It was in March 2014, during my outpatient consultation at Kibagabaga Hospital in Kigali, that I met my new patient Iganbire (her name has been changed for confidentiality), a vibrant young lady, aged 25 with big eyes and a wonderful smile. As with many young Rwandan women, wearing make-up, lipstick and slim fitted clothes have become commonplace fashion adopted by this new young generation, influenced by top model mannequins observed through the media.
When I saw her entering the outpatient office, I assumed she came as a caregiver of one of her parents or on behalf of one of the patients we had in the community. However, to my surprise, the nurse I worked with handed me Iganbire’s patient file.
“Good morning doctor,” she said articulately in her mother tongue Kinyarwanda, accompanied by a radiant smile.
“Good Morning Ingabire, how are you?” I replied.
“I’m fine but I’ve had chest pain since last week,” she said. As she spoke, her gaze descended and the volume of her voice diminished.
“I have been referred to you by the surgeon from the Rwanda Military Hospital for pain management because I had been diagnosed with cancer on the left breast two years ago, which was treated with a mastectomy and chemotherapy. Last year, I felt small nodules in my right breast and returned to my surgeon, who suspected the cancer may have returned to my other breast.”
It was clear that underneath all Iganbire’s external exhibition of style, that this young woman was psychologically devastated by the diagnosis. I was surprised to see she came alone, without any person to accompany her especially during this difficult time.
“Has someone come with you like your parents, uncle or aunt?” I asked her.
“Unfortunately not!” she said.
“Why? Are they busy? Because I need to talk to your family about the way forward,” I replied.
She then told me with all her large brown eyes widened further, “All my family died during the genocide against the Tutsis in 1994…I lived with a family friend which was a neighbor prior the genocide. I have no parents, uncles, aunts, even cousins; all of them have been killed during the genocide. I’m alone,” she finished saying with tears in her eyes.
I got goose bumps when she answered my questions and also felt guilty for not being able to help her as I had wished. With tears and a handkerchief in her hand, she added, “if my mother was here, [maybe] none of this would have happened, I wish I could have died with her during the genocide.” Those words were like a sword pierced into my heart.
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