The last time I spent a night in hospital under medical watch was almost 71 years ago – on the night of October 31, 1954 – to be precise. That’s according to my 93-year-old mother, Mama Rhoda Merere, who gave birth to me that night.
The location was a small health centre in Mwakaleli, Tukuyu, where my late father, Mzee William, was a teacher at a newly established Lutheran Church-run primary school.
Since then, I have never had the ‘privilege’ of returning to sleep in a hospital bed under medical supervision, despite weathering numerous ailments over the past seven decades.
That changed on the chilly, foggy and drizzly morning of Tuesday, April 29, 2025, at Ikonda Consolata Hospital – perched on one of the picturesque hills of the Livingstone Mountain Ranges in Makete District, Njombe.
That was the day I was admitted and wheeled from my private ward (No. 11) into the orthopaedic theatre for a major hip joint replacement operation.
I had it coming. For almost a year, I had endured excruciating pain in my left hip whenever I walked. I initially assumed it was a strained muscle. But after three X-ray procedures, the diagnosis was clear: The hip joint was severely worn and required immediate replacement.
Doctors Ilomo and Christopher were blunt. “It’s a major operation,” they told me. Poor me – I had no idea what that truly meant. I was in for a life-changing experience.
A hip joint replacement, as I now know, is a surgical procedure where the damaged joint is replaced by a prosthetic implant.
That morning, after being wheeled into the theatre, a local anaesthetic was injected into my spine. Although I remained awake, I had no sensation – none whatsoever – from the waist down. I was also given a sedative, which made me feel drowsy and relaxed.
Unbeknown to me, the surgeon then made several incisions along the side of my hip, dismantled the damaged joint, and cut off the top end of my thigh bone (the ball joint). A metal ball was fitted in its place and a new plastic socket was inserted after drilling out the original one. The hip was then reassembled, stitched, and bandaged.
I felt nothing – just the unnerving sounds of a chainsaw, grinder and hammer. At one point, I almost asked whether some renovations were underway in the theatre, only to be told that the “renovations” were happening inside my body!
Weakened, I was wheeled into the ICU – accompanied by three tubes: A catheter, an IV line for fluids and medication and a suction tube to remove blood from internal haemorrhaging.
What followed was a harrowing ICU experience. Once the anaesthetic wore off, the pain from the fresh wound was indescribable. Still, compared to other patients around me – many of whom were clinging to life – I was one of the lucky ones.
The following day, I was gratefully transferred back to my private ward, thankful to God for the gift of life.
Frailty, thy name is man.
