The language of love

The practice of Medicine, especially in Africa can be demoralizing. The rigorous training, coupled with witnessing the way diseases tear couples and families apart tends to kill any romantic notions one might have in this part of the world. I can vividly recall the husband who gave his wife a divorce letter through the window of the postnatal ward, after being told she had delivered their fifth baby girl. I have lost count of the number of women I see, abandoned by their husbands, looking pitiful, distraught and lonely in the VVF wards or the multitudes of children I see in the paediatric wards with only their mothers by their sides. The men come sometimes, haltingly, for a few minutes, always in a hurry with excuses on their lips.

So, it was refreshing to see this young man accompany his wife to the clinic that Thursday afternoon. She was the quintessential northern Nigerian belle- small frame, light skinned with a face that exuded innocence and beauty. He was slightly taller and matched her features in good looks. I glanced at the file. She was 19 years old.

As is customary when seeing females, I began by asking her when she saw her last menstrual period. She smiled at her husband and he replied by telling me the date. What about her parity? I asked. Any Miscarriages? Again, he replied. I put my pen down and asked firmly, looking at her.

‘Is there a reason she cannot answer for herself?’ Thoughts of the various forms of abuse were already going through my head.

‘She is deaf, ma’.

I felt like a deflated balloon. ‘I am sorry’ I smiled apologetically.

‘No problem’. She smiled at him and it was then I noticed her making hand gestures at him. He gestured back and she giggled. My curiosity got the better of me and I asked where they had met. They lived together in the same neighbourhood and had grown up together. She had lost her hearing at the age of seven when she fell down from a tree and lost consciousness briefly. Her parents were poor and so her treatment was restricted, preferring instead to accept her deafness as a trial of faith as is common in this part of the world. He narrated to me, with interruptions from her through sign language, how he had wooed her during her secondary school years. It was heart-warming to see their animated faces as they described how he used to sneak love letters to her through her friends and where they often met after her evening Islamiyya classes, behind the strict and prying eyes of her parents. He recounted how many men had wanted to marry her, despite her disability and how she had chosen him over all her suitors. He was obviously smitten.

I wanted to know how they coped. He described how all her clothes had to be sewn with pockets so that she could always be with her phone which had a strong vibration. She could read and write and so communicated via text messages whenever they were not together. He had bought a dog, shortly after they married, which was trained to bark and draw her attention whenever anyone came into the house.

Finally, I asked what brought them to the hospital.

He had noticed that she would sometimes turn her head in the direction of loud noises when there was a bang at the door or the time the stove had exploded and she had run into the kitchen to investigate. He wanted to know if her hearing loss could be treated. I promised to try my best. I examined her and requested for some tests which I would review with the ENT doctors.

Throughout the day, I kept marvelling at the young man’s bravery and the audacity of their love. In this part of the country, young people with disabilities especially girls are looked upon as a burden when it comes to marriage. A deaf girl would be paired with another deaf man. Or married off to an older man with other wives or worse yet, be taken advantage of by men.

I was therefore quite pleased when she returned alone with her test results. Her husband could not come as had travelled for work. One of the ENT consultants examined her and reviewed the results. She was diagnosed with conductive hearing loss which could be helped by wearing hearing aids. As he spoke, I saw her scribbling away furiously on a sheet paper I had provided for communication. She had written one simple instruction ‘Don’t tell my husband’.

We were dumbfounded. Why? I enquired. She replied that she could hear loud pitched sounds and always knew that she could be helped. She however enjoyed the attention she received from being deaf and the extra length her husband took to ensure that she was comfortable. Quite simply, she enjoyed being different and wanted to stay with her disability.

The ENT doctor and I agreed that ethically there was nothing we could do but document our findings and grant her request.

The Irony of Life.

My last thoughts that night as I drifted to sleep was: ‘Wetin I no go see for this work?’