Of mistakes and false truths

I dislike hospitals. I always have. When I was younger, I had recurring bouts of tonsillitis ( I still do, unfortunately) that necessitated a five-day course of antibiotics. Five days of injections every couple of months are sure to make any child wary of hospitals, and anybody that had anything to do with hospitals and healthcare. As I have gotten older, my genetic predisposition to a few conditions has led to hospital stays that have been way less than ideal. But one does fall ill, and sometimes, you have to run tests, and sometimes, these tests unmask thirty-something-year-old questions.

I was born in Hamburg. My mother had some complications early in the pregnancy and was advised to seek medical help outside Nigeria. Around the same time, my Dad and my immediate older sister had to have procedures done. Basically, the main focus was on everybody getting well. As I have been told numerous times, I just didn’t want to come out and was making my mother quite sick. There was anxiety all around as difficult decisions were asked to be made. Thankfully, a miracle happened. I showed up — tiny, blue and as they found out soon after, jaundiced. When we finally came home all healthy, my parents had a huge, road-blocking, souvenir-sharing party to celebrate.

As a toddler, we went to get my genotype and blood group confirmed. AA, O+, my parents were told. And that is what I filled on every form, everywhere in the world. Until recently.

Growing up, I noticed that if I’d had a long day and was extremely tired, was at certain points in my cycle, or was falling ill, the bones in my forearm would ache consistently. It was this deep, sometimes debilitating pain inside my bones. Sometimes, my knees would hurt too. No painkillers ever worked. I would drink a lot of water and force myself to sleep (sometimes aided by sleep medication). As I got older, I got used to it, and devised various ways of managing, and attempting to avoid the pain. No need to go to the hospital, I’d say. I honestly thought nothing of it and decided that my body disliked stress and as I often say, I wasn’t built to suffer.

Then, in 2017, I had a minor medical emergency and was asked to check my blood group, genotype, etc, in case I needed surgery. And so I did.
The results: Sickling genotype — AC. My father is AC, as are two of my siblings. But this clearly came as a surprise. I sent my sister a message. She told me to call my mother. I did. She told me where and how I had gotten tests done when I was a toddler and wondered whether my genotype could have changed, or if there had been a mistake. I wish I knew the answer to that.

So here I am, at the wonderful age of thirty-something, and I realize that on every form I have filled — in my various schools, in hospitals, for my health insurance, etc — I have put in the wrong information. Then it started to hit me — I never get malaria (apparently a “benefit” of this genotype). I get the flu, I get stomach bugs. But malaria? Nope.
I’m not married and have never been close. But just imagine…You’re all set to get married. The church says alright then, go do these mandatory tests. You do and then you’re told that uhm, actually, you really shouldn’t/cannot or we advise that you do not marry that partner. Oh, the heartbreak. Thankfully, now I know.

However, in the interest of my desired level of peace, I have decided to believe that whether my genotype actually changed or there was some sort of medical laboratory error, that AC can change back to AA.

That’s the way my faith is set up, honestly. I could do without the pain. And yes, I still don’t want malaria.

Honestly, I would really just like to have as many options as possible in the choice of a marriage partner. The pickings are already rather slim.

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