The Other Room

As a physician, you have many roles. Some days, you are a doctor, listening to patient’s illnesses and making a diagnosis. Other days, you are an educator, teaching people about their bodies and how to take better care of their health; while on certain days you are a marriage counsellor. Yes! There is nothing I […]

As a physician, you have many roles. Some days, you are a doctor, listening to patient’s illnesses and making a diagnosis. Other days, you are an educator, teaching people about their bodies and how to take better care of their health; while on certain days you are a marriage counsellor. Yes! There is nothing I have not seen in this profession.

Years ago, as a young resident, a couple inadvertently cast me in an uncomfortable situation. They came to the hospital to be evaluated for infertility. They had been married for four years without a child and they were becoming worried. The wife had tried every womb opening traditional concoction brought to her by her numerous relatives and in-laws from almost every state in Nigeria. They had gone for every ‘Shiloh’ convention, fasted and prayed and climbed various mountains; all to no avail. The wife, against the wish of her husband, had even denounced her church and joined another denomination that asked her to embark a 90-day dry fast which culminated in her being admitted in the hospital where she was managed for severe dehydration. The husband’s relatives were threatening to send her packing as they claimed her womb was closed.

I proceeded as per protocol to take a detailed history. The drama started when I started asking questions about their sexual life. How frequent was intercourse, I asked? The husband said 6 to7 times per week. The wife immediately shouted.

‘Hian! Which six times? Doctor, Abeg its two times per week’

I looked perplexed. The husband looked like he was about to speak and then changed his mind. I asked my question again, this time the woman answered first. ‘Doctor, it is two times per week, all the other times na ojoro!’ Any problems with erection or ejaculation, I asked the husband.

‘No’ he answered, albeit a bit loudly.

Madam eyed him. ‘Doctor na lie! Talk true bros, na hospital we come o!’ The husband looked away with a sullen expression. I decided to leave that aspect of their history alone.

I gave them a number of tests to carry out and asked them to return the following week. Oga returned alone. I asked after madam; she was at work, he replied. His Seminal Fluid Analysis showed that he had no sperm in his ejaculate, meaning he was sterile. I broke the news as gently as I could. He took it calmly. Something seemed off and so I asked: ‘This is not the first time you are hearing this, is it?’. He stared out of the window for so long that I started becoming impatient. I had other patients waiting. ‘Yes,’ he replied. He confessed to have known for a long time. He had always wondered why he could not get any of his previous girlfriends pregnant despite not using protections. During his days at Polytechnic, his friends were always bragging about their escapades in one abortion clinic or the other but he had always been lucky, or so he thought, until the popular neighbourhood whore said she was pregnant for him. He had quickly denied it, not wanting to be associated with her, but secretly happy that he had finally scored a goal. When she had insisted, his friend told him to go to a doctor to confirm. A quack doctor under the guise of doing a ‘DNA’ test in Onitsha had carried out a seminal fluid analysis and broke the news to him. He had gone on to repeat the tests in many hospitals and even had a testicular biopsy done in Lagos. All had given him the same conclusion: he could never have a child.

I was angry but kept a straight face. Why didn’t he tell his wife? Why did he allow her to be subjected to all this humiliation? He had no answer. I advised him to let her know as infertility was best managed as a couple.

Two days later, his wife returned looking angry. All her results were negative, there was nothing wrong with her. She had asked him to accompany her to the hospital and he had declined. She wanted to know his results. I would not tell her. She started making a tantrum and before I knew it, she had called her husband and asked him to come as she had been told she was going to be admitted for an operation. I asked her why she lied. ‘He will not come otherwise’ she retorted.

I had to admire her resourcefulness. Her husband came in a rush. She repeated her question to me: ‘what is the result of my husband’s test?’. I kept mute and looked at Oga. I shook my head slightly to indicate that I had not told her anything. Madam, meanwhile had decoded the situation as she started weeping silently.

Oga went on his knees and started to beg her forgiveness. He told her his results and his fears that she would leave him if she knew. He was afraid of how society would treat him. He conveniently left out the part about knowing his condition before marrying her. I watched as the Nollywood drama unfolded in my consulting room. I tried to reconcile them as best as I could and they agreed to both discuss it with their respective families first. Marriage is indeed a mystery.

The last I heard of them, they were still married and quarrelling about their sexual history!