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I so desperately want to be different, Lord. I want to walk into the wards and see the pools of tears and be moved by them. I don’t want to be selfish and irritable and impatient. I don’t want to be an obstacle in Your path. But this is how You made me.
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We were given last Friday off to go and vote in the municipal elections. Only the doctors on call had to go in. I couldn’t convince my body to get out of bed. I wasn’t sure if I was even registered to vote. I didn’t know who I would vote for anyway, so I never left the house. On Monday morning Nyasha looked at me in disgust when I used my black anesthetic-drug marker to put a fake voting dot on my right thumb. She called me pathetic, and lectured me on how much had been lost for my right to vote. She told me how my ancestors would shower misfortune on my future because I didn’t value my freedom. She said I was a disgrace.
I asked her how she thought her ancestors felt about her running away from her own country to come make a nuisance of herself here. She didn’t respond, and I could see my words had hurt her. Well, so be it. If she can dish it out, she should be able to take it.
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I’m hungry, but food is the last thing I want to eat.
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There must be more than this.
Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.
John 4:15
Coke, KFC, Red Bull, those microwave meals that take up so much space in the fridge, vitamin water, coconut water, cayenne pepper water, holy water. Xanax, vodka, anything just to numb the feeling. Diet pills for energy. Ritalin to stay up at night. The morning-after pill. Mirena for those with more determination. Post-exposure prophylaxis at least four times a year. TB treatment for the unfortunate few. Flu vaccine. Hepatitis B booster. Third-generation cephalosporin at the sight of a sneeze. Scabies, a gift from the psychiatry ward. Eczema, asthma pumps, yoga, tofu, detox when on leave, fifteen days of eating green. Dubai or Thailand to make up for it all. Then you’re back and the assault begins again.
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I had to leave the operating room this morning because I’d developed such severe menstrual cramps I could hardly keep myself from falling over and contaminating the entire operative field. It was odd. Although my periods had reduced to little more than spotting after the endometrial ablation, the monthly cramps had persisted like clockwork, maybe as a reminder that the beast is not dead, only sleeping. Doctor Sage said I should unscrub and go put my head down in the Anesthetics tea room until the next case arrives. While I was in there I texted Nyasha and asked if she could bring me ibuprofen from the emergency department. Sister Dlamini sat across the room, watching us as Nyasha took two tablets out of her pocket and offered me her bottled water. I could see she wanted to say something, but I couldn’t have anticipated the words that came out of her mouth.
“Sies doctor!” she exclaimed. “O na le sebete ne? Batho ba ga se batho. You can get sick drinking from their bottles.”
I couldn’t believe she could say that right in front of Nyasha.
“She’s just dumb,” I mumbled to Nyasha as she picked up her stuff and prepared to head back to the emergency department.
Nyasha shrugged. “It’s just a period South Africa’s in,” she said matter-of-factly. “Growing pains.”
“Like period pain,” I said, trying to make a joke. “Yeah.” She gave me a weak smile. “Like period pain.”
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I didn’t tell Nyasha that I saw a cat coming out from under the table when we were out for dinner tonight, or that there were Portuguese men at the window. I can tell Nyasha most things, but this I’d never tell her. I know for sure she’d leave me if she began to worry I might be going mad. I can’t risk that. She’d stay in the flat but pull away, watch me, analyze my words. Some things you never say. You write them in your journal but tell no one.
❖
Kgomotso’s aunt approached me today. I’ve noticed her in the ward, watching us as we go about our business, but I’ve never heard her speak. Sometimes I’ve caught her staring at me, but if my eyes meet hers, she turns away shyly. So when she came up to me and asked whether I thought Kgomotso was going to die, I was a little taken aback. She pointed to Kgomotso’s intravenous line that was drawing blood, pointed to her own belly, which she shared had a growing baby inside, and began to cry. I mentioned You, told her the intravenous line was nothing to worry about, that we would flush it as soon as we got a chance, asked how far along she was. But she insisted. Said she was alone in Johannesburg and without work, and that there was no money to send a corpse to the Eastern Cape.
I didn’t know what to say, Lord, because Kgomotso is going to die. You know it, I know it, and Kgomotso’s aunt knows it.
So I called Sister Lebea, who fetched a stool for all of us to sit on. I hadn’t thought to do that. They spoke without too many words. Sister Lebea explained to Kgomotso’s aunt that Kgomotso was likely to die on the road if she was put on a bus, but that there was a man with
