Childhood is a period where children explore and risk many things. I was not an exception, for when it comes to being playful, you would see me there, probably as the team leader.
Here in Nigeria, the children in your neighborhood are likely going to constitute your gang of friends. Most often, we stay out late and return home with very dirty clothes and bodies, praying and hoping that we escape the rebuke from our parents. I was seven when I had a joint dislocation. Dusk was already upon us, and as usual, there was no power supply. My other siblings—four of them—were home with my parents after supper, and it was not unusual to have my brothers bully me for whatever my parents showered on me, especially as the younger child.
"Give me back!" I screamed on top of my voice, climbing the old and rickety armchair in the sitting room. My mom was in the kitchen, washing the dishes, as it was not in her habit to leave dirty dishes until the following morning. I knew I had no knowledge about the Marvel Super Heroes, but I was certainly not going to let my older brother bully me out of the throw pillow; hence, I jumped in the direction of the pillow as it got snatched from my fragile hands. Like the male hormone I had, giving in to another male was not a choice I was willing to embrace.
The loud thud from my fall made my mom rush into the sitting room, abandoning the dishes that got her engaged. My brother withdrew beyond the shadows, probably scared our mother would rebuke him for my fall. Despite the fall, I stubbornly refused to let go of the chase to retrieve my pillow, and with refueled determination, I struggled to my feet, placing my palm to the ground however, something was different with my arm. Rather than the arm bearing the weight of my body in a straight line, my body weight collapsed on my right arm, protruding a bone from its position, though the skin was left uncompromised. I attempted to realign my arm and pursue my brother but alas, my arm persistently shot out of its position.The scream from my mom further overwhelmed me with confusion, causing me to realize the throw pillow had become less of a priority.
Hastily, my mom rushed me to the hospital, and perhaps because she was a Nurse, I had all the attention and sympathy from both doctors and nurses. The pain that I felt quickly dissipated after some therapy, heightening my curiosity as to what magic was done to relieve me.
That moment was my first admission as a patient to the hospital, even though it was for observation. I enjoyed the frequent checks by women who dressed in white, just like my mom, whenever she dressed to work. My mom may have been popular as different smiling faces came visiting, some with gifts. I was discharged the following day, and my mom was equally given an excused duty so as to attend to my arm properly. I remember being mandated to immobilize the arm for a while, and my siblings would not cease to make fun of me, especially when my parents were not around.
The magic performed by the doctor and nurses to restore my arm spiked my curiosity to learn the art of medicine so that I could be seen as a superhero someday. This event, after several years, became my actualization as a medical professional, though I unconsciously nursed the passion to ease people's ailing issues as a result of my experience.