Impossicant!

By Grace B. Charrier

It is never easy coming to terms with a cancer diagnosis as this experience will shake any one's world to the foundation. The whole essence of this quirky memoir is to put the reader where Grace was on each step of her journey as reading the book is like having a conversation with her, with a great deal of humor to boot! This book was written to offer courage, strength, and encouragement for anyone going through a challenging time such as hers.
Do follow this gripping cross-Atlantic tale of resilience, inspiration, humor, and perseverance as it chronicles the strength of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grace B. Charrier
• Release date: Jun 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463362730

Grace B. Charrier

Grace B. Charrier is an African from Nigeria. She is an author, social entrepreneur, cancer advocate, and global patient leader who resides in Brooklyn, New York, USA.Born to a Diplomat-cum-Chartered Accountant father and a Chartered Secretary-cum-Public Administrator mother, the international exposure plus the social, diplomatic, administrative skills, and strengths of both parents, naturally prepared Grace for her present endeavors as a global citizen. She is a United Nations Ambassador for Peace, a Global Goodwill Ambassador, and a Global Patient Leader and Public Health Advocate on several international cancer organizations and panels.A Stage 3 breast cancer survivor, Grace’s life-altering journey led her to launch her Youtube Channel: Cancer Convos with Grace B., moderate the same brand on Facebook and begin writing her cancer memoir while at her lowest ebb. Using both platforms, she seeks to demystify the cancer disease by bringing on experts and stakeholders in the cancer space to give their valid opinions to her ever-expanding audience.It was a decision she will never regret as the positive feedback has been phenomenal which has led her to several speaking engagements globally.Her passion for giving hope to those on the path she once was, Grace has proven that cancer doesn’t have to be a death sentence whatsoever as far as one nips it in the bud early enough and refuses to be stigmatized.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Divine Fall

How could I ever forget? The whole wahala began with a freak accident on the 5th of April 2016 in the bathroom of my apartment in Abuja, Nigeria. To make matters worse, I was home alone as I had requested my staff and adoptive son, Newton to take care of certain tasks on my behalf.

At last, some peace and quiet, I thought to myself, as I shut the front door to my apartment, grabbed my phone, and sauntered into the bathroom where I began playing and swaying to some cool jazz. Everyone knows I am a jazz buff, and this was the genre of music I needed when I entered the bathroom that morning. I had just passed through the craziest of months traveling and putting together a women’s health event, so I looked forward to unwinding and touching base with me, myself, and I.

I performed a mini spa; the usual facial scrub, steaming, and mask ritual before I stepped under the shower and out soon after, patting myself dry. I applied baby oil on my damp skin and slipped on my boubou when suddenly, I felt nauseated. The last thing I remembered was that I had attempted to sit on the edge of the bathtub to kind of steady myself a bit.

I came around to see Newton and one of my staff kneeling over me, shaking my shoulders, shouting at the top of their voices.

"Haba! Mummy! Mummy! Wetin happen? Mummy, you don die?" This last question just made me burst into uncontrollable laughter as I reminisce.

Newton, how I take die, you no see as I dey look you? I answered very weakly.

Mummy dead people eye dey open too oo! he responded, with a look of desperation on his cute, dark, face.

I tried to sit up, but it was impossible to do as my head felt like I had been hit by a ton of bricks or a metal object. The pain was just unfathomable. I was cold as I lay on the ground in my wet boubou and that was when I noticed I was completely drenched. Newton had taken it upon himself to drown me with water [he was taking no chances] to revive me, hoping and praying I had not passed on to greater glory. With their help, I struggled to my feet and wobbled towards the bathroom mirror.

I will never in a million years forget the image that stared right back at me.

I screamed, or so I thought, but could only muster a whisper.

What happened to me? Newton, what happened to me? I cried in absolute disbelief, shell-shocked, waiting for an answer.

In an emotionally laden voice, he recounted how they returned about thirty minutes earlier to find me lying on the bathroom floor. They wanted to give me a rundown on the errands I had sent them on when they realized I was in the bathroom. The music from my phone had been loud and that’s when they thought it best to allow me to finish, so they moved away to take care of other chores. Having noticed it was taking far too long for me to emerge, the music had stopped playing, and there was neither noise nor any sound of activity coming from the bathroom, he called out to me several times and was greeted with only silence. He went to my bedroom door and knocked, thinking I’d left the bathroom and gone into my bedroom, thereby missing one another. This happened several times in the past however when he realized I was not in the bedroom, he returned to the bathroom door, hollered, and banged on it repeatedly. Very scared yet bold enough to have opened the bathroom door when I did not respond, he said he was very frightened when he saw me lying unresponsive on the tiled bathroom floor and presumed that I was dead.

I can’t remember how I found myself on the floor with my head under the toilet bowl though I have a faint recollection of being nauseous and making a feeble attempt at sitting on the edge of the tub, to steady myself. With what I now saw in the mirror, I must’ve lost my balance and fallen very hard. My left eye was almost popping out of its socket and my eyebrow bone was swollen and literally jutted out of my face. The vision from my left eye was blurred and I was scared I’d lost my vision. I resembled a victim of a terrible motor accident or one who’d been engaged in a terrible altercation.

We went into the sitting room where I requested some ice cubes for my injuries. Newton rushed off to get me some. I had to make some calls, my God! This was no joking matter!

Where’s my phone? Someone, please get me my phone! What exactly is happening to me? I cried out desperately.

I tried to get hold of myself although I knew I had to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

When the ice cubes and face towels were brought, I applied them as a cold compress on my injured eye, head, and shoulders for about fifteen minutes.

Mummy, you don wound oo! Blood dey your face well, well, Newton said, looking closely at me, while I applied the cold compress. I could see the dear young man was alarmed.

I tried to raise myself up to go to my bedroom to change, as I was still shivering from the water he poured on me but it was impossible, as the pain in my head was the worst kind ever. I was convinced my cranium was fractured and even more terrified I had a blood clot in my brain. I asked to be helped up again to see what I looked like in my full-length mirror in my bedroom. When I eventually did, I was a complete mess. I looked every inch like a ragdoll. My left eye was completely swollen and now shut. My upper lip was badly bruised and swollen too, my shoulders and back hurting like hell. No, I thought to myself, I needed to get to the hospital fast! Something else could be going on, God forbid, maybe a brain or spinal injury! I called out to Newton and asked for more ice and while at it, I asked for the driver to be on stand-by as I got ready. When my driver, security staff and a few of my neighbors saw me as I stepped out to leave, they were in utter shock and confusion. I could hear the whispers.

What happened to Madam Grace? Newton, what is wrong with Madam?

Why is Auntie walking like that?

Just now, just now? Ah, ah, we see Madam dis morning nau.

They would’ve screamed had they seen my eyes which fortunately had been shielded by my large sunglasses.

I waved at them and hurriedly got into the car and soon we were headed in the direction of Maitama Hospital.

It was a total drama when we arrived at the hospital. I raised my sunglasses slightly above my eyebrows to see properly and register for treatment and I was already trending.

Oh my God! See what has happened to this fine lady! She must’ve been beaten by her husband! Why? Ah! These men! The boldest of the nurses approached me and the others swiftly followed.

Madam, abeg, who did this to you? Was it your husband? Or your boyfriend? Who? she asked in a very bold and authoritative manner and called the attention of the others.

It seems that this lady is a victim of domestic violence o! Should we get the police? I know a lawyer who deals in cases like this!

Yes! I know of an NGO that deals with cases like this! Should we call them? and on and on. I had to use the little stamina left in me to stop them from giving me further headaches and explained calmly that I was not and had never been a victim of domestic violence. And that I had only fallen in my bathroom.

Not one of them believed me and they bluntly refused to let up.

I wonder why you women always cover up for your men! Women! These men will beat you and disfigure you and you’ll still go back to the same house, right? Claiming to be saving your marriage! Don’t worry, when they beat you to death next time, then your marriage would have been saved! It’s your choice anyway. Madam, if I were you, I would tell the doctor the whole truth!

On that note, the most vocal of the lot directed me to where I was to wait until I’d be attended to.

My headaches and body pains worsened with the heated chatter and noise of the usual hospital environment. It was the period of intense heat in Abuja and that didn’t help matters. I agree that the nurses had good intentions. I say good intentions because for them to have acted so aggressively albeit out of concern, made me realize that domestic violence was indeed on the rise in Nigeria. Only God knew what they witnessed daily and in addition to what I was going through, I couldn’t help but feel terrible about the sad stories concerning this worsening phenomenon.

My sunglasses were soon back on my face once I completed all the red-tape and I texted a few friends and family about what had occurred and where I was. It was then I was called and directed to the doctor’s office. Coincidentally during introductions with the doctor, we discovered we had a common friend which immediately made her interest in my case heighten. Dr. Ada took time to ask me pertinent questions on how the fall occurred and if I felt somewhat uneasy before then or had noticed some changes in my health. She reiterated that something must have triggered the fall. I recounted all that transpired while she took notes. My blood pressure was taken, and she was unhappy with the readings, which she took thrice at intervals. She sternly informed me that my blood pressure had reached a mind-boggling 170/110 and it was possible I was on the verge of having a stroke.

No way, I replied, shaking my head in defiance. That simple act alone hurt like crazy. My poor head was splitting into parts, I was sure of it. It was the first time I was told I had high blood pressure. Then again, I didn’t check! I was a superwoman who could multitask and save the world without falling ill.

Yeah, right.

Dr. Ada was concerned about my injuries and tried to calm me down as I broke down in tears, assuring me she would prescribe medication for my bruises and something to calm me. She revealed I was anemic and suggested that this could’ve played a part in my fall and subsequent fainting spell. She advised prompt admission to the hospital overnight, so I could be observed and monitored and went further to reel out instructions to that effect. I bluntly refused. Of course, I was shaken, tired, sad and battered but it was MY bed I wanted to crawl back into and fall asleep in, which she was dead against. However, after my tearful pleas, she’d no choice than to give in. She wrote out prescriptions for anemia, insomnia and my bruises and sent me off with strict instructions. We were thankful I hadn’t sustained any life-threatening injuries and she requested I reached out to her if I felt uncomfortable at any time, to which I was extremely grateful.

Phew, what a day! A whole lot was going on in my mind. What if I’d given up the ghost? Many have either died in their bathrooms, broken their spines or sustained other injuries that had left them completely messed up for life.

While I pondered on this alarming episode on my way back home, I considered myself very, very lucky and praised God, repeatedly.

Because He had indeed, been so merciful.

Chapter 2

JUST BEFORE

As a health activist, I was neck-deep in preparations for the launch of my project, The Fibroid Initiative, whose demographic was women diagnosed with and living with uterine fibroids. In addition, other key factors such as water, hygiene, and sanitation were to be underscored. Being a mental health advocate as well, I included mental health and wellbeing to our programs. Our organization reached out to this underserved community to listen to their experiences, what we could do to alleviate their pain and other challenges they faced. We sought to ignite conversations with as many women and significant partners as possible, and we discovered that they were very reluctant to talk about their challenges while going through this debilitating disease. 

If we can’t discuss what matters to you, how then can we help you? I asked these women, time after time, though I understood their deep-rooted reservations.

It was a cultural thing.

In some parts of Nigeria and even parts of Africa, if one had uterine fibroids, one was somewhat considered infertile, because the uterine fibroid is linked to infertility. Wrong notion! There are many instances cited of women diagnosed with fibroids giving birth to healthy babies. One of our constituents risked losing her spouse to a more fertile woman. The man loved her to the moon and back however, his family and even hers, pressured him into taking another wife. For the sake of peace and hoping God would answer her prayers for her own child, she accepted, yet it was not without frequent rancor.

There were also myths that women with uterine fibroids were bewitched and I had to reassure and convince these women that it was untrue, as the uterine fibroid is purely a medical issue.

During our several outreach programs, many of the young girls and women we reached out to were from the numerous satellite towns and villages, far from cities. Water and sanitation had been a huge challenge for them. While listening to their narratives which brought me to tears on several occasions, I knew I had to create an awareness drive in partnership with media houses and other organizations that would be committed stakeholders based on their Corporate Social Responsibility priorities.

Women would often approach me privately during these awareness programs to table their fears about their gynecological problems and of how they kept everything under wraps. I was utterly perplexed.

How long are you going to hide this? Until you bleed to death? I would ask in total shock.

Sometimes, I would plead for them to come back with their spouses or significant partners. Some did, others didn’t have the nerve to mention they had attended a program, let alone ask their men to accompany them to the next one. It never deterred me one bit. I was a voice and continued to help those I could, to the best of my ability. You can take a horse to the river but you can’t force it to drink.

Thankfully, with the help of several good people who keyed in and believed in the mission and vision of the initiative, provisions of sanitary pads, underwear, soaps, condoms, towels and miscellaneous were provided to all who attended and benefitted from the programs. Our partnerships with doctors and nurses for pap smear screenings and the keying in of one or two donor agencies in water and sanitation drives were deemed laudable.

We educated them on the uterine fibroid, on being vocal about their diagnosis and by giving them some quality of life.

It was no mean feat pitching the powers that be in government regarding our project. Eventually, we were fortunate to have a solid support system in place for the day of launch proper. Several meetings with top government officials, international donor agencies and corporate stakeholders were top priority to kickstart it. Medical doctors, psychologists, pharmacists, like-minded NGOs, and volunteers were all involved and onboard. Students who had attained the age of puberty and had started menstruation were not left out, because the uterine fibroid feeds on blood. Whatever one sets out to achieve, one must be prepared to burn the midnight oil and this we obviously had. Sometimes, you can’t afford to delegate very important assignments to others, especially if you happen to suffer from OCD as I do. If you must get something done, do it yourself. 

It took six months with our noses to the grindstone, to put the project together. I commenced arrangements for the launch from the United States by holding nocturnal Skype meetings and sleeping at odd hours because of the different time zones of all the other collaborators. These meetings took place thrice a week until the time came for me to leave for Nigeria. It was then the crazy momentum escalated. Being one who is detail-oriented I took care of most of the arrangements myself.

So, while I wondered about the reason for my accident, I considered stress to be a likely factor.

I was to return to the United States in the following weeks but with this new dimension, I had to bring forward my departure date. It seemed I would have to run a series of tests upon my return to New York City and find out what underlying health issues I could possibly have. Hopefully, it would be nothing serious, I fervently prayed.

Those were very scary days and I could not imagine what they would have told my daughter and her reaction to the news, should I have lost my life in the process.

Oh, my goodness.

I decided I was going to start taking my health more seriously. Rest was imperative, we weren’t getting any younger. Thankfully, I look much younger than my fifty-plus years, thanks to good genes and the blessings of God. Investing in a healthy lifestyle to obtain the maximum of what life had to offer would now be my top priority.

It would seem I experienced a burnout from work, volunteering and launching a startup that was not easy to juggle at all. It was time to turn it down a notch and look out for myself.

I prayed with all my heart that the results of whatever medical exams I would undergo would turn out great and I could have some much-deserved peace of mind.

Chapter 3

Sitting here in limbo

The healing process was grueling. I could never wish such on my enemy. Not that I have any. My face and head hurt thumped so bad, I could literally feel the blood in my head pumping with vengeance. Every part of my body was so sore and broken that I remained in bed for ten whole days.

I tried to take my mind off the acute pains and bruises by concluding arrangements for my trip back to New York City and I followed up on reports to all concerned MDAs (ministries, departments, and agencies) that were involved in the Fibroid Initiative project.

I had to draft press releases for my assistants to follow up on. The editing of our videos to be sent out to various stakeholders, agencies and other participants was top of the agenda. It was the only way I stayed sane during the whole trauma. Work!

And, this all took place from the comfort of my bed, that had happily, replaced my workspace.

The days passed quickly, and I stayed home, nursing my wounds and keeping myself away from prying eyes. On my last follow up visit to Maitama Hospital, I was asked by the same nurses to spill the beans on who was responsible for my injuries. Nothing could change their minds from their belief that I was a victim of domestic violence. It took great effort to convince them that it wasn’t the case and that I would have no issues contacting the proper authorities if such should ever arise.

They could take that to the bank.

When I went in to see Dr. Ada, I mentioned I was being labeled a victim of domestic violence by the nurses and briefed her of their reactions.

"Amebo!" Dr. Ada burst into laughter, explaining it was their over-zealousness and way of showing me support.

Of course, I know this, Doc. But, if I ever do have a real problem, I’ll come get them! They surely have my back!

She asked how I felt and if the medications she’d prescribed had given me some relief, to which I nodded in the affirmative. She examined my eye, face, and clavicle which had caused me great pain and some sleepless nights. Overall, she was pleased I was looking better even though I felt I was healing rather too slowly and informed her of my trip to New York in the coming days. Upon hearing this, she sat down to write me a list of do’s and don’ts; less intake of salt and sugar, lots of fruits and veggies, iron tablets, Vitamin D or better still, get plenty of sun. Despite all I was going through, I still had my good sense of humor and laughed heartedly at her military precision in ensuring I kept strictly to her rules. I promised her I would keep to all and gave her a gift in a show of my appreciation for her kindness and generosity. We exchanged email addresses and I promised to keep her informed of the results of my medical tests when I arrived in the US. We were happy to have parted as dear friends and no more as doctor and patient. Back at my apartment, my cousins and a few friends paid me a visit and were unhappy about my appearance. Although I was healing much better than during the early days, my right eye was not a sight to behold. I prayed fervently against losing my eyesight. They were relieved, however, that I had concluded plans to travel and get whatever medical issues needed to be sorted out and hopefully, nipped in the bud.

Every time I embarked on an international trip, I bought and traveled with lots of dried Nigerian delicacies that would last months until it was time for me to return to Nigeria. My daughter, Kemi, had given me a list of items to bring and I was determined to follow it through to the ‘T’, as I was wont to. This time I couldn’t get to the market myself because of my condition, so all the shopping was done on my behalf.

Kilishi, dried red pepper, smoked fish, garri, dried crayfish, dried snails and dried hibiscus flower leaves, used in preparing a drink called Zobo. These made the ‘A’ list. Newton packed them neatly in one of my suitcases used primarily for food items, while I arranged my clothes and other personal items in my other suitcases.

My flight back to New York City was scheduled via Lagos and although my daughter knew I was on my way back, I was careful not to let her know what happened. I decided I’d tell her in person. I knew that would be total drama.

While winding down all activities and reaching out to officials and collaborators of the Fibroid Initiative, I put my domestic activities in order and took care of family and staff I would be leaving behind for a while.

I wasn’t going to be back for another few months at the least, or so I thought…

Chapter 4

Flight Fright

I departed Abuja for Lagos, where I was billed to leave on an indigenous international carrier that flies the New York route. The ticket prices for Lagos-New York were affordable and since I was bootstrapping, it suited me just fine. As we touched down in Lagos, I headed to Sheraton Hotel Ikeja so I could have plenty of time to rest before the last leg of my trip scheduled for the next day. Lord knew I stressed already, with my bruised face, battered head, and aching body. I hadn’t even begun the real journey yet.

I checked into my room at the hotel, tipped the bellhop, dropped my bag, said a prayer for arriving safe and went straight into the bathroom to run a hot shower. I’d became used to having hot showers ever since the fall as it always did me a world of good. As soon as the bellhop left the room, I took off my sunglasses which were perpetually on my face since my accident. I didn’t have the strength to start answering questions from anyone. While waiting for the temperature of the water to be tepid enough before I stepped in, I took a good look at myself in the mirror and I certainly was not a sight for sore eyes.

During my shower, I used a washcloth all over my face, neck, and shoulders as a hot compress. It felt good and my facial muscles came alive. It was a slow shower, we were in no