PATIENT VOICES

Sasha lee
Borderline Personality Disorder
South Africa


There was a time in my life when it felt like I wasn’t behind the wheel anymore—as if I were just a passenger in my own story. And by the time I regained control, the crash had already happened.

Growing up, something inside me felt constantly unsettled. My emotions never seemed to just be—they roared, consumed, and overwhelmed. What I later came to understand as Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) had quietly taken root, and as I got older, it began to demand more and more space in my life.

University was supposed to be a time of discovery and growth, but for me, it was a time when the cracks widened. Financial pressures loomed over every decision—sometimes I didn’t know if I could afford food, rent, or transport to campus. That stress, paired with the invisible weight of BPD, became unbearable. I spiraled. My moods swung like a pendulum—plummeting into suicidal depressions, then surging into outbursts of uncontrollable aggression. I felt like I was either drowning or on fire, with no middle ground, no safety, and no one to truly understand.

It wasn’t just me who suffered. My relationships—family, friends, partners—took the blows too. I pushed people away while desperately wanting them close. I hurt those I loved because I couldn’t bear the pain inside me. The guilt that followed only deepened my isolation. I lived in a thick fog of loneliness and despair, convinced I was fundamentally broken.

Then one day, in the depth of one of my darkest moments, I made a phone call that would change my life. I called a suicide hotline. I don’t remember much of what I said, but I remember how the operator made me feel: heard. For the first time in a long time, someone was listening—not judging, not trying to fix me, but simply hearing my pain.

That moment was a spark. It didn’t solve everything, but it gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.

I began searching—really searching—for answers. I dived deep into learning about Borderline Personality Disorder. Not just definitions or symptoms, but me. How my BPD worked, how stress triggered me, how childhood experiences and trauma shaped my responses. I started building a map of my mind. That map didn’t erase the mountains, but it helped me stop walking in circles.

One of the most important decisions I made was to move. My environment had become a constant trigger—too much noise, not enough safety, no space to breathe. Changing my surroundings helped me meet my most basic needs again: rest, nutrition, stability. Without that toxic background noise, I could finally hear myself think. I could begin to heal.

Bit by bit, I started redesigning my life. Therapy became a key part of that process, of course—but so did learning to speak up. To say: “I live with BPD.” To say: “I matter.” To say: “I am worthy of love, rest, and peace.”

When I stopped hiding my diagnosis, something incredible happened: the shame began to lose its grip on me. I realized that my story could actually help others who felt like I once did—trapped, exhausted, hopeless.

And from that place of truth, something even more unexpected happened—I found the strength to return to my academic dreams. I finished my PhD. Not because the pain had disappeared, but because I had finally built enough tools and support to carry it more gently.

Today, I don’t claim to be “cured”—BPD doesn’t just vanish. But I have a relationship with it now. I understand its patterns, I prepare for the storms, and I forgive myself when I get caught in the rain. What saved me wasn’t a miracle. It was a moment of human connection. A voice on the other end of a phone line that said, “I hear you.” That gave me the courage to listen to myself.

So if you’re in the dark right now, wondering if anyone can see you—please know this: someone can. And the moment you feel heard might just be the beginning of your way back home to yourself. This is my story. And I’m still writing it—with compassion, with purpose, and finally, with my hands back on the wheel.

Ibrahima Madougou
Leukemia
Niger


I am a former leukemia patient, now healed for nine years thanks to treatment in Morocco. My illness began with persistent bronchitis and coughing. Although the bronchitis was treated, new symptoms emerged: anemia, extreme fatigue, and frequent headaches. After thorough medical examinations, I was diagnosed with leukemia.

Being diagnosed with cancer at just nine years old was incredibly difficult. The disease had already started affecting my brain, causing facial paralysis. Due to the severity of my condition, I was urgently evacuated to Morocco for treatment.

In Morocco, I underwent both chemotherapy and radiotherapy—an extremely tough journey for a child. Throughout the ordeal, I was supported and accompanied by my mother. After many challenges, I was officially declared cured in 2012.

My experience inspired me to write a book titled The Stamps of Destiny, which was published in Paris, France, in 2017. Driven by a desire to help others facing similar struggles, I also founded an NGO dedicated to fighting cancer in Niger.

Today, I continue my advocacy work with the support of the World Patients Alliance, focusing not only on cancer but on all diseases affecting patients around the world.

“Born to Fight: A Childhood Cancer Survivor’s Mission"

Atul Rathod
Cancer
India


I was diagnosed with Retinoblastoma at just one year old, I lost vision in one eye after life-saving surgery at age two. The emotional and financial strain shattered my family—my father left, unable to cope. But my mother stood by me, unwavering in her fight to give me a future. Her resilience became my strength.

Growing up with a disability brought countless challenges. By age 14, I began working odd jobs to support my family, all while channeling my emotions into poetry, storytelling, and filmmaking. These creative outlets became my voice and purpose.

At 18, I joined CanKids KidsCan, where my personal journey evolved into advocacy. I found meaning in helping others facing childhood cancer, eventually taking on leadership roles. Today, at 20, I serve as Secretary of KidsCan Konnect and the P3SG Group, working to ensure that no survivors are left behind.

From national forums to the Tata Mumbai Marathon 2025, I raise my voice for those still fighting. My story is not just one of survival—it’s about resilience, advocacy, and creating hope. Inspired by my mother’s strength, I continue to fight so that every childhood cancer survivor knows they are not alone, and their story matters.

Kayode A.
Heart Stroke
Nigeria


I had my first stroke incident in 2022 due to overthinking from a failed business venture. Since then, I have had to depend on my family for support. The stroke affected my mobility and speech. In the first few months of the incident, I resorted to traditional/herbal means for my healing, but there was no improvement. Consulting with medical practitioners has greatly improved my health and given me some rays of hope.

Titilope Adelaja
Heart Stroke
Nigeria


It was a shocking realization when I found out that my mom had just suffered a stroke. With little time to spare, we rushed her to the hospital, where she received the stability, she needed. Fortunately, the situation was managed in time. The doctor explained that her stroke was a result of her hypertension and diabetes.

Femi Robot
Heart Stroke
Nigeria


My stroke occurred due to excessive stress, which resulted in blurred vision and difficulty with mobility. Thankfully, I have a strong support system from my family and friends, which has significantly improved my health. I remain optimistic that one day I will fully recover and resume my life as if I never experienced a stroke.

Rebecca Chirenga
Cataract Eyes Surgery
Zimbabwe


In June 2023, I underwent cataract removal surgery in both eyes. Unfortunately, due to poor post-operative care, I lost vision in my left eye. The procedure was mishandled, leading to a blockage in the duct responsible for draining aqueous humor. This caused a severe buildup of intraocular pressure—reaching as high as 73—which ultimately damaged my optic nerve and resulted in permanent vision loss.

Throughout this ordeal, I endured intense, unrelenting pain, which my doctor failed to manage. In December, I was forced to undergo an emergency trabeculectomy to relieve the pressure and prevent further damage. Despite the trauma and irreversible disability I now live with, I have received no compensation for the surgical error. Sadly, in my country, there are no systems in place to protect patients from such medical negligence. The emotional and physical toll remains unaddressed, and my life has been significantly impacted—personally, professionally, and financially.

On July 6, 2023, I underwent cataract removal surgery on my left eye. What should have been a routine procedure quickly turned into a nightmare. Complications developed soon after, and they were poorly managed by the healthcare provider. My eye became severely inflamed, painful, and I began to lose vision. Despite numerous visits and repeated pleas for help, the pain persisted, and no effective treatment was provided.

The intraocular pressure in my eye rose to dangerous levels, causing irreversible damage to my optic nerve. I spent countless nights in excruciating pain, unable to sleep, with no relief or clear answers. The surgeon eventually admitted to the error, but when I sought compensation or even additional medical support, he refused to take responsibility. I tried to pursue legal action, but the costs were too high, and there was no real pathway to justice.

Today, I live with permanent vision loss in my left eye—a disability that has significantly impacted my career, daily life, and mental well-being. But through this painful experience, I found something unexpected: a voice.

What I endured gave me a deeper understanding of the gaps in patient rights, especially in systems where medical accountability is lacking. It awakened a purpose in me—to speak up not only for myself, but for others who suffer in silence. My story has become a tool for awareness, advocacy, and change. I now raise my voice for patient safety, for accountability, and for the many who have no access to justice or support. Though I lost my vision, I gained clarity on the importance of speaking out.

Edmund Lau
Psoriasis
Singapore


Living with psoriasis has been one of the most defining experiences of my life. It has shaped my resilience, tested my perseverance, and transformed how I view health, productivity, and advocacy. While the journey has been far from easy, it is a story of survival, breakthroughs, and the belief that chronic illness should not define or limit a person’s potential.

The Early Struggles: Life with Psoriasis

For years, psoriasis controlled nearly every aspect of my life. Painful, inflamed patches covered my scalp, limbs, and body, making even simple daily activities uncomfortable and exhausting. Sleep was rare, energy was fleeting, and each flare-up chipped away at my physical and emotional strength.

More than just a physical battle, psoriasis deeply impacted my self-image and mental health. I often hid my skin beneath long sleeves and avoided social situations. The stigma surrounding visible skin conditions made things even harder. I felt isolated, wondering if I could continue pursuing my professional dreams while managing a disease that left me so depleted.

Despite this, I held onto my passion for teaching and learning. As an Associate Lecturer in universities across the US, UK, and Australia, I found joy in educating and inspiring students. But the reality was harsh. Some days, I could barely manage an hour of effective teaching before needing to rest. My condition constantly interrupted my work and sapped my strength. I tried every available treatment—creams, lifestyle changes, dietary shifts—but nothing brought lasting relief. Each failed attempt added to my frustration.

The Turning Point: Biologic Therapy

Everything changed when I was introduced to biologic therapy. Initially skeptical after so many disappointments, I soon discovered that biologics target the root causes of inflammation rather than just masking the symptoms.

The results were life-changing.

For the first time in years, my skin cleared. The pain, fatigue, and itching vanished. I felt free—not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. Suddenly, I could teach for 10 hours without crashing. I became fully present for my students, more interactive, and more energized. My transformation didn’t go unnoticed. I was not only back—I was better.

This recovery reignited my drive, confidence, and purpose. But it also gave me clarity: no one should have to suffer in silence or be denied access to the treatment that gave me my life back.

From Patient to Advocate

With my health restored, I felt a responsibility to speak up for others. Too many people with psoriasis and other chronic conditions are still fighting in silence—unable to access life-changing therapies because of cost, awareness gaps, or healthcare system failures.

My journey became about more than just overcoming a personal struggle. It became a mission to advocate for equitable healthcare, to educate others about psoriasis, and to push for change. Through my work with global patient organizations, I have had the privilege of sharing my story at international conferences, collaborating with healthcare professionals, and engaging with policymakers to elevate the conversation around chronic diseases.

Becoming a 10x Productive Chronic Patient

Today, I proudly call myself a “10x Productive Chronic Patient”—not because I’ve defeated my illness, but because I’ve learned how to thrive alongside it. I’ve found strength in vulnerability and purpose in adversity.

My commitment to lifelong learning continues to fuel this journey. In January 2025, I completed a Master’s in Health Economics, Management and Policy at the University of Newcastle. I have since been accepted into a Doctorate in Business Administration (Health) at University College London, where I aim to deepen my impact on healthcare systems and policy.

In my advocacy roles—as a Global Psoriasis Ambassador for the International Federation of Psoriasis Associations (IFPA) and Advisory Board Member of the World Patients Alliance—I work to improve treatment access, shape policy, and amplify patient voices worldwide. These roles allow me to engage directly with healthcare stakeholders and drive real change in how chronic conditions are managed.

A Message to Fellow Patients

To anyone living with psoriasis or another chronic illness: I see you. I know the pain, frustration, and hopelessness. But I also know that transformation is possible—with the right treatment, support system, and mindset. You do not have to suffer in silence. Advocate for your health, seek the care you deserve, and surround yourself with people who understand your journey.

I owe deep gratitude to my family caregivers, whose unwavering love and support carried me through the darkest times. Their strength helped me find my own, and their belief in me never wavered.

Looking Ahead

This is just the beginning. My mission is to continue advocating for patient-centered healthcare, raising awareness, and proving that chronic illness is not the end of the story—it’s a chapter that can lead to something powerful.

I invite healthcare professionals, patients, policymakers, and caregivers to join this movement. Together, we can dismantle the stigma, expand access to care, and build a world where no one is left behind because of their health condition.

Let’s keep pushing forward—for ourselves, for each other, and for a healthier, more inclusive future.

“Reclaiming Life: A Half-Century with Chronic Pain"

Penney Cowan
Fibromyalgia
USA


For over 50 years, I’ve lived with chronic pain—pain that was, at times, debilitating and overwhelming, gradually seeping into every corner of my life. I searched for years for answers, for relief, for hope. The turning point came in 1979, when I was referred to the Pain Management Program at the Cleveland Clinic. There, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a chronic condition that causes widespread musculoskeletal pain, fatigue, and tenderness.

At one point, pain had become my identity.

But at the Cleveland Clinic, I discovered two life-changing truths: I was not alone—and I had more power than I realized.

I met others who looked fine on the outside, but inside were battling pain, isolation, and uncertainty—just like I was. More importantly, I learned that pain could be managed. But it wouldn’t come through medication alone. It required active participation, personal responsibility, and a commitment to change.

Through the program, I learned to:

Understand the emotional impact of pain

Begin a gentle, consistent exercise regimen

Recondition my body and mind

Prioritize my energy and set realistic goals

It was a journey of transformation—from seeing myself as a patient to reclaiming the role of a functioning, independent person. These tools became part of my daily life, so much so that I no longer wake up thinking about how I’ll get through the day—it simply happens. But it didn’t come overnight. It took time, effort, and the support of others who truly understood.

The Birth of a Movement

When I returned home, I knew I had to keep the momentum going. I wanted to hold on to what I had learned—and I wanted to help others do the same.

I placed a simple notice in my church bulletin asking if anyone else was living with chronic pain—whether from musculoskeletal issues or neuropathic conditions like burning, pins and needles, or electric-shock sensations. My goal was modest: help just one person feel less alone and understand that a better quality of life is possible.

That year, two people joined me. We met regularly, shared our struggles, and supported one another. That small group became the first chapter of what would grow into the American Chronic Pain Association (ACPA).

Within a year, our single group had grown to seven across the country. Realizing I couldn’t guide each one personally, I created the ACPA First Steps Manual—a practical, peer-based guide to the same skills and coping strategies that helped me reclaim my life.

Why Support Groups Matter

Support groups are powerful tools in pain management. They offer more than just emotional support, they create a space where people can share openly, learn together, and build a toolkit for daily living. Our philosophy is simple: pain is real, but so is your potential.

We encourage members to:

Educate themselves about their condition

Work in partnership with their healthcare providers

Apply proven coping strategies consistently

Regain confidence and self-worth

These aren’t just meetings. They’re lifelines.

From Three People to a Global Network

Today, the ACPA has grown far beyond what I ever imagined. There are now more than 700 ACPA support groups worldwide—across nearly every U.S. state, and in countries including the UK, Mexico, Australia, and even Russia.

Across the globe, these groups are helping people reconnect with their lives, rebuild their identities, and rediscover joy—despite the pain.

Our Mission Continues

What began with three people in a room has become a global movement. The ACPA empowers people with chronic pain to live full, meaningful lives. We provide resources, tools, and support—not just to patients, but to caregivers, healthcare providers, and communities.

To anyone who feels alone in their pain: you are not. We are here. And there is a path forward.

Pedro Al Derjani
Diabetes
Lebanon


My journey with diabetes officially began in June 2016, but the signs first appeared a few months earlier, in March of that year. At the time, I was a 17-year-old high school student living in Rachiine, a picturesque village nestled in North Lebanon. Despite its beauty, the community I grew up in was shaped by deep-rooted stigmas and social pressures. It was not a place where personal struggles were easily shared or understood. That spring, I began experiencing unsettling changes in my body—unrelenting fatigue, intense thirst, rapid weight loss, and frequent trips to the bathroom. I sensed that something was wrong, yet I had no understanding of what it could be. Sadly, neither did those around me.

My symptoms quickly began interfering with my daily life. At school, my need to leave class often to hydrate or use the restroom was met not with concern, but with skepticism. Teachers and peers believed I was faking illness to avoid lessons. Eventually, the school administration expelled me, convinced I was making excuses. It was a devastating and deeply humiliating experience. I felt isolated, dismissed, and increasingly afraid. The lack of awareness about chronic conditions like diabetes in my community meant that my family, too, struggled to comprehend what I was going through. There was no language for what I felt—only silence, confusion, and fear.

By June, my health had deteriorated further. I developed persistent fungal infections that prompted an urgent visit to a doctor. A blood test revealed that my HbA1c was over 14%, leading to a definitive diagnosis of diabetes. I was admitted to the hospital and spent several days there learning how to manage my condition. For the first time, I received proper education about insulin, nutrition, and monitoring my blood glucose levels. One compassionate doctor took the time to support me emotionally and medically. She also introduced me to DiaLeb, the National Diabetes Organization in Lebanon.

At first, the diagnosis felt like a life sentence. I was overwhelmed by fear—fear that my life would be limited, that I would never achieve my dreams, or that I would become "old" before my time. But connecting with DiaLeb was a turning point. Through their educational sessions and community outreach, I began to see diabetes in a different light. I met others who were living full, empowered lives despite the condition. One story that particularly moved me was that of Silvie Maalouf, daughter of Dr. Jackie Maalouf, who lives with type 1 diabetes and faces life with courage and confidence. Her story gave me hope and reframed my understanding of what it means to live with a chronic condition.

Motivated by this new perspective, I became actively involved in diabetes awareness initiatives through DiaLeb. I volunteered for events, participated in campaigns, and began sharing my own story to educate others. Each interaction reminded me of why this work mattered. I realized I wanted to be the voice I never had—the voice that could have spared me from shame, confusion, and isolation during those early months. This growing passion for advocacy eventually led me to join the International Diabetes Federation’s Young Leaders in Diabetes (YLD) program.

Becoming a YLD was transformative. It connected me with young people from around the world who shared not only a diagnosis, but a common commitment to education, advocacy, and empowerment. Together, we exchanged stories, ideas, and strategies for tackling the social and systemic challenges faced by people living with diabetes. It gave me the opportunity to speak not just for myself, but for others—especially youth in underserved communities—who deserve to be seen, heard, and supported.

Today, I look back on my journey with both pride and humility. What began as a painful and confusing chapter in a quiet Lebanese village has grown into a mission of purpose and resilience. My experience taught me that a diagnosis is not the end of the road, but the beginning of a new one. It taught me that from silence can come strength, and from struggle can come advocacy. I am committed to continuing this journey—raising awareness, educating others, and working to ensure that no young person faces diabetes in fear or isolation.

Through platforms like DiaLeb, the YLD program, I hope to amplify the voices of those still waiting to be heard. Every story matters, and every patient deserves the dignity of understanding, support, and hope. My voice may have been silenced once—but today, it speaks louder than ever.

Anelisa
Mental Health
South Africa

I don’t remember the exact moment when everything fell apart, but I remember the feeling. I was still a teenager when my aunt, the woman who raised me, passed away. She had taken me in when I was young—loved me like her own, gave me a sense of home when my own mother didn’t. When she died, I lost not just a caregiver, but my safe place. I felt... completely alone. My mother didn’t come back into my life after my aunt passed. I remember feeling abandoned all over again. She had left me once—and now, she was emotionally gone, even though she was still alive. That kind of emotional neglect—it cuts deep. I was grieving and scared, but I didn’t have anyone to talk to, no space to cry, no one who asked me if I was okay. So, I just stopped feeling. I told myself to stay quiet. To survive. As the years went by, the silence grew louder inside me. I had to become an adult fast. I had to act like everything was fine, like I was strong. But inside, I carried this heavy sadness, this quiet feeling that I wasn’t worth much. I became a mother. And I loved my daughter—more than anything. But even then, the loneliness didn’t leave. I started to believe that maybe the pain I carried would ruin her, too. I had this terrifying thought once: What if we both just disappeared? That maybe it would be better—for both of us—if we weren’t here anymore. That way, I wouldn’t have to carry this pain, and she wouldn’t have to grow up feeling the kind of hurt I had. It felt like the only escape. The only way to protect her. But then I saw her. Just looking at me—trusting me. Smiling, even when I felt broken. And something in me cracked open. I thought, No. I can’t do this to her. She needs me to stay. She deserves a mother who tries, even when it’s hard. That was the moment I reached out for help. I remember walking into that room for the first time—nervous, ashamed, unsure if I even deserved help. But the woman I met didn’t judge me. She listened. For the first time in years, someone listened to me, not just the words I said—but everything I wasn’t saying. She helped me understand that what I went through was real. That I had been grieving alone. That I needed to feel in order to heal. It wasn’t easy. Healing never is. There were days I wanted to disappear again. But I kept coming back. I kept talking. And slowly, I stopped hiding from my own story. I started to see that my past didn’t make me unworthy. That the silence I grew up in didn’t have to define me. I began to speak up—for myself, for my daughter, for the little girl inside me who never got to cry when her world collapsed. Now, I’m still a mother. But I’m also a survivor. I show up for my daughter, not just physically, but emotionally. I tell her she’s loved. I hug her longer. I ask her how she feels. Because I know what it’s like when no one does. And I show up for others too. I speak about mental health, about the dark thoughts no one wants to admit they’ve had. I tell people that it's okay to break, as long as you know you can rebuild. That it's okay to cry. That asking for help is one of the bravest things you’ll ever do. I’m not the same girl who kept everything inside. I’m stronger now. Not because I’ve erased my pain—but because I’ve faced it. And if you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt like giving up... please know you’re not alone. I’ve been there. I thought the world would be better off without me. But I was wrong. My daughter needed me. The world needed me. And maybe it needs you too. So please—stay.

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Hemal Kanvinde
Renel
India


This story begins from my childhood when I was 5-6 years old. I had a urine infection and was feeling a lot of burning sensation and would cry a lot due to the pain. My mother treated it with some home remedies; I have a very vague memory of this. Then the same problem surfaced again during my college days, but I hesitated to tell my mother. I felt that if I tell my mother, I will have to go to the doctor, and he would examine that area. I was scared just thinking about it. This happened during the year 1980, that is some 45 years ago. At that time, I did not have courage to share such things with my mother. I could not sleep properly at night and spent many nights like this and finally, when I gathered courage and told my mother, she took me to our family doctor. I was very scared. I did not know which area he would examine. But nothing like that happened. He gave me a week's course of antibiotics which cured my infection, and I started feeling normal. I could not believe that such a big problem could be solved in such an easy way. I heaved a sigh of relief, but it was too late by then. The functioning of my left kidney was affected and it‘s working gradually declined. I came to know about this during my pregnancy in 1993 at the time of sonography and since then I started getting myself checked regularly every year. But in the routine check-up of 2010, it was found that creatinine, (a waste product that healthy kidney filters out of the blood into the urine) an important indicator of the proper functioning of kidney, had started increasing in the blood, which was an indication that my kidneys were failing. By 2015, both the kidneys stopped working, which ultimately led to kidney transplant. My kidney transplant operation was successfully done on 25 March 2015 due to donation of kidney by my husband. I would call it an unusual incident when a husband donates his kidney to his wife because in our society a mother easily donates her organs to her child, a wife to her husband and a sister to her brother but it is rare for a father to donate his organs to his child, brother to donate his organs to his sister or a husband to his wife. Today I have completed 10 years of kidney transplant and am living a healthy life. My husband, who is himself a paediatrician, without any hesitation, donated not only his kidney but also his better kidney and proved how much he cares for his partner's life and today, thanks to him, I have got the opportunity to live a healthy life again, for which I will always be grateful to him. I am also thankful from the bottom of my heart to all family members and friends who stood with us in this difficult time and were supportive in keeping our morale high.

Leakey Mwenda
Sleeping disorder
Kenya


Since I was in seventh grade, I’ve struggled with a sleep disorder that has never been properly addressed. Despite seeking help in various places, nothing has truly worked. This condition significantly disrupts my daily routine and makes it difficult to stay on track.

I’m someone who genuinely strives for success, but my sleep condition holds me back in many ways. I’m a trained teacher, but I turned down a teaching internship because I felt the demands were too great given my health. I haven’t officially registered for any disability status, which adds to the complexity of my situation. Instead, I chose a less demanding and lower-paying job that offers some flexibility, allowing me to cope.

Often, I feel isolated — like I’m living in a world of my own that no one truly understands. People have mocked me or insulted me because of my condition, especially when I lose control in public, which can be deeply embarrassing. Only a few people have ever shown genuine understanding. These experiences have left me feeling low and, at times, hopeless. My condition has even affected my personal relationships, making it difficult to connect, especially as a man expected to carry strength and stability.

Yet, amid all this, I have found a small but meaningful purpose. In the brief time I spent teaching, I encountered students with similar struggles. I instinctively drew them closer, made them feel seen and supported — because I know how it feels to be misunderstood. In helping them, I saw the impact one person’s empathy can have.

Loyce Kihungi
Anaesthesia Complication
Kenya


Years ago, I was admitted to the hospital with severe abdominal pain. Despite undergoing an ultrasound, no clear cause was found. I was advised to have an exploratory laparotomy. As an employee of the same hospital, I trusted the system and gave my consent.

The surgery revealed nothing alarming. But what happened during the operation has haunted me ever since.

As the procedure neared its end, the anesthetist reversed the general anesthesia too early—before the surgeon had finished stitching my incision. I became fully conscious but was paralysed, unable to speak or move. I could hear the voices in the operating room. I could feel every painful stitch as the surgeon sewed my skin. Each suture cut not just through my body, but through my sense of safety.

I tried to scream, to move—but my body wouldn’t respond. I was awake, in pain, and utterly helpless. Eventually, the breathing tube was removed, and I could speak. When a staff member called out for the emergency department’s extension—where I worked—I instinctively answered. The room fell silent in shock. I wasn’t supposed to be awake. Later in the ward, I told the surgeon what had happened. He seemed unsure but said he would inform the anesthetist. No one followed up. What I experienced is known as intraoperative awareness—a rare but deeply traumatic complication. The psychological and emotional scars are lasting.

I share my story to advocate for safer, more compassionate surgical care. Patients must be properly monitored, and their concerns must be taken seriously. Transparency, timely follow-up, and emotional support should be standard when adverse events occur. No patient should ever be left to suffer in silence.