Learning to Love my Scarred Body

It was a normal day for Cynthia Kunze when she and her boss, who was also her friend, went home. They had crossed the first lane of the busy Simon Mazorodze Road in Harare, Zimbabwe, and were waiting to cross the other lane. Everything changed in a split of a second.

“I was working in Mbare at a reproductive health clinic. We usually knocked off around 17:00 but on that day we finished early. We wanted to go and get transport to town and we had crossed half of Simon Mazorodze Road. I heard a sound from behind, I looked behind me and there was a haulage truck coming right at us. I remember trying to run in the opposite direction, but a lot of things were running through my mind. I thought of death and of how I would survive, whether my head would be crushed,” said Cynthia.

“I remember finding myself in the middle of the road lying down. My first instinct was to feel my head, everything was normal, but I was in pain. My left leg was dislocated, the bone in the thigh had been broken. My colleague was lying a few meters away but she was badly hit. Her intestines and some of her internal body parts were in the open and there was blood everywhere. She was crying.”

Cynthia Kunze who is now 38 years old and a mother of two explained how she thought of her daughter who was her only child back then.

“When I saw the condition my friend was in, I knew we were dying. I started thinking of my daughter asking God how she would survive without me. She was only 10 at that time.”

In time of crisis, when you see people coming you start gaining hope and relief. Alas in Cynthia’s case, many bystanders ran not to help but to stare at the horrific scene before them.

“The worst part of it is that people came and gathered, looking at us like it was a movie. I think that is why some people end up dying because help reaches them late. Had it not be for a Good Samaritan I would have bled to death. Unfortunately, he could not take the both of us because my friend needed an ambulance.”

“I had my first operation that very night and spent two days in the high-dependency unit (HDU). When I woke up people started offering me condolences. That is when I realized my friend had died. She died upon admission at the hospital. She had lost too much blood.”

Cynthia did not feel the gravity of the situation until months later when she was discharged from the hospital. Her first operation had been successful and there were no serious scars but when the bandages were removed, another nightmare began.

“When the doctor came to remove bandages from my incisions there where blisters everywhere much to his surprise. They thought it was a reaction to Betadine (an ointment used to treat wounds) so they started using a different one.”

Changing the ointment did not seem to make much of a difference as Cynthia’s temperature started to rise every night and her left leg became numb. She had to be taken to the operating room again.

“The doctor said he had identified the problem. When we went into the operating room, I refused anesthesia. The operation took long and I was getting impatient but my surgeon kept encouraging me. He was dedicated.”

The following day was a shocking one for Cynthia.

“I cannot explain how I felt. I could see my muscle from my mid-thigh to beneath my knee. Most of the tissue had been removed. He explained that when I had the accident, my nerves had been paralyzed and no blood or oxygen was being transported to my leg. That had caused the flesh to rot, he thought he was going to remove the skin only but he had to remove up to the subcutaneous tissue.”

While still in the hospital, she could not hold it in anymore and cried to a point where no one could handle her and a psychiatrist had to be called in. She was now taking a combination of pills: painkillers and the ones prescribed by the psychiatrist. Though she was feeling bad about her situation, people came in and prayed for her, encouraging her to be grateful to God for being alive.

Cynthia finally had a skin grafting operation and was discharged. Throughout the three months she stayed in the hospital, she had 11 blood transfusions. Fortunately, she had a medical aid plan as well as additional assistance from her company and her sister. Going back home after all this, she wondered whether life was going to be normal.

“That night I could not sleep. I was afraid of death and kept on tossing and turning. I could not close my eyes. I had pain from the grafting and I asked to be readmitted.”

The doctor encouraged her to be strong and come for reviews only.

“I thought I would go mad. I lived in constant fear. People called me silly. I was scared of the unknown and thoughts of my dead colleague would cloud me. When I turned to my pastor, he told me that what I was suffering from was a white people’s condition. I started to scrutinize every word I spoke in fear of going insane. My doctor said all this was normal after what I had gone through.”

Cynthia was referred to the psychiatrist who had helped her earlier. She remembers walking into an empty reception and asking if there were other people like her who came for mental health assistance. At the pharmacy she had inquired the same thing with doubts that the pills would work.

Thankfully, the pills she got were working well. She started enjoying life and sleeping well. The pills did come with side effects and Cynthia learnt five years later that she was not supposed to take them for more than three months.

“I developed a habit of hoarding. I would go shopping, from clothes to shoes to food. All this was a way to cover the void I felt. My leg looked like it had burns. I didn’t address how I was looking. My emotions were dead. The tablets numbed me. I ended up in a lot of debt and my sisters had to bail me out.”

In 2016, Cynthia lost her job. This meant her medical aid was going to be cut and the medical funds she was receiving from her company were also cut. This was part of the reason why she stopped taking her medication. Eventually the issues she had suppressed for five years started coming out.

“I started having electric-shock like vibrations. I started losing my memory, forgetting my pin number. I had a change of tablets but they were not available in Zimbabwe and I could not afford them. I couldn’t even afford to see the doctor. I stopped taking medication abruptly and started having panic attacks. I would feel like [I was] being choked. I had shivers, a racing heartbeat and I was always in fear. The panic attacks would last about five minutes. At times I felt like I was having a stroke. There was a time I got an attack while in a combi (a public transport vehicle). I asked to be dropped and sat at the bus stop holding my hand. Passersby looked on. Sometimes when in public I would go in a toilet and regain my composure. The only people I could confide in without being judged were my sisters.”

Advice from her sister, who is a nurse in the UK, helped her get back on her feet. She encouraged Cynthia to research post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and anxiety.

“I started reading about my condition online. That’s when I realized I had taken my medication for way longer than expected. I realized I was having withdrawal symptoms. I got knowledge on how to manage my condition. Sometimes I would divert my mind by playing games like Candy Crush then it would subside. I also looked out for triggers. Things like stress and funerals made me go into an attack so I avoided them though it’s not easy to do so in our African setup. It was difficult. I [went] from size 16 to a size 10.”

Cynthia started to use natural and affordable methods to deal with her depression. There were a lot of options available but she opted for beading.

“Knitting, exercise, beadwork and pottery help with dealing with obsessive behavior and anxiety. I was particularly attracted to beading and it occupied my mind. Bad thoughts gradually went away. I started making necklaces and earrings and even made money from it. It was comforting.”

Cynthia had her sisters and children who understood and loved her but she says that stigma related to mental health problems was real.

“I had told someone about my condition and when we had an argument, they asked me to go take my ‘schizophrenia medication’. I was hurt. I had confided in this person, yet they were now labeling me. That is why people do not know or talk about mental illnesses. Many choose to suffer in silence. When one talks of depression and mental health, the first picture that comes in many people’s minds is that of a person walking half naked in the street, unconscious of their actions.”

“Very little is done about mental health; they should have campaigns like they do for HIV/AIDS. I for one got to know about mental illness when I suffered from it. If you go to clinics, it is not something that is widely discussed. At some point I asked the doctor if we could create social groups or platforms for people in my condition to discuss and share ideas, but he didn’t take it up. Hospitals and even polyclinics should have counselors to help people with therapy and knowledge.”

Usually when a person is involved in an accident or traumatic situation, close relatives focus mainly on the physical recovery but they forget about the inner suffering. On this, Cynthia encouraged prayer as well as seeking help to avoid things escalating to the point of suicide.

“Seek emotional healing, share ideas with others and pray. God was at the centre of everything in my life. I remember when I had the accident and was crying. I stopped and thought: If I continue crying, will my daughter or late mother come and help me? That moment I said: God, I want to be still and know you are God. I prayed after and found ways to cope. I would pray in my heart. I didn’t see anyone who could help me heal completely; it was me and God alone. Even though God doesn’t come to you physically, he heals. I got full healing. I can sleep properly and I do not remember the last time I had a panic attack.”

“There were times when I felt low. I felt horrible thinking [about] who would love me. I thought of marriage and who would accept me especially after seeing my scars when I got naked. Prayer helped me in accepting myself. I’m defined by what’s inside not outside. I even embraced my scars and started naming them. The biggest one is called the stamp of God. For me it’s a sign that God was here (in my life).”

Cynthia’s journey to recovery was quite long, but now she is a better person and she wants to be an inspiration to other women who have felt less than enough. Her 20-year-old daughter and six-year-old son gave her a reason to keep fighting.

“I want someone who hears my story to stop hiding; don’t deprive yourself of a good life. I am no longer afraid of what people say because it doesn’t define the beauty inside me.”