and I stuck to the antibiotics. Two days later, I was well up and running.
The situation would repeat itself a couple of years later after my graduation from the College of Medicine. By this time, I had happily moved out and was living comfortably in some guest wing on the opposite side of the city. I had woken up well only to start feeling funny on one fateful Saturday. It was probably nothing, I thought. Towards the end of the day, things were not too good and I had to miss one of my favorite activities; choir practice for the coming Sunday. Long story short, the illness progressed and I missed work on the next Monday. When I went to seek medical attention, I was tested for malaria and the test came out negative. Another course of strong antibiotics was given and I was on my way home. When I called my mum to tell her I wasn’t feeling well, we reignited the debate on how I needed to get antimalarial medication. Owing it to the past experience, I strongly opposed the view. Antibiotics were the remedy for me and after a day on them I was able to drag myself to work to sort out my fellow patients on Queen Elizabeth Central Hospital’s Ward 4A.
The funny thing was that after knocking off on this particular day things got worse. It was more of a rebound attack of fever and general body pains. I was forced to go back to the hospital for a repeat malaria test. Bingo! Malaria positive. By the time I was getting home to start the antimalarials, things were so bad I felt like I was on my way to meet my maker. Out of parental instincts, my dad came in to see me and he immediately decided that I go home for closer observation. A bumpy ride later, I found myself worse and requiring admission at Mlambe Mission Hospital..
Recounting the last experience, I find myself wondering as to which one I should trust more; my medical doctor instincts or the parental instincts. Her Excellency had figured out that I had malaria even before the famous Malaria Rapid Diagnostic Test could tell. I was left trusting this test while harboring the parasites which were slowly dragging me towards my end but somehow this wonderful woman sensed what was going on from the opposite end of town.
I remembered the time when we got into a conversation about getting over the counter medications for my nieces. At this particular point, I was telling her that it was not a good practice to keep getting medications from the shops for the little ones with the better option being going to the hospital and getting a thorough checkup. That was to be the last time I ever said that because I was silenced with some strong words. “Inutu munapulumukira zomwezi. Pano mwaphunzira ndiye mukufuna muyambe kuchuluka nzeru?” She won, and since then I have let her do her thing. When I am in my parental home, I will just resign to my place of being the last born child my parents have, I decided. Izi za udokotala tidzipangira moyendamu and I don’t give any health related advice without being asked to.
Perhaps there is something special about parents and their children’s health, I keep thinking. I can’t help but wonder who I will trust the next time I get a negative malaria test; the test kit or my mother, my doctor.
Moral of the narrative? Osamapanga makani ndi makolo.
Good one
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