By As we approach tomorrow, 26 November, marking one year since my beloved wife passed, I am reminded once again why I chose not to keep any part of our journey secret. Some of the comments that have followed my series so far have strengthened my conviction. I have read remarks on various platforms from people who claimed they had relatives with similar terminal ailments who survived, suggesting that if they had known about my wife’s condition, perhaps God would have used them to intervene.
This was precisely the narrative I wanted to avoid. I remember telling my wife that, at the end of the long night, whether we emerged victorious or defeated, the world would eventually learn what transpired. It was better to speak out, endure whatever stigma came with it, and seek solutions than to remain silent, still face stigma, and find no answers. Sadly, what I feared is unfolding exactly as envisaged.
The two days we spent shuttling from one point to another at UCH left us both exhausted. A former church member who had volunteered to assist with the results urged us to return home and trust him to help get them ready. Needless to say, it took intense lobbying and pleading to gain access to some of the facilities where the tests were meant to be conducted. Virtually all her organs were to be examined to determine the extent of the spread and the most appropriate treatment to begin with.
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It is equally important to mention that the so-called NHS failed us during this process. They deducted money from salaries every month, yet when the time came to access the service for its intended purpose, one met only frustrations, even from the officials responsible. Let us leave that matter aside.
In the end, we left UCH without anything tangible, as time was running out. By July 2023, my wife was still going to work. The herbal remedy we had been introduced to turned out to be nothing but a sham and a scam. I had paid the full amount demanded. When my wife told me there was no improvement, I confronted the young man behind it. He pleaded for understanding and insisted we would not be disappointed. But in the end, disappointment was all we were served — along with deep frustration.
Fear and past experiences pushed us into seeking another option. A friend, a professor of Biochemistry, suggested we speed up the process. His unit at the university had developed a herbal remedy intended to serve as an alternative to chemotherapy. Tales surrounding chemotherapy were frightening. My wife had heard many of them — how the treatment sometimes devastates more than it heals, how patients shrink and wither like dry-season grass. Yes, reactions vary from person to person, but doctors motivated by profit rather than humanity can be very persuasive.
This professor, at great personal inconvenience and immense generosity, did everything possible to provide the alternative remedy. He warned, however, that even a trace of diabetes might affect its efficacy. As far as I knew, my wife had no such condition. So we began. According to him, if diabetes were present, another herbal treatment would be needed first before embarking on the alternative therapy.
For about two months, she took the herbal medication faithfully. Yet no improvement came. A large sore developed from the biopsy conducted before the last confirmation of the mass, and an alarming inflammation surrounded the left breast.
If you think it is easy for me to put these memories on paper, then you have never walked the halls of hardship. Until her final day, that monster was agonising for me to behold. One thing I loathed doing is caring for the sick — it weighs heavily on the soul, especially when you feel powerless.
To be continued….
Ebenezer writes from Warri Delta State in celebration of his wife’s One-Year immemorial which is November 26, 2025
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