No More

Life is a fragile, fleeting thing, always veiled in uncertainty. We often dream of tomorrow, making plans and weaving hopes, yet tomorrow can vanish before it arrives. So many have drifted into sleep, their hearts brimming with purpose, only to never awaken to see the sun again.

It is only by God’s unfathomable power that we exist. With every breath I draw, I am reminded of His mercy, yet the fragility of life weighs heavily upon me.

Today, my thoughts are drawn, unwillingly, to the 14th of August, 2019—a day that forever altered my life. It is a memory I try to avoid, yet it clings to me, relentless and haunting. That was the day I faced a trial so harrowing I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, not even my worst enemy.

Pain is a cruel master, whether it gnaws at the body or shatters the spirit. I know its cruelty well. I’ve endured agony so severe that it consumed me entirely.

How I reached the hospital remains a blur, but I remember the moment I woke there, cursing the day I was born. My body was broken: face bruised, ribs fractured on both sides, some piercing my lungs, and my spine severed. Each breath was a torment, every movement unbearable.

Doctors pierced the sides of my chest, forcing tubes into my lungs to drain the fluid suffocating me. They did so without anesthesia, their hands steady while my body writhed in pain. Several nurses held me down as I screamed—a sound so raw and primal that even now, recalling it makes my hands tremble. I clenched my fists, gnashed my teeth, and squeezed my eyes shut, only to have them fly open in uncontrollable agony. I brushed against the edge of death that day, staring into its shadow.

In my desperation, I called out to my father, begging him to pray for me. I could feel the weight of death looming over me, and in that moment, I yearned for heaven with every fiber of my being. Just like the thief on the cross, I wanted God to remember me. To remember this sinner.

The hours that followed were a haze of pain and fear. When I awoke post-surgery in Nairobi, I couldn’t remember how I had gotten there or how they had managed to insert the tube on the other side of my chest. Perhaps I had passed out, my body succumbing to the overwhelming torment.

I had always believed myself to be strong, a man who could endure anything. But even the strongest crumble under enough pain. On the second day after surgery, the medication began to wear off. The clock struck midnight, and I was due for another dose. I rang for the nurse, desperate for relief, but no one came. I rang again and again until a young man appeared, his expression tired and irritated.

I asked for my medication, explaining my condition, but he insisted he hadn’t been instructed to administer it. As I pleaded with him, the pain grew sharper, more unbearable with each passing second. Unmoved, the nurse dimmed the lights, drew the curtains, and left me to suffer alone.

Clinging to the bed rails, I groaned in anguish, my body convulsing with pain I didn’t think possible. The strength I once prided myself on was gone. My pride, my toughness—all of it crumbled into tears that fell freely and without effort. Mike Tyson wasn't tough no more. Without shame I called out to God, to my mother, to my father, to anyone who could save me.

It was a fellow patient who finally intervened, ringing his bell and pleading with the nurse to help me. Hours passed—agonizing, endless hours—before relief finally came. By then, the torment had etched itself into my soul.

The devil’s persistence can feel like an unyielding storm, a shadow that refuses to lift.

One afternoon, as I lay in bed, an inexplicable weakness crept over me. It started subtly—a faint heaviness in my arms—but soon, even the simplest movements became impossible. I couldn’t lift a finger or clench a fist; even the lightest tasks turned into Herculean struggles. Hour by hour, the strength drained from me, leaving my hands numb and lifeless.

Panic began to churn in my chest, a familiar and suffocating companion. In the silence of my anguish, I called out to God, What new torment is this?
Haven't I gone through enough?

Doctors surrounded me, their faces masks of concern, yet their answers were hollow. After countless tests and hurried consultations, they reached a grim conclusion: fluid had likely collected near my spine, a complication from the previous surgery. The decision was made—another emergency surgery would be my only hope.

The hospital erupted into a frenzied orchestra of urgency. Nurses darted about, attaching monitors and IV lines, their movements quick and precise. Machines beeped ominously, their cold rhythms echoing my worsening condition. A nurse stood by my side, tapping my hand incessantly as she called my name, trying to keep me conscious. But the fight was slipping away from me. My eyelids grew heavier with every passing moment, and a dark acceptance washed over me: my time was up.

And then, in the midst of this chaos, my brother stepped forward, defying the tide of hopelessness. He demanded to see the test results from that day. His sharp eyes caught a detail everyone else had missed—my potassium levels were dangerously high.

What followed was a race against time. Instead of wheeling me into the operating room, they began dialysis treatment. It was a desperate gamble, but one that saved my life.

Later, the truth emerged: had they administered anesthesia during surgery, my heart would have stopped, and I would never have woken up. The relentless shadow had almost claimed me, but a sliver of light broke through, pulling me back from the brink. God remembered me.

Such is life—cruel, relentless, and sometimes unforgiving.

Though the memories of those pains linger, their physical sting have faded.
It haunts me like a shadow, yet the sharp edges of suffering are dulled. When I think of heaven, I imagine a place where such anguish cannot exist—a place where God will wipe away every tear, where death, sorrow, and pain will be no more.

I cling to this promise with all my being. I have suffered too much in this life to endure torment in the next. By His grace, I strive for holiness, seeking peace and refusing to allow anything or anyone rob me of it.

Anything that costs you your peace is too expensive. Drop it and focus on God.

As Revelation 21:4 reminds us:
"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

So I press forward, with hope as my anchor, longing for the day when all suffering will cease and joy will finally reign eternal. I want to be made whole again!