Naomi Wanjiru is a 43-year-old single parent and nurse from Nyandarua county, central Kenya. She works in a comprehensive care clinic, which treats people with HIV and tuberculosis.
I was first employed in this hospital in 2009, and six months later I started to feel back pain. When I went for a check-up, they said it was simple back pain and would go away. But when I was still in pain after a year, a friend suggested it could be tuberculosis (TB) of the spine. That is when I took steps to have it investigated and was diagnosed. This was in 2010.
From there, I started taking treatment – eight months of anti-TB drugs – but the TB had already affected three of my vertebrae. I was given a month of complete bed rest, then two months, three months, then a year.
I was unable to work for that whole year. I couldn’t do anything; I couldn’t even walk. I was completely paralysed. I had to employ someone else to do the housework. My sister had to come over to help me use the toilet, so I used a catheter. It was the most difficult time of my life. I had thought of killing myself but then, looking at my son, I wondered: “Who will take care of my child?”
It was very difficult to access treatment. I couldn’t believe I had TB when I was told, and when I knew I needed bed rest I was scared. My son [now 17] was young and I thought I was going to die. Then when I heard I had drug-resistant TB and needed injections, no one was willing to inject me. They were just scared and sad for me; they thought I would die very soon. So I had to inject myself for 56 days.
After a year of bed rest, I went for physiotherapy and improved slightly – enough to go back to work – but I was still in pain.
The treatment so far had been free. But then a friend mentioned a doctor visiting from India and he gave me another MRI scan. This showed I had collapsed vertebral columns that needed replacement. So I had to arrange to go to India for surgery. The cost was 1.3m Kenyan shillings (around £10,000) – a lot of money. Family and friends organised a fundraiser for me, and I also took out a loan. This is just not possible for poorer people.
I went for surgery in May 2013 and returned to Kenya in June, walking upright and using a cane. After a week, I reported back to duty. I have no enduring health issues now, but I can’t bend or work extremely hard. The doctor told me I had to take care as the metal prosthetics [in my spine] are difficult to repair. But I was able to have another child, my daughter who is now two and a half.
Within my job, I wanted to carry on working in TB, so that I can share stories with my patients and give them hope. I am a living testimony you can be clear [of TB] and life can go on.
I want the community to know what TB is and tell them about early diagnosis and treatment. Not let them have the misconception that if you have TB you will be bedridden and die. Instead, I want them to know that if you start treatment early, you can be healed early.
Then I want health workers to know, immediately, that if a client comes with any sign of TB, such as coughing or night sweats, that they should consider if it could be TB. Send the client for an investigation. If it isn’t TB that’s all well and good, but don’t postpone [the investigation for] a whole month. Then if the diagnosis is positive, start treatment immediately. When one client is healed, the whole household is healed, because if a person has been infected with TB and is coughing, they can spread it to family members.
Now I even go to churches and preach about TB. I go to communities and they are ready to hear. I share my story everywhere. There is a lot of stigma, and people ask me: “Aren’t you ashamed?” But this is going to help people. Some come to me confidentially and I encourage them because stigma, including self-stigma, kills people. My own son had experienced this stigma when other children were told not to play with him. I had to explain that coughing could not spread TB of the spine.
Everybody from top to bottom [in society] should be involved in TB. We all breathe the same air. TB is not a condition you can avoid. But I am happy. Someone talked to me … and here I am.
