A Birthday in the Fistula Ward: A Reflection on Healing and Hope

Today is a another special day – I turn a year older or younger, I am grateful to God. I already bought myself flowers and am just ready to celebrate and spend time with myself first, just for showing up each day in the past year and keeping hope alive.

I would like to introduce a series of fistula blogs to break the silence and stigma around fistula. Last week, I also visited the Fistula Foundation office in Kenya to thank them for funding my surgery and for the information that enlightened me about seeking treatment. It has been two happy years of restored dignity, not fearing leaking urine or stool, and the shame accompanying that. I have felt like a woman again. 

Two years ago, I knew it would be a different birthday; I was not only going to be away from my children, but I had finally decided to seek fistula treatment after living for six years with a fistula injury. As I always try to do on most of my birthdays, I was up by 5 a.m., when I was born, just to listen and speak to my Creator. Afterwards, I told my children and my husband that I was going to the hospital in town, which was a three-hour drive from ours, and I might not come back until later in the week. I had been told that since I was likely to go through a third-degree tear surgery to repair stool leakage, I would stay in the hospital for five days. Little did I know it would take 25 days to come home, as during the surgery, it was discovered that my case was more complex than was examined during verbal and admission screening.

After I was admitted, I told my immediate family that I was admitted to a fistula hospital for fistula surgery. I could see the shock, since apart from myself and a gynecologist/obstetrician, no one knew this struggle. I had managed to live with it and hide it. It took me like two hours, and I was finally in the fistula ward. It is hard to explain the feelings on the first day in a fistula ward. No more hiding. Then you realise that it is not just you, but others, some with more severe fistulas than me.

Then the funny thing with a fistula is that you do not look sick, yet you are in the hospital for surgery, and someone might even think you are pretending. Then what do you tell people you are suffering from? Especially in our Kenyan culture, where people like to know why you are in the hospital Until I recovered from the surgery and I was home, I told people I had a gynecological problem.

In today's blog, I will not go into my fistula story as I will share different aspects of living with a fistula injury and recovery in the coming weeks. Still, I am reminded of a different birthday.

I remember my friend, who was 8 months pregnant, came with her husband and sister to visit me a few hours after I had been admitted. She brought a cake and hospital essentials like a cup, plate, basin, and sweater. When I saw her, I broke down into tears, since I had not seen her for over a year, as I had studied abroad. That was not the only special thing, but how the cake she brought sparked joy and dancing in the fistula ward among the patients and the nurses. It gave me a special connection with the other women just because of the cake.

I reflect on how God has curved my living experience in my current calling and career. I reflect on the support and actions of love that mothers can get from other mothers, which give us a sense of joy, belonging, and sometimes even living, when God shows us that He loves us through the love we receive from those around us.

As I mark another year of life, I carry with me not just the memories of pain and recovery, but the deep, sacred stories of women mamas who have loved, labored, and lived through unspoken suffering. My time in the fistula ward reminded me that even in the most hidden places, healing can begin when women show up for one another with a cake, a basin, or simply a presence. These mama narratives are not just mine; they are ours. They are stories of strength in silence, dignity in struggle, and hope reborn through the hands of community. I celebrate this birthday not only for myself but for every woman whose story is still unfolding. May our voices rise, may our healing continue, and may our mama stories be told loudly, honestly, and with grace.