Wheezy, wheeze: My Battle with Pneumonia

As a 25-year-old registered nurse in Kenya, I’ve always known the clinical aspects of diseases, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of experiencing pneumonia firsthand. It all began during the recent Gen Z protests in Nairobi. The streets were alive with chants for justice and change, but the air was thick with teargas. The cold, biting Nairobi weather only made things worse.

It wasn’t the first time I had been exposed to teargas; it’s almost a rite of passage for any young activist in Kenya. But this time, something was different. As the fumes filled my lungs, I felt an overwhelming tightness in my chest. My eyes watered, and each breath became more laborious than the last. By the time I made it home, my body was trembling, not just from the cold but from something much more sinister brewing within.

The symptoms didn’t hit me all at once. It started with a persistent cough, one that I chalked up to the teargas exposure. But when the fever set in, accompanied by chills that no amount of blankets could chase away, I knew this wasn’t just a simple cold. My breathing became shallow, each inhalation a struggle against an invisible force tightening around my lungs. The weight on my chest grew heavier with each passing hour, and soon, even the simplest tasks left me gasping for air.

As a nurse, I recognized the signs of pneumonia. The irony wasn’t lost on me—here I was, someone who had helped countless patients navigate this very illness, now battling it myself. The cough that had started as a mere annoyance had transformed into a relentless, hacking beast, each bout leaving me more exhausted than the last. The fever, too, was unyielding, my body burning from within while my extremities remained cold as ice.

It was the cold, relentless Nairobi weather that exacerbated my condition. Every breath I took seemed to invite the chill deeper into my lungs, compounding the inflammation that the teargas had triggered. My nights were the worst—sleepless hours spent tossing and turning, drenched in sweat, yet shivering uncontrollably. The oxygen mask that had once been a tool in my professional arsenal now became my lifeline.

The days blurred into one another as I lay in the hospital bed, weak and weary. I could hear the protests continuing outside, the sounds of a fight I longed to be part of but was now too frail to join. The doctors and nurses who attended to me were colleagues, friends even, and I could see the concern in their eyes. Pneumonia was not a battle easily won, especially with my lungs already compromised by the teargas.

Yet, despite the severity of my condition, there was a part of me that refused to give in. I knew the risks; I knew how quickly pneumonia could turn fatal, especially in someone with my exposure history. But I also knew the strength of the human spirit. I was determined to breathe through this storm, to fight with everything I had.

Slowly, with time and treatment, the fever began to subside. My cough lessened, and my breaths, though still shallow, became less painful. The road to recovery was long, but I took it one day at a time, grateful for every breath that no longer felt like it would be my last.

Now, as I sit here, still recovering but stronger than before, I think back to those days of protest. The battle against pneumonia was personal, but it reminded me of the larger fight we’re all a part of—a fight for a better future, for change, for justice. And if I could survive this, I know we can win that fight too.