Excerpt from A Stroke of Hope
"Foreword - The biography of my illness"

This year or season has been horrible, the weather of my health, inclement. That I live to write about it, is my celebration and therapy. Not often does a writer make public the confessional state of his or her health. The only thing to prove is that, at times, it is possible to survive the collective interventions of expertly care, manifold beatitudes, tailored living, inestimable luck and ancestral fortifications. They refuse to condone any of my bouts with cyclonic daze. Many have succumbed to lesser travails.

Stage I

It started in a week when incontinence visited me; frequent urination, that is. My Yoruba cultural background would probably have dubbed it "a-to-gbe," an attack of urinary dehydration. By mid-week, I made it to the hospital for investigation, at the Kaiser Permanente Hospital on Zion in San Diego, California. The doctor demanded a urine specimen which the laboratory analyzed with immediacy.

The doctor, Nathaniel Nitahar, suspected an enlarged prostate. "What is that?" I snapped. "I have never heard of it." "Don't worry," the doctor consoled. "Let's find out first." The nurse motioned me to enter a privacy to disrobe and put on a hospital garment with a split back. I did as ordered. I was led to a theatre adorned with medical gadgets and lights. I was asked to lie on a long table, padded nice and clean with a calico sheet. "The doctor will soon be with you," the assistant offered.

The doctor soon arrived and he introduced his retinue of medical nerds [geniuses]. They spoke soothingly as if to calm my frayed nerves. I had no idea what to expect. Every member of the team dressed in green hospital garbs. They wore gloves and half masks to entertain their nostrils and mouths. The doctor told me what to anticipate but I had no practical, or mental inkling of what he meant. I lazily understood him. He proceeded to introduce my behind by yanking it to the cold air with an open space before everyone's prying eyes. I felt violated but who was I to squawk before death? The doctor showed me a thin, long, steel, brass stick or baton, supposedly a camera that violated my internal organs. The doctor gently guided it on an investigative tour of my inside from the entry gate of my behind. Suddenly, I heard a click and a sharp bite from within. This thing was eating my flesh and drinking my blood as its beverage. "Be calm," the doctor consoled. "Seven more bites and we will be through." There is no hidden hand without a hidden fist. The team was watching my inside on the monitor all along. This was the beginning of my ordeals.

Days later, the doctor announced that this tomato size object called prostate was very large and must be removed shortly after, a second investigation. If not, it would turn cancerous. It had been pressing on my urinary tract, hence the incontinence.

No sooner than that when I received a call, that the doctor needed me to visit him without delay. "You have a choice," the doctor announced. "You can let the prostate grow bigger and bigger and let it turn deadly cancerous, or we remove it now with some risks." "What risks?" I inquired timidly. The doctor replied, "Well, we cannot guarantee that the lines of your sexual function will remain. Doctors make mistakes. We may not be able to save it." Some cold shivered down my spine. I have really had it, I thought. "But my wife is still young," I protested. "I understand that," the doctor said endearingly. "It is not definitive that this scenario will play out but we must let you know, just in case. Why don't you think about it and read lots of literature on prostate. Talk to people. Seek other opinions and let me hear from you soon so that we can schedule a date for the surgery. It is very urgent. We may be lucky to arrest a lot of unpleasantness now."

I was bemused, confused and dazed. In one stretch, my life seemed at an end. A storm was gathering before my eyes. There was no telling what devastation it would cause. I concluded that I would lose my family life. This was a living torture, an emotional inferno and mostly psychological death. I raced to a precipitate bonfire of conclusions. It was all over, I professed. What a laughing stock I would become. What a toothless bulldog stalking the street! A stallion without stamina! What a state of psychological vacuity! You want to know that it is there, if you need it or that you are complete even if you do not need the weapon from your arsenal.

I summoned courage to call my old reliables to know more about the disease. "You will be fine," reassured Dr. John Olowoyeye, a cardiologist in Northern California. We were contemporaries at the grammar school called, Christ's School, Ado-Ekiti in Western Nigeria.

"I believe in prayers," counseled my cousin, Dr. Oke Ibitoye who practices medicine in Maryland. From his base in Station Island in New York, another cousin, Dr. Odimayo Akindutire declared, "Nothing is beyond the reach of the Almighty. His long healing hand can reach all nooks and corners. There is no need to panic." Both doctors gave calls to Dr. Nitahar, the surgeon in charge. They made their own inquiries. My little brother, Dr. Shalewa Olafioye, an AIDS expert, was not fazed by my commotion. "Big fellow, I advise that you listen to your doctor. I would love to know more of the history in your condition."

We had the surgery. All the poems about it are the speaking pictures of my experience. I did almost a week in the hospital. Dr. Nitahara, as the head surgeon of my ordeal made his rounds quite often. He told the family that all went well. My mother-in-law was with us at the time. The doctor intimated that all the offending diseases were removed and stated: "The prostate was gone and no cancer of any type lingers around. We need to monitor you for some time to come. In addition to everything else, I am happy to inform you that you are a full man. Nothing was cut. Your manly functions remained intact, you should be pleased to know." I responded, "Yes, I am. Even if I do not use my instrument, it is satisfying to know that it is there. I already felt its movement."

"Yes, it is called an erection, you suffer no erectal dysfunction at all. I noticed that you did not take your pain medication. You endured those terrible pains. You are a very brave man," said the doctor. "The pains were severe, doctor. I got used to them. So, I held out without medication. I tried to ignore the pain. May be I am crazy," I said.

When a sick person is maturing to a candidacy in expiration, the family practices a cover-up of the nature of illness. If he or she were eminent, society practices media speculation and denials from spokespersons. They claim in the lingo of the sophisticated - privacy. The irony is that when the candidate eventually kicks the bucket, the silly cat will jump out of the bag and assume a life of its own. Worse still, traditional societies swing to wide extremes. They read diabolics into the affliction. Everyone suspects the other in the family as the errant witch or wizard. All nocturnal movements, or proverbial ditties, are placed under the umbrella of suspicion. The head co-wife, in a polygamous setting, becomes hunted by the husband's relatives. So also is any of the other wives. An innocent or bitter relative, distant or near, could be in jeopardy. Family quarrels of eons ago could be re-visited for dirt in the dung-heap, or any troublesome co-worker could stand accused, however innocent or cosmopolitan. A bird flying at night and chirping is misconstrued as heading for a convention of witches. No evidence to prove anything but a giddy, cultural festival of inquisition pervades.

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