Of course it was difficult to watch. But I had to. I had to face this horrible thing that we’ve become.
❖
Things have gotten worse. The xenophobic violence has spread like wildfire. On my call last night, the Emergency Medical Services brought in a foreign national who’d been burned alive and sustained third-degree burns to 80 percent of his body.
When Nyasha came home, the first thing she said was that she’d heard that a victim of the xenophobic violence was a patient of mine. She wanted to know what ward he was in so she could go and see him and give support to his family.
He wasn’t my patient, I told her. He’d arrived already intubated on my emergency department call and I prescribed fluids, antibiotics, and analgesia, and then handed him over to the surgical team.
“Which ward is he in?” she’d insisted. “And what’s his name?”
I explained that I last saw him in the emergency department on a ventilator, waiting for the surgeons to take over. They were aware of him but were held up in surgery. So I didn’t know which ward he’d ended up in. Probably ICU or Burns Ward. I didn’t remember his name.
“You just left him there?” she retorted accusatorily.
“I couldn’t get an ICU bed, Nyasha,” I tried to explain. “I called the surgery register and handed him over. But with third-degree burns to 80 percent of his body, you know mos, Nyasha, the treatment would probably only be supportive.”
“So you did nothing?”
“I couldn’t get a bed, Nyasha. What was I supposed to do?”
“Did you call Imhotep Academic Hospital?”
“Of course I called Imhotep,” I lied. “You know it’s always full.”
“So you went back to bed?”
“Nyasha, for goodness sake, he had third-degree burns to 80 percent of his body, his chances of surviving were slim to none. I put up a line, we gave him good analgesia and antibiotics, and then handed him over to the surgical team. I’m a house officer, I’m not Jesus. What on earth was I supposed to do?”
“What is his name? Tell me his name so I can go back to the hospital and find him.”
“I can’t remember, Nyasha. It was a really busy call, the emergency department was packed. There were so many patients, I honestly can’t remember.”
“You don’t even know his name?”
“Nyasha? Do you remember the names of every patient you see on call?”
“You don’t care, do you? He’s just another foreigner to you, another kwere-kwere!”
“Nyasha, come on, don’t say that. You know that’s not true.”
“Where’s the family? How did he get there? He couldn’t have come alone.”
“Emergency Medical Services brought him in, Nyasha, but I didn’t ask where they found him. I’m sorry, I should have, but I didn’t think to ask, with the third-degree burns to 80 percent of his body and all.”
“You’re pathetic. You’re all the same. Fucking monsters.”
“Nyasha! I’m sorry about what’s happening with these xenophobic attacks, I really am, but it’s not fair to take it out on me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Didn’t do anything wrong? You leave a helpless man, who’s burned throughout his whole body by your people, to die in casualty with a drip in his arm and some Brufen, and you tell me you did nothing wrong? What kind of animal are you? Do you think those nurses and those surgery registrars who despise us foreigners are going to make an effort to attend to that man properly, sit on the phone and find him an ICU bed, give him a fighting chance? Why didn’t you stay with him? Why didn’t you stay on the phone? Why didn’t you call Hamilton Naki Academic or Mary Malahlela Central Hospital? Why didn’t you get the specialist on the line? What about a central venous pressure line? Did you catheterize him? How were you monitoring those fluids you were pouring into him? Did you consider any of that? You were the only chance he had, and instead you chose to go back to bed. You think you’re different, Masechaba, but you’re all the same.”
The nurses had called him Maputo when they handed him over to me, and I hadn’t gotten an opportunity to check his real name. A stab-chest had come in at the same time, and I needed a signature for putting in a chest drain for my Health Professionals Council of South Africa logbook, so I’d rushed across to assist with that patient. I hadn’t forgotten about Maputo, and I knew that sorting him out would take much of the night, so I wanted to get the chest drain out of the way first. But by the time I got back to him, one of the medical students had already put up a line and tried to call Imhotep to see if there was an ICU bed, but reported that there wasn’t one. So I prescribed antibiotics and analgesia and handed him over to the surgical team. And it wasn’t Brufen. I wouldn’t have given him Brufen, I’m not an idiot. Maybe I should have called Imhotep myself. Maybe I should have sat on the phone and tried Hamilton Naki, Mary Malahlela Central Hospital, the White House! Maybe I could have handled the case better. I didn’t think of a central venous pressure line and I’m pretty sure he had a catheter in already or the nurses put it in, but I remember seeing one. I should have checked his name, though. I’m sure I did, because surely I wouldn’t have written Maputo on his medical notes. Or maybe his real name was Maputo. Foreigners often change their names when
