Dad left hospital frail.
He came home held. Two months later, we are watching strength return.
Step by (stubborn) step.
He didn’t come home healed.
He came home determined.
Two months later…
The man we wheeled out of hospital is walking into dialysis like he owns the place.
This is the story of caregiving and stubborn faith. Involving nine siblings and two extraordinary caregivers.
It is a miracle that didn’t happen overnight.
The Day He Refused to Stay
On November 17, 2025, we admitted Dad to St. Francis Hospital, in Kasarani.
He stayed 32 days. Unwillingly.
From week one, he demanded discharge. Dr. Njogu (his nephrologist) insisted his kidney function said otherwise.
If a man survived the forest during the Mau Mau era as an errand boy, he could surely survive dialysis. He could also withstand hospital food.
But hospital corridors have a way of shrinking even the strongest men.
By week four, he stopped eating.
Stopped taking medication.
Stopped entertaining visitors.
We mistook his trauma for hallucination, when he spoke of a patient mishandled one night. Fear had settled into his bones.
He lay facing the ceiling for 32 days.
No trees. No sun. No fresh air.
Bed sores followed. Psychiatric medication dulled him. His mind drifted.
His hospital bill hit Ksh. 1 million.
We hit our knees.
Friends, family, neighbors and church showed up (big time!). And on December 19, we wheeled him out.
On discharge, he kept shouting, “I’m going home!” He had boarding school closing day energy.
It was the widest smile we had seen in weeks.
He Didn’t Come Home Healed
He came home held.
Frailer.
Thinner.
Dependent.
The man who once presided over weddings and funerals, now needed to be fed. Shaved. Turned in bed. Cleaned. Encouraged.
Carrying him home wasn’t heavy because of his weight. It was heavy because of the role reversal.
Thankfully, we are nine siblings. Economies of scale apply even to grief.
We created a dialysis rota: Tuesdays and Fridays. We hired professional caregivers.
We learned about ripple mattresses and catheter care. We learned patience.
Home care, once born in the early HIV/AIDS years, has quietly become one of the 21st century’s miracles.
It professionalizes compassion.
Lifting some burden from exhausted families. Restoring dignity to frail bodies.
Enter Kinyanjui and Jimmy.
The Caregivers Who Refused to Let Him Fade
Jimmy is a helpless extrovert. He talks. Constantly.
Dad has to respond, just to get silence.
This is the strategy.
Engage the mind.
Engage the will.
Engage the spirit.
In beautiful contrast, Kinyanjui (left), our resident introvert and full-time nurturer, has practically become Dad’s 24/7 personal coach.
If you walk in at any hour, you’ll find him seated beside Guka. Gently chatting or offering him choices (“eat or rest?”).
Quietly coaching him back into strength. One small decision at a time.
On February 1, 2026, Jimmy read Dad a simple but weighty verse: “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” (Gen 18:14).
The way Dad responded, you’d think he heard something even louder. “Pick up your mat and walk.”
That morning, something shifted.
Dad, who couldn’t turn himself in bed, asked us all to come home.
We rushed in, thinking, he was going to give out his Final words.
Instead, he stood up. Duck-walking. Smiling. Repeating the performance for every sibling who arrived late.
We laughed and cried in the same breath.
The Co-Driver’s Seat
On February 10, 2026, it was my turn for dialysis duty.
Previously, we padded him at the back seat like fragile cargo. The caregiver held him the entire ride.
This time? He walked out of the compound.
Slowly. Deliberately. Then he said, “I’ll sit in front.”
Driving with Dad in the co-driver’s seat felt like an Olympics victory (lap).
At the hospital, he walked nearly 100 meters to the SHA office. Nurses stared. Dialysis patients stared.
I almost shouted, “You people have no idea!”
The Grandchildren’s Question
When he came home in December 2025, Joy (8) asked her dad:
“Kwani umetuletea Guka mwingine?” (Translated, Have you brought us another grandfather?)
His beard was overgrown. His body unfamiliar.
Healing is not gentle on children.
Now they watch him feed himself again.
Watch him hold conversations for 90 minutes. Watch him lift his hand and look straight into their eyes.
They are learning something sacred:
Strength can return.
The Teeth and the Testimony
We printed some hospital photos for him.
Looking at them, he smiled at the restrained version of himself.
But he fixated on a pre-hospital photo (above). All his prosthetic teeth were intact.
“Where are my teeth? I want them back.”
It wasn’t about teeth. It was about dignity.
He keeps saying: “God gave me another chance.”
Visitors who saw him in December 2025, now sit with him for over an hour. He recognizes names. Jokes. Engages.
Two months ago, we were bracing for death.
Today, we are scheduling dentist appointments.
Closing the Loop
Dad didn’t come home healed.
He came home determined and surrounded.
Nine siblings. Two caregivers.
A rota. A village.
Miracles are rarely lightning strikes.
Sometimes they look like Tuesday dialysis. Shaved beards. And stubborn duck walks in the living room.
Two months later, we are beholding restored strength. And this time, when he walks, we don’t rush ahead.
We don’t rush the process (anymore).
We rest in El Roi. The God who saw Hagar in the wilderness (Gen 16:13).
He sees us. He sees the whole story. And that is enough.
Further Reading
If you’ve walked this journey with us, here are earlier chapters:
- When Healing Comes Home: Carrying Our Father Together. A reflection on the fragile joy of bringing Dad back from hospital.
- Thirty Days in the Corridors. The emotional and spiritual weight of a 30-day hospital stay.
- Eighty-Two Years of Light. A poetic tribute to Dad’s life, legacy, and leadership.
- Walking the Hospital Corridors. How faith held us together during the scariest days.
We’d love to hear from you.
Have you ever walked the caregiving journey, for a parent, spouse, sibling, or friend? Have you worked with professional caregivers?
What was your experience like?
Do you see caregivers as a blessing in today’s season of life? Or do they feel foreign to our traditional family model?
Your stories, reflections, and lessons could encourage another family walking this road. 💛
#HealingIsPossible, #CaregivingJourney, #FromHospitalToHome, #StillStanding, #FaithAndFamily, #ImpossibleIsNothing
I write because people’s stories matter. If yours is ready to be shared. Triumph, tragedy, or something in between, my inbox is open. 📩 j.mungai@hotmail.co.uk
Curious to go deeper? Visit the Home Page, explore Growth Communities, or see our Clients & Impact stories.