An update of Gogo’s condition. A few weeks back I wrote a blog about Gogo
being sick and the difficulties in getting transportation for her to see a
doctor. After those initial visits, she
was sent back home with an unsure diagnosis and a packet of antibiotics. Since then, Gogo’s condition only
deteriorated and Make took her back to the city hospital where she was
admitted. Gogo has been at the hospital
now going on three weeks. Being at the
hospital this long with no improvement, I can only assume Gogo won’t be coming
back to the homestead, so I went to the hospital to visit instead.
I took the 9:00a bus to the city arriving at 10:30a. It is about a 15-20 minute walk to the
hospital from where the bus drops me off.
On the way there, I pass the most modern mall in Swaziland, complete
with a set of escalators. Swazis are
very proud of the mall and its very common for school field trips to add this
mall to their list of attractions so their students can marvel at the moving
steps.
Coincidentally, as I am passing the mall, I see my Make
approaching me from the direction of the hospital. She is on her way home to check on the
homestead, to arrange for a tractor to come the next day, and then to plant the
rest of her fields with maize. It is
planting season, and regardless of Gogo’s health, there will be a bigger issue in
the fall if there is no maize. My
family, like most Swazi families is reliant on subsistence farming for
survival, and Make does the bulk of the work by herself.
As we finish our short talk on the side of the road next to
the mall with escalators, Make gives me directions as to how to find Gogo at
the hospital, even giving me the siSwati words to ask for help. I learn that Gogo’s name is Maggie which
makes me happy for some reason. Make
doesn’t seem confident that I will be able to find her room, but she also doesn’t
realize is that most people are really eager to help me (especially places
where there aren’t usually white people).
So I rely on this expectation that someone will help me and don’t fret about
not finding my way.
Upon entering the hospital grounds, I instantly realize that
this place is bigger than an upscaled single-hall-wayed clinic that I had
envisioned, but this hospital was a maze of corridors (more like covered
sidewalks between buildings), a maze, a very similar feeling to hospitals in America. I am basing my comparisons on my first-hand
knowledge of American hospitals which coincidentally can be counted on one hand
(first-hand, one hand… get it!), but also my extensive knowledge of hospital tv
shows.
So after being led to the female medical ward by a very accommodating
nurse, who I’m sure stopped everything she was doing to walk me to the other
side of the hospital, I successfully found my Auntie taking care of Gogo in the
female ward. The ward is like nothing I have
seen before. I walk into a large open
room with 16 beds, about half of which were occupied. There are curtains around to separate the
room into 8 – 2 bed ‘rooms’ with only enough room to walk between the beds. There are large open windows along the long
wall. This day was overcast and cool
with intermittent showers all day and they have all the windows open. This is a room full of sick people and
probably the only room in Swaziland with every door and window open. The people in this country are notorious for
shutting the windows on public transport even on the hottest of days, but maybe
the open windows here are to suppress the transmission of communicable diseases
since there is a pretty high rate of tuberculosis in the country.
Auntie, Make’s sister is staying with Gogo alone now that
Make had to take care of business back at the homestead. Auntie’s responsibilities are to stay with
Gogo, change her sheets daily, bathe her, feed her, and make sure she is warm
and comfortable. Meanwhile, Gogo is
curled up on her bed looking thinner than ever even under the mountain of at
least 5 blankets piled on top of her.
Gogo is on oxygen now and I can hear the air flowing. It sounds like a pretty high dose from what I
can tell. Gogo has a catheter in; the
pee bag is hanging off the side of the bed.
I doubt that Gogo can walk anymore.
The charts are held in a box in the center of the room, so there is
nothing I can read to know her diagnosis or prognosis.
I say hello to Gogo.
It is hard to see her in this condition.
She looks so helpless, and yet there is nothing I can do to help
either. Gogo sees me, probably surprised
that I visited. All she says is “oh, intfombi
yami” over and over. “My girl, my girl.” This breaks my heart, but I am happy she
still recognizes me and that hopefully, I brought a little light to her day.
When talking to Mom about my visit, she tells me that this
ward-style hospital set-up is much like how American hospitals were set up in
the past before it was known that having a whole bunch of sick people in one
room didn’t promote health or diminish the transmission of communicable
diseases very well. This type of
hospital is a relic of the past, much like cassette tapes, VCRs, $2 bills, and satellite
dishes. This hospital did have a private
room section for the patients who could afford it. The private rooms were probably more similar
to the hospitals I am familiar with. It
is unfortunate though that the standard of my Gogo’s care is soley dependent on
how much money she has. If she had more money
she could be in one of those private rooms instead of being immuno-compromised
in a ward surrounded by a bunch of other sick people. This isn’t just a problem unique to the third
world, however, it’s just magnified here.
You know the whole -cut Medicare/Medicaid benefits because those people
are lazy and we shouldn’t have to pay for them- debate. Just because my Gogo is not wealthy doesn’t
mean she should be put in a hospital room that will make her die faster. The standard of her care should not be
decided by money. She is a person just
like everyone else.
Time was ticking now.
I still had some things to do in ton before catching the afternoon bus
home. I say goodbye to Gogo and she
reaches her hand out after me, “intfombi yami, intfombi yami.” “My girl, my girl.” With a wave goodbye, I am off. I reach the front door and ask for a toilet, I
still have a long journey ahead of me.
Again I receive great hospitality.
A simple point down the hall is never sufficient. The woman gets up from her post and walks me
right to the door of the bathroom, offering to stay in case I can’t find my way
back, but I politely tell her that I will figure it out. I know you aren’t to concerned about my
bladder, but this trip to the bathroom was significant to me because it was the
worst part of the whole trip. The room
itself was clean enough, that wasn’t the problem. The problem as that this bathroom had no
toilet paper and no hand soap! Really!?!
This hospital is among the best health care facilities in the country
and they have no soap! No soap dispenser, no soap residue on the back of the
sink, no bar to hold a toilet paper roll, nothing! And upon brief inspection of the men’s room
(the door was open), the conditions were consistent, a condition I would expect
at a public restroom at a state park or gas station, but not at a hospital in a
country’s central city. Great, even less
attention paid to communicable disease.
Thankfully, I was leaving there.
My Gogo may not be so lucky.
The
following poem, written by Delisile Simelane, a friend from my community seems
to foreshadow my Gogo’s unfortunate situation.
Death
When death
comes around
He is the
only one to boast
He brings
rain
Rain rain
rain
Rain down
every one’s cheeks
Rain of
sorrow, reign of despair.
When death
comes around
everything
comes to a halt.
Life stops,
no more breathing.
laughing or
crying.
Death is
silence.
When death
comes around
He leaves a
very huge gap.
A hole of
hopelessness,
A hole no
one else could ever fill.
When death
comes around
Peace dashes
out through the window,
and immediately
he enters through the door.
Death is a
silence with no peace.
By: Simelane Delisile
Delisile is
19 years old. She dropped out of her
senior year of high school when she fell pregnant. A girl cannot remain in school while she is
pregnant, and teachers even have the right to ask a girl to take a pregnancy test
if they presume someone is pregnant. Anyways, Deli was at the top of her class when
she was forced to drop out. I met her
about halfway through her pregnancy when she approached me to ask for money to
pay for her exams even though she wasn’t finishing the classwork. I had to let her down because I won’t help pay
for anyone’s school fees or else I would be bankrupt in no time. I told her I would help with her studying and
English. We have been friends ever
since. Now we teach an adult ed. class
for people wanting to learn to read and speak English. Deli teaches the siSwati sections and she is
doing a great job. I teach
knitting/other hand crafts and supplement the English lessons.
Deli lives
on a homestead with only her father (who she calls ‘the old man’), her younger brother
in Grade 4, and sister-in-law who also has a baby. It is a small homestead by Swazi standards. Deli’s mother is not around anymore. I have not asked her directly, but taking
this country’s statistics into consideration, HIV might have something to do
with it.
I asked Deli
about the father of her baby girl, Anale (means ‘enough’), 7 weeks old now. She doesn’t have many good things to say about
him. When she told him she was pregnant,
she said that he got in his car and sped off, literally leaving her in the
dirt. It hurts my heart to think about that
image. It also hurts my heart even worse
that 7 weeks ago when she went to give birth, she had to travel three hours by
herself on crowded public transport, while in labor, to the hospital where she
was to give birth for the first time. It
was a different hospital than the one my Gogo is at, but in a smaller city, so who
knows what those conditions are like. Hopefully
they had soap. Luckily, giving birth there
only cost E24 ($3USD). I hope the saying
‘you get what you pay for’ doesn’t apply here.
 |
| Delisile and Anale in my house. |
