I Collapsed During Pharmacy School and Was Given Last Rites — I Challenged My Treatment and Survived
I woke to the shrill sound of monitors screaming beside my head. Sharp and relentless, cutting through my skull like an alarm I could not silence. Someone shouted my name, but it came through water, thick and warped. My tongue felt swollen. My chest burned when I tried to breathe.
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Voices rushed in from all sides, overlapping and urgent, but they reached me as if through thick water, distorted and slow.
"Ama, stay with us," a woman said, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound calm.
I tried to answer her, to tell her I was still here, but my body refused to obey. My tongue felt swollen and useless, glued to the roof of my mouth.
My chest burned each time I tried to breathe, as though my lungs were being crushed from the inside. The sheet beneath my fingers felt cold and damp, carrying the sharp smell of antiseptic mixed with something darker, something like fear.
A man leaned over me, his face blurred by tears and harsh fluorescent light. He whispered a prayer I half recognised from childhood.
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"Is she dying?" someone asked softly, as if volume alone could soften the truth.
No one answered.
The beeping grew louder, rubber soles against tile. The room pulsed, and my vision narrowed until everything faded into a white blur.
I remember thinking, with sudden clarity, not yet. I still had exams to finish, plans to chase, and a life that had not even begun to unfold. It was not yet my time.
Then my body folded inward, heavy and unresponsive, and the darkness finally claimed me.
Before my body began failing me, I was known for being disciplined and quietly consistent in everything I did. The kind of person people relied on without needing reminders.
I rarely asked for help, and I took pride in finishing what I started, even when it cost me rest or comfort.
I was twenty-eight years old, training to become a pharmacist, attending lectures during the day and working part-time in a small chemist to support myself.
My days followed a strict rhythm that left little room for weakness.
At church, I arrived early every Sunday and stayed long after others left, stacking chairs, organising supplies, and helping wherever I was needed without complaint.
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People described me as steady, dependable, and deeply rooted in faith, someone who never seemed shaken by pressure.
"You look tired. My daughter, are you okay?" my mother said one evening, watching me struggle to stay awake at the dinner table.
"Not normal tired."
"I'm fine," I replied quickly, forcing a smile I did not feel because I hated seeing worry settle into her face.
"It's just school, I'm okay, mum. Trust me."
The exhaustion crept in quietly at first, subtle enough to ignore, the kind that sleep never touched, no matter how long I rested. Something was wrong with me.
I woke tired and went to bed exhausted, carrying a heaviness I could not explain.
Then the fevers began, sudden and unpredictable, followed by swelling in my joints and weakness that made my hands shake during work.
I dropped tablets.
Customers stared.
I laughed it off and apologised to the customers, pretending nothing was wrong while panic simmered beneath my calm exterior.
"You should see a doctor," my friend Mansa said after class one afternoon, studying my face with concern.
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"You don't look like yourself these days, Ama. You've been weak and pale these days"
"I can't slow down now," I told her, my voice firm despite the fatigue pressing behind my eyes.
"I'll manage."
I learned to push through pain quietly, convincing myself that endurance was proof of strength. Church on Sunday. Work on weekdays. Study at night.
The day I collapsed, I was standing in front of my class delivering a clinical assessment I had practised all night. Halfway through my presentation, the words blurred on the page, the room tilted, and my strength vanished without warning.
"Ama?" my lecturer said sharply, stepping forward.
"Are you alright?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but the floor rushed up to meet me before I could speak.
My first hospital admission lasted four days. Each one was packed with blood tests, scans, and conversations that circled the same unanswered questions.
Doctors came and went at all hours, tapping screens, frowning at results, and exchanging looks that never reached certainty.
"We can't find anything definitive," one doctor said carefully, choosing her words as if they might bruise me.
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"It's likely viral. You should rest at home."
I nodded and thanked him, pretending relief, even as something inside me tightened with dread.
I wanted to believe him.
I needed to believe him.
I went home, but rest did not heal me. It only gave me space to notice how quickly my body was slipping away.
The weakness deepened, settling into my bones, heavy and unyielding. Standing became difficult. Breathing felt shorter, shallower, incomplete.
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I returned to the hospital again, and then again, each visit more urgent than the last. Each return felt heavier, as though my body remembered failure before I even reached the door.
Each discharge felt like being abandoned with a mystery I could not solve. My breathing shortened, my legs weakened, and simple movements became exhausting.
My legs weakened further until simple movements felt like endurance tests. Lifting my arms exhausted me. Walking left me dizzy and gasping.
"Why can't they find anything?" my sister asked one night, her voice breaking as she watched me struggle to stand.
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"They will," I said, forcing confidence I no longer felt. But doubt sat heavy in my chest, pressing down with every breath.
Months blurred into fragments that barely felt connected to real life. White walls that never changed. Plastic chairs that dug into my spine. IV drips taped to arms already bruised and sore.
Doctors rotated endlessly, new faces asking old questions, scanning notes without really seeing me.
Opinions shifted from one review to the next. Certainty never came.
One night, as I drifted between sleep and pain, I heard nurses whispering outside my room.
"She's deteriorating."
The words lodged in my mind, sharp and unshakable, echoing long after they moved away.
The next morning, a consultant stood at the foot of my bed and avoided my eyes entirely.
"We are doing everything we can."
I could no longer walk without help. Even sitting upright left me gasping. My chest felt permanently tight, as though invisible hands were squeezing the air out of me, refusing to go.
My father sat beside my bed, holding my hand and praying aloud. His palm was trembling against mine. His voice never broke, but his grip did.
"Prepare for anything," a doctor told my family quietly in the corridor, his tone low and measured.
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I watched my mother's face crumple before she turned away. She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying.
When my responses slowed, and my awareness faded, they called a priest.
He smelled of incense and soap as he leaned over me, the room dim under soft hospital lighting.
"My child," he whispered, pressing oil to my forehead.
"May you find peace."
I wanted to scream that I could still hear him. That I was still here, still fighting, still alive. But my body would not obey me.
The treatment failed one by one. Steroids. Antibiotics. Supportive care. Each time hope rose, it crashed harder than before, leaving deeper exhaustion behind. My body kept losing ground, and no one could tell me why.
During a rare stretch of fragile stability, my fever eased just enough for my thoughts to slow and settle. I could see something resembling clarity.
The room felt quieter than usual, the machines less aggressive, the air cooler against my skin.
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For the first time in weeks, my mind felt awake rather than fogged by pain.
I asked Mansa to bring my old pharmacy notes and textbooks from home, my voice still thin but certain. She looked at me for a long moment before answering.
"Why now?" she asked gently.
"You should be resting," she added, lowering her voice as if rest itself were fragile.
"I have been resting," I said, staring at the ceiling.
"And I am still here."
She hesitated.
"What are you looking for?"
"I need understanding," I told her quietly.
"Please."
When the books arrived, they smelled faintly of paper and dust, familiar and grounding in a way nothing else was.
My hands trembled as I opened them, fingers weak but determined, tracing words I once knew by heart.
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I reread immune pathways, inflammatory responses, and substance mechanisms I once knew by heart. Patterns emerged slowly, linking symptoms no doctor had connected aloud.
"This looks autoimmune," I whispered to myself, the words landing heavy and electric at once.
Fear followed immediately, but so did clarity.
I began documenting everything obsessively, filling pages with dates, temperatures, hospital admissions, treatments, and reactions. I compared flare-ups against treatments, charting what worsened me and what briefly steadied me.
For the first time, the chaos felt organised.
At my next review, I forced myself to speak despite the weakness in my voice and the weight of the room.
"What about immunomodulatory therapy?" I asked carefully, choosing each word with intention.
The doctor frowned, scrolling through my chart
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"That isn't standard for your condition."
"It's used for similar inflammatory disorders," I said firmly, my voice gaining strength as my confidence settled.
"I've studied this."
He hesitated, studying my chart and then looked at me properly.
"You're critically unwell."
"I know," I replied softly, meeting his eyes.
"That's why I'm asking."
Days later, another relapse came, sharp and unforgiving, as though my body were testing my resolve.
This time, I was ready.
"I want to try this treatment," I told them clearly despite the fear tightening my chest.
"I understand the risks."
The room fell silent, filled only by the hum of machines and the distant sounds of the ward.
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Doctors exchanged glances. No one spoke.
Finally, one doctor exhaled and nodded.
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"We have nothing else left."
The change was not dramatic, and it did not arrive with celebration or certainty, but it was undeniable all the same. Nothing miraculous happened overnight.
There were no sudden reversals or declarations of recovery. Instead, there was quiet stability where chaos had lived before.
On the third day after starting the treatment, my fever finally broke, leaving my body exhausted but strangely calm.
I waited for it to return, bracing myself for the familiar crash, but it never did.
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Each morning that passed without another spike felt unreal, as though my body was testing whether it was finally safe.
Strength returned slowly, almost shyly, measured in small, unremarkable victories rather than grand moments of triumph.
I learned to celebrate things I once took for granted. Sitting upright without dizziness. Standing without shaking.
Then one morning, I placed my feet on the floor and took a step. Then another. The effort left me breathless, but it did not break me.
"You're improving," the nurse said one morning, smiling openly as she checked my chart.
Her words felt heavier than any diagnosis I had received.
I turned my face into the pillow and cried quietly, overwhelmed by the relief I had not allowed myself to feel before.
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Weeks passed without emergency admissions, and the treatment continued to hold steady, doing the quiet work it had promised.
My body stopped betraying me daily, though trust took longer to return. Recovery was slow, humbling, and deeply personal, marked by patience rather than certainty.
There were setbacks, but they no longer erased progress. I returned to pharmacy school long after my peers had moved on, carrying fear and gratitude in equal measure.
Two years later than planned, I crossed the graduation stage shaking, thinner than before, but undeniably alive. I chose work rooted in access, affordability, and survival rather than prestige or recognition.
I wanted to be close to the people who needed medicine most, not far removed from them. At church, I shared my testimony openly, standing where I once knelt in weakness.
"I refused to stop fighting," I told them, my voice steady in a way my body once was not.
Years passed, quietly and kindly.
I am healthy now, happily married, and grounded in a sense of purpose shaped by survival rather than ambition.
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When patients doubt their voices, I listen closely, without interrupting or dismissing their fear. Because once, when no one else could hear it clearly, mine saved my life.
Illness taught me how easily authority can replace listening, especially when fear and urgency fill the room faster than understanding. Silence can be very dangerous.
I watched decisions being made around me, spoken in confident tones, while my own experience remained largely unexamined.
Silence, I learned, can become dangerous when it is mistaken for cooperation.
For a long time, I believed obedience meant strength, that endurance without question was the highest form of courage. I thought following instructions without resistance made me a good patient, worthy of care and concern.
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I was wrong.
Survival demanded more than compliance; it required participation, persistence, and the courage to speak even when my voice trembled.
Faith carried me through the moments when my body failed, when pain blurred thought and fear replaced certainty.
But action carried me back, steady and deliberate, when belief alone could no longer move my body forward.
Patients are not passive vessels waiting to be filled with answers. We are witnesses to our own suffering, living inside bodies no one else can fully interpret for us.
Sometimes, survival depends on asking the same question again when the first answer is no, and asking it louder when necessary.
The difference between life and death is asking again. And refusing to be dismissed. I survived because I spoke. Sometimes, it means trusting your understanding even when it challenges authority.
And now I ask: If my voice mattered enough to change my outcome, how many others remain unheard simply because they stayed silent? And what might change in hospitals, in homes, and in lives, if we all spoke sooner and were heard?
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone's privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you'd like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
Source: YEN.com.gh
