"Sista, are your eyes turning you?"

Looking back on my malarial weekend, it was actually quite a learning experience . . .

I could tell that something wasn’t right when I got a headache on Friday afternoon - I never have headaches. I kept working, but eventually I noticed that, in fact, it had become an all-over body ache, and that I had goose bumps on my arms. My co-worker gave me a lift home on his motorcycle, and as we drove over each pothole, my helmet bumped my head and I thought my brain might explode.

When I got home, I lay down immediately and called my supervisor, Kelsey (the Engineers Without Borders support-person). After assessing the symptoms of high fever and general body pain, we decided that I might have malaria . . . or any number of other illnesses, including just a cold or flu. We went with the worst-case scenario though, and so I started the malaria treatment. At first, I didn’t take anything for the fever, thinking that I should monitor my temperature to see if I was getting better. But when I went from 38.5 to 39.5 in forty-five minutes, I changed my mind and pulled out the ibuprofen.
After that, it was just a case of waiting around till I felt better – which meant forty-eight hours of feverish dreams punctuated with many well-intentioned visitors.

The news that I wasn’t feeling well traveled incredibly quickly – all of my friends and coworkers, as well as people I had only met once or twice came over to ask me, “How is your body?” I usually responded with a small grunt and an attempt at a smile – they would sit down and hypothesize as to the cause of my illness:
My head was sore because I had braided my hair the day before and the hairdresser had pulled too tight.
I was sick because I was trying to work like an African and my body is not used to it.
I had a fever because the sun is so strong in Ghana.
My tummy was upset because my body can’t get used to Ghanaian food.
I was sick because I walk everywhere and my body is becoming tired.
I was feeling weak because I had been lying down for too long.
I had diarrhea because I was drinking so much water but not eating anything.
Due to my own lack of medical expertise, I couldn’t say whether any one of the theories was correct or not (although I’m pretty sure that walking didn’t give me malaria . . .)

My host-family was very good to me. For the most part, they left me to sleep. Whenever I woke in the night to use the toilet, my host-mother was awake in an instant to make sure that I was all right and to fetch water so I could wash my hands. My host-sisters ran to the shops for me to get water and Sprite. They came and collected all my laundry and washed it for me, and swept and mopped the room around me (in any other situation I would have objected, but I hadn’t the energy to fight about it!) And they consistently set food aside for me, even though I couldn’t face to eat anything. The idea of losing an appetite is apparently unthinkable. The table in my room became more and more full with food as each meal passed – they just left it there for when I was ready.

By Sunday I was able to sit up without feeling out of breath, and so I spent the day sitting on the verandah and reading my book. I had intended to go to church, but I figured God wouldn’t be very impressed if I passed out on the road halfway there, so I stayed near the house instead. On Monday morning, as I got ready for work, my sister Zolefa looked at me and said, “Sista Sarah, are your eyes still turning you?”

“I’m sorry?” I asked, completely confused.

She repeated, “Your eyes – are they turning you?”

“Um, are my eyes what? I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Like when you stand up, does it feel like your body will fall over?” she clarified.

“Ohhhh – am I dizzy? No, no – I’m feeling much better today, thank you.”