Thank you, Lord, for That Wicked Nurse
Dear God,
In my tribe, they say, “The person who is meant to teach you sense will not wear a smiling face.” I didn’t know that proverb was about to jump out of the village square and stand at my hospital bedside wearing a starched uniform and a frown. Dad, do You remember that nurse I begged You to punish for me? Ehn… the one I accused of being my devil’s cousin? Yes Lord, please cancel the thunder I summoned for her. Archive it in the “What She Said Under Duress” file.
Because now I understand.
So, I had just delivered my twins through CS (a major surgery that lasted hours and at some point, I had to take oxygen) and had drifted off into that sweet, pain-killer-induced sleep that felt like hugging the clouds. The ICU was quiet, the world was peaceful, and I was minding my business, thanking You for survival in a deep sleep and pleasant dream in the early hours of the morning.
Then suddenly, I felt this persistent tap on my thigh……. tap tap tap.
I opened my eyes, and there she was. The Wicked Nurse of Damascus Road.
Her face looked like a prison warder. No smile. No mercy. No patience. She tapped me again, like I was an alarm clock refusing to wake up.
“Ma’am,” she said, “get up. We’re going upstairs to your room.”
I blinked. I looked around. I even checked the name tag on my wrist. Maybe she mistook me for another person. Maybe she was joking.
But no. This woman was not sent to joke.
I protested. Oh, I protested with all the anointing in my vocal cords. I explained that my body felt like it had been stitched by an apprentice carpenter. I told her my bones were still negotiating peace with my flesh. But she stood there watching me like Netflix.
Unmoved. Unshaken. Unbothered.
I pressed the emergency bell with the confidence of someone calling higher authority. The kind matron came. I smiled at her with my best “please save me from this demon” expression. But she only patted my shoulder and said:
“She’s in charge of you now. Good luck.”
Good luck ke? Was I writing JAMB? How is it possible that these people that cut up my tommy few hours ago are asking me to get up and walk? Who did I offend?
Immediately, I heard a voice in my spirit, clear, calm, unmistakable: “Get up and walk.”
I paused. “Lord… was that You? Because if that was You, who’s side were you on?”
For some reasons, the pull of that tiny voice in my head was stronger that my will to protest, so I surrendered. The Wicked Nurse (God still bless her iron heart) lifted my head gently. Pain shot through my body like electricity from NEPA on a revenge mission. I screamed. She didn’t flinch.
“Breathe,” she said. “Close your eyes. Try again.”
I opened my eyes and shot her a look that could roast yam. She nodded, calm as a lake.
“It’s okay to hate me now. You’ll thank me later. Let’s do it again.”
We tried. And tried. And I screamed. And screamed. And prayed. And threatened. And negotiated my will. Meanwhile this woman stayed beside me urging me on. Her voice wasn’t kind, neither was it unkind. She was merciless and polite.
I lifted one leg and shifted my weight from the bed and felt the pain right from my brain to my bones. The pain was painful, Dad. (Especially for someone like me that has the lowest pain-threshold you gave man. That still cries for injections till date. Men, I saw shege)
That was the point I remembered that memory verse ………” Pray for your enemies” and I did.
I prayed that……. “Lord, let thunder collect this nurse.” “Father, let her trip over her own wickedness.” “Jehovah, let evil wind from the North collect her uniform.”
But the more I cursed, the more she encouraged. Step by step, she nudged me toward my feet… and somehow, miraculously, I stood. Bent, shaking, sweating, but standing.
“Good Job, Now Walk,” she said.
And I walked. One step. Then another. The pain sang soprano through my bones. But she stayed close, her voice firm behind me. When I reached the hallway, I leaned toward a wheelchair, eager to collapse.
“No, ma’am,” she said. “We’re using the stairs.”
My spirit left my body briefly. I turned to her slowly, dramatically, eyes popping fire, the way Nollywood women turn when they discover their husband has a second wife.
“You want me to do WHAT?”
She didn’t blink. “We are climbing.”
At that point I knew two things:
- This woman wasn’t a nurse; she was a torture instructor.
- This woman had been sent by my worst enemy.
“I am not taking another step, and I am not climbing those stairs”, I replied in my coldest voice
“I will give you time to catch your breathe……but we will climb them”, she replied politely. Not a single smile. Not a single frown.
(Dad, Was Jezebel a nurse?)
I was so sure that if I took on those stairs, the pain would kill me. And tried as I could, the stone-cold woman in that nursing uniform would not bulge, she was bent on making me climb that staircase. (For some reasons, all the friendly nurses that fanned around me like a celebrity had suspiciously disappeared leaving me with the devil’s cousin who wanted me to climb Mt Everest) So, I climbed. One step. One scream. One prayer of vengeance. One groan. One small victory. And at some point (I don’t even know how) I reached the top.
And guess what?
The pain did not kill me. That sharp, gut-tearing agony melted into something milder. A dull ache. A surviving whisper of pain, but not the monster that had held me hostage. By the time we got to my room, I was standing taller. My steps were steadier. My breathing was calmer.
Then suddenly, as if someone rang a bell, all the sweet, smiling, motherly nurses reappeared, hugging me, praising me, laughing with me. (where were you all when this stone-cold wicked nurse tried to kill me?)
And my Wicked Nurse? She looked at me… and smiled. For the first time. A small smile. A knowing smile. The smile of someone who had carried me to the other side of my fear.
I didn’t smile back. Let’s not lie (my head was still processing her meanness to me). But my spirit knew that despite her wickedness, she did one hell of a great job with me.
Later, the matron explained everything. That nurse was the one they deployed for patients like me who needed tough love, not tender pity. They chose her because she had no emotional strings tying her to me. She had the Will to do what was necessary, and that tough work was exactly what my healing required.
And she did it. Because of her and that torturous climb, I healed fast.
Because of her not allowing me give up for the pain, I walked out of the hospital with my babies in three days.
Because of her, many people doubted I even had a CS (I had to sometimes show the scar for them to believe).
So Now, Lord… I understand.
Sometimes our angels come wearing stiff uniforms and facial expressions that look like homework. But angels are angels, whether they smile or frown. And pain? Pain is not always the enemy. Sometimes pain is the usher leading us into healing, into progress. And in this painful event: Life has taught me that:
“Not every closed door is rejection; some are protection.”
“Sometimes the blessing wears an angry face.”
“A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”
“When God wants you to move, He will send someone who refuses to take your excuses.”
So, Dad, I am sitting here and asking myself these questions:
How many times have we cursed the very thing you sent to save us? (Your son for one)
How many times have we prayed away the challenge you designed to build us? (Fire! Fire! Fire!)
How many times have we hated the teacher when the difficult exams are for our progress? (That maths teacher is very wicked)
Life will not always pat us on the back; sometimes it will drag us up the stairs. But when we reach the top, when the pain settles and perspective returns, let’s look back and whisper:
“Thank You, Lord… for that wicked nurse.”
I hated that nurse then, but today, I see how her tough love helped me through a necessary painful ordeal. So, please greet her for me, Lord, (I don’t know where she is now). And bless her. And answer every prayer she makes to you. She earned it.
This is your daughter, Lord, I am checking in.
