The following post is the third of three stories I’d like to
pass on about people I’ve walked alongside in Umphumulo. None of the posts are specifically related to
each other-one is about dancing, another about family, and the third about
being alone. The one thing that each has
in common is the impact the experience made on me. Please enjoy!
What do you think of when someone mentions being alone? Hiking in the backcountry? Reading in an empty library? Soaking up the sun on a deserted beach? Driving on I-70 through Kansas in the middle
of the night? What about sleeping in an
open room with 15 other men? If you’re
like me, the last one probably wouldn’t be at the top of your list.
One of my best friends in Umphumulo disagrees with us
all. He has spent the last six weeks
living in the male TB ward in Umphumulo Hospital, and has two more weeks to go
before he will be discharged. The TB ward is about 25m long and 10 m wide,
with 12 beds on each side. Depending on
the week, anywhere between 10-20 patients are in the ward, all with different
types of TB.
The road that ended with my friend’s stay in the hospital
began in January of this year. The new
year started off in a good way—he was able to move out of the room he had been
staying in and into a granny-flat just up the hill from his family’s
house. He was pretty excited about his
move to “the castle,” and we spent a weekend cleaning the place out for him to
move in. There’s can be a lot of
friction between my friend and some of his sisters at times, so the chance to
have his own space was a big deal.
A few weeks later, my friend got a bad case of the flu
(South Africans call use the word “flu” to describe almost any minor illness.) He wasn’t eating well, and started spending
more and more time sleeping, napping, and watching TV. After a few weeks of this, we convinced him
to go to the hospital and get checked out.
My friend is the kind of person who is always joking about
something. Knowing this about him, nobody
really believed him when he came back from the hospital with news that the doctors
thought he had TB. I had jokingly told
him he might have TB while trying to convince him to go get checked out in the
first place, so I didn’t take him seriously until the results of his sputum
culture came back a week later and were positive for TB. Even though this was a shock to me, TB is
common in this part of South Africa and my friend started a standard 6 month
treatment course at the end of January.
According to the doctors I know at the hospital, within a
month of starting treatment the patient’s sputum should no longer be positive
for TB. Most symptoms—coughing,
weakness, night sweats, loss of weight—should disappear within that time period
as well. Needless to say, I was shocked when
I returned to Umphumulo in mid March after spending two weeks away from home to
find that my friend had gotten drastically worse. He had almost no energy, was freezing during
the day and sweating buckets at night, and had lost an incredible amount of
weight. His face looked wasted and his
body more or less emaciated. I was amazed.
When he went to the hospital for his two month checkup, the
hospital staff was also surprised. They
took another sputum sample, and when it still contained TB they sent it to King
George’s Hospital in Durban to be cultured and tested for drug sensitivity. Meanwhile, my neighbors, co-workers, and I
made an extra effort to bring my friend extra food and drinks in the hopes of
bringing his weight up. Here’s why: at
his March checkup, he weighed 51kg, or about 112 pounds.
Weeks dragged by before the culture and sensitivity results
came back from Durban. During that time,
I did my best to visit and spent time with my friend, but I couldn’t change the
fact that he was still contagious. Active
pulmonary TB is highly communicable and is spread by breathing in bacteria that
an infected person coughs into the air, and my doctor friends constantly warned
me about spending time with my friend. Those
weeks were lonely for Sbo—waiting for results that never seemed to come, being
kept apart from friends and family, and taking treatment that didn’t seem to be
having an effect on his sickness.
When the sensitivity results came back, no one was surprised
to learn that my friend had been officially diagnosed with MDR TB. He was admitted to the TB ward at Umphumulo
Hospital and began a series of 40 daily injections, in addition to his other
treatment. Since he was admitted, the
male TB ward has been his new home.
Despite the routine (injection and tablets in the morning, followed by
breakfast, tea, lunch, supper, tablets and tea), it’s been easy for me to see
how a hospital can be a lonely place. More
importantly, I’ve also learned how visits from friends and family members can
brighten someone’s day, particularly when one isn’t allowed to leave the
hospital compound.
Talking to my friend outside his ward (while standing a
“safe” six feet apart) has opened my eyes to a whole new side of hospital life
in Umphumulo. Imagine living on hospital
food for two months. Not fun, right? Now
imagine having to share the same two showers with 40 men, several of whom
suffer from mental disorders and regularly defecate in the bathing area. Imagine not wanting to give up your pair of
hospital issued pants because you weren’t sure when another clean pair would be
brought around. Imagine watching
patients with whom you shared the ward for a couple weeks die in the same room
you sleep in, and the only thing you can do is roll over look the other
way. Pondering those questions has certainly broadened my definition of what it means to be alone.
I probably don’t need to say it, but bringing food, having
conversations, and being present to listen to my friend in the hospital has
been one of the most rewarding ministries in my time in Umphumulo.
