Gabriel Breathe
Gabriel Breathe

Growing up, there were certain scenarios I only saw in movies, so I assumed they rarely happened in real life. One of those scenarios was people being rushed to the hospital and the pressure that comes with it. I felt it was too exaggerated for my liking. If you’ve ever watched an old Nigerian movie — and I emphasize old because the current ones have a certain level of class attached to it. I’m talking about those Nigerian or even Ghanaian movies with that camera quality that looks like black and white, yet it’s actually in color. You get it now, right? Anyway, let’s get back to the scene I’m talking about.

In those movie scenes, someone would collapse, and people would rush to gather around, all trying to lift the person off the ground while everyone else looks confused. They finally manage to lift the person and try to put them in a car. Meanwhile, the collapsed person’s hand dangles lifelessly, just to convince you they’re truly almost lifeless. I’m sure you can picture the scene I’m describing.

After getting him or her into the car, the driver, while driving, would look back every five to ten seconds and shout, “Stay with us! Stay with us!” At that moment, I’d start talking to myself, saying, “If this driver isn’t careful, he’ll cause an accident oo! Can’t he just focus on the road?” Then I’d snap out of it and laugh, realizing, “Ah, I’ve forgotten—it’s just a movie.” 

In February 2018, during my time in Senior High School, I went through the week doing what I normally did (I shared how my typical day in SHS looked like in the story “Trust the Process”). 

Before we continue, let’s understand something. Headaches are a common condition that almost every human being has experienced. A headache causes pain or discomfort in the head, scalp, or neck. It can result from stress, dehydration, poor posture, lack of sleep, or even an underlying medical condition. The truth is, most headaches aren’t serious. They often go away on their own or with simple remedies like rest, hydration, or over-the-counter pain relievers. But because headaches are so common, we’ve downplayed the fact that they can also be warning signs of serious, even life-threatening, conditions. If you’ve read the story “Shocks in the Brain,” you’ll realize that the condition which could have taken my life started with a simple headache. Please — no matter how bearable the headache seems — if it persists, seek medical attention. Please oo, biko, I’m begging you.

Let’s get back to the story. I went home that day thinking it was just stress, but the headache continued the next day. I told my parents, and we bought some paracetamol — as most of us would probably have done. By Saturday evening, I still didn’t feel well, but I looked fine — sick, but not really, really sick. You get me, right?

I was home with my dad and mom; my siblings were all in school. At dawn on Sunday, I started feeling extreme pain in my stomach. It was unbearable — like, really, really unbearable. I grabbed the little skin on my stomach, hoping the pain would go away — but it didn’t. I was really struggling that dawn. I couldn’t even speak — just grimaced the whole time. The pain went on for straight forty-five minutes before it suddenly stopped. For a moment, I thought I was going to die.

As a young guy, I’ve experienced pain — real pain. I’ve broken my arm a couple of times, hurt my leg more than once, even run into an unplastered wall. Yes, I had a crazy childhood. God bless my mom — she was the one who had to send her son to the hospital almost every two weeks because there was always a new sore on my body. 

When the pain finally stopped, I went back to sleep. I didn’t know what had caused it, and honestly, I didn’t care. I was just relieved it had stopped. In the morning, I didn’t tell anyone what had happened just a few hours earlier. I guess I just didn’t get the chance to. That morning, I spent most of my time lying on the couch. I was awake, just motionless and drained. My parents went to church but I couldn’t join them. 

In the afternoon, the pain returned—and this time, it was worse. Oh, waaaay worse. My mom noticed I was in pain and came over to ask what was wrong. At that point, not only was the pain intensifying, but I was also struggling to breathe properly. My mom kept asking questions, but I couldn’t respond — I could barely open my mouth to speak.

At one point, the pain became unbearable, and I couldn’t hold back my tears. I hid my tears by pulling my shirt over my face — because, as they say, “men don’t cry.” The moment my mom saw my tears, she stopped asking questions, ran straight to the bedroom, and told my dad, “Daddy, Daddy, we need to send Gabriel to the hospital!”

Reflecting on this story, I asked myself what would have happened if I had managed to hold back my tears — if I had hidden my vulnerability, which in this case was showing my pain. I know my mom was really moved because her children had grown into tough lads.

I know my mom was really moved because of the tears after all her children were all tough lads. I don’t think I had shed tears since becoming a teenager. Society tells us to always be strong, to put the pain behind us, and to move on. They say, “Try your best to hide your vulnerability because people will take advantage of it.” That’s technically true. I believe you should share your pain only with God, because genuinely, He is the only one besides you who understands your pain and can take it all away. That being said, sharing your pain with trusted friends can help ease the burden. Yes, there might be heartbreaks while finding truly trusted ones, but it is worth it. More importantly, research shows that keeping pain and trauma bottled up can worsen symptoms and increase the risk of developing mental health conditions such as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). In all honesty, trust God to help you find trustworthy people who will become your support system. In this story, it’s clear that hiding my pain would have made the situation far worse.

When my dad arrived and saw me, he immediately called my aunt, who at that time had a car. My dad helped me to my feet and into the car. Before we got into the car, I mustered the strength to tell my dad, “Daddy, I’m finding it difficult to breathe.” He helped me into the back seat and sat right next to me. While we were on our way to the University of Ghana Hospital, popularly known as Legon Hospital, I had one hand clenching my stomach and the other dangling loosely. Every ten to fifteen seconds, my aunt (the one driving) would turn around, look at me, and say, “Gabriel, breathe. Gabriel, breathe.” Does this part of the story sound familiar? Well, I knew my aunt’s actions came from a place of care. Her instincts wouldn’t allow her to focus solely on driving — she had to check on her nephew. It was a kind of reflex action.

When we arrived at the hospital, my dad — with my arm around his neck — helped me inside. As soon as one nurse saw it was an emergency, she called for backup from the others. They rushed me into the emergency ward, and just like in the old Nigerian movies, about five people surrounded me. Then, out of nowhere, someone rolled in a laaarge gas cylinder and it contained oxygen. The whole scene felt exactly like something out of a movie. Just the thought of that made me laugh. I was in pain, alright, but I couldn’t hold back my laughter. The doctor looked at my grin and slight, annoying laugh and asked, “Herrh, why are you laughing?” Before I could respond, she placed the oxygen mask over my face — after all, saving this young man’s life was more important than finding out why he was laughing. They also connected me to a drip, and within a few minutes, I fell asleep.

I woke up about three hours later, feeling much better. The drips were still on me, but I no longer needed the oxygen mask. I could finally breathe properly. My parents were informed that I would be admitted for a few days and would need to undergo several tests, including an X-ray, to determine what was really wrong. I had been to the hospital at least twenty times; however, this was the first time I was admitted. They ran the tests and diagnosed me with pneumonia. Simply put, pneumonia is a lung infection where the air sacs fill with fluid or pus, making it difficult to breathe. It can be caused by bacteria, viruses, or fungi. The doctor showed me how the fluid had covered one part of my lungs. He explained that it would have been much worse if I had come to the hospital later than I did.

Like I said, I had never been admitted before, so it felt both weird and scary. You know, the underlying assumption of being admitted to a hospital ward is that your case is serious and you need to be monitored for some time. It also means that if care is not taken, your situation might worsen — and you could die. That being said, some people are admitted simply to aid the healing process. Honestly, I witnessed many things in the ward that changed my perspective on life. I came to value life more deeply and became profoundly grateful to God for keeping me alive. There were nights when all I heard were the cries of patients’ loved ones. Throughout the night, you could hear voices crying, “Lord, save my husband! Lord, save my brother!” One moment that stuck with me was seeing a man completely bedridden, with tubes all over his body. He couldn’t even relieve himself — he wore diapers and all that. One night, I don’t know how, but the man turned and fell from his bed onto the floor. The moment he fell, everyone in the ward jumped out of bed to see what had happened. All the nurses rushed to stabilize him. It took nearly an hour to stabilize him, and during that time, everyone just stared at his bed in silence. The nurses drew the curtains to obscure the scene from public view, but we all still found ourselves staring toward his bedside. All we could hear was his wife shouting, “Lord, help us!” — in our local dialect. Honestly, it took me several minutes to write this paragraph because the scene became so vivid in my mind that it sent shivers down my spine. I witnessed many similar scenes, and they all terrified me deeply.

By God’s grace and mercy, I was discharged after one week — totally healed, and everything was fine. I remember returning to school and noticing how everyone was inquisitive about what had happened to me. The truth is, I knew I had been a good friend and had helped many students by organizing classes for them — but the way people worried about me truly touched me.

You know, human beings are naturally judgmental. One statement we often hear people say is, “If I were you, I would have done it way better.” Most of the time, it feels like we are counseling the person — which I believe is often said with good intentions — but the truth is, what we are really saying is, “I know your situation, I understand it, and I could handle it way better.”

From this experience, it became clear that I had been judgmental about how people portrayed real-life scenarios in movies. I used to think they were overacting, but when I experienced it myself, I realized how wrong I was. I had created those misconceptions because I had never seen it up close. Not only did I get to see it up close, but I also experienced it firsthand — unfortunately or perhaps fortunately. One key lesson I learned from this experience — and from others — is that you can never fully understand someone’s situation. Also, I started to value the gift of life much more. After this experience, I became better at counseling friends. I spent more time listening and less time speaking, guiding them to find their own solutions rather than telling them what to do.

That’s the end of the story! 

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