Of course I knew Tshiamo was dead. There was no shortage of reminders. But what is knowing, anyway? I’ve known ever since I’ve had a thinking mind that I would one day die, but does that mean I wake up every morning preoccupied with it? Of course not. That would be absurd. I know Tshiamo’s dead, thank you very much. Thank you for being so concerned that I’m unaware of the worst thing that’s ever happened in my life. Thank you, you’re all so terribly kind. But can I choose to forget for just a moment? Would that be okay with you? Just like I choose to forget that the world is evil and our government corrupt and the West forever plotting our demise?
Can I please continue giving R20 notes to the man sitting outside Checkers and continue praying for the homeless and the downtrodden? And, if it’s no inconvenience to you, can I please continue sending emails to my dead brother who was my only friend, the only person who cared to see me, who cared to give me of his time and interest and humor? Can I pretend he will be back from his art workshop at 6 p.m. with a smile and an empty lunch bag in his hand? Is that okay with you, world?
Might I be left alone in peace to send smiley faces and photographs to my dead brother, who I miss more than anything in the entire universe, whose death left a hole in me so big I thought I might slip and fall through it?
No, it is not okay with the world. There is nothing that bothers the world more. So I stopped. Because long after Malome Softly stepped into Tshiamo’s grave and poured soil over his head; long after Aunty Petunia grabbed my arm and forced me to go and look at his face in the casket against my will, like I was a child, like she was a somebody in our lives; long after people stopped coming to visit us, drinking all the tea and finishing the last bucket of scones; long after our neighbors forgot that we were mourning and that they needed to be nice to us, Malome Softly’s girlfriend, who I thought was my friend, spotted my Sent mailbox as I was scrolling through my phone, and went to tell Ma that I was communicating with my dead brother, and she was worried I was practicing witchcraft. I had no choice then but to stop sending emails to Tshiamo and to instead write everything in this stupid journal that is read by no one but God. When He can find the time.
Since my people are crushed, I am crushed; I mourn, and horror grips me.
Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?
Why then is there no healing for the wound of my people?
Jeremiah 8:21–22
When we were little, Tshiamo and I always used to play “Doctor Doctor.” He thought it was dumb, but he knew how much I enjoyed the game, so he went along with it. Not always, though, not on his down days. It wasn’t like he was a saint or anything. Sometimes I’d have to beg him for hours, and promise to leave him alone for the rest of the day if he agreed to play with me for just a little bit. And I really did mean a little bit. Everything was already set up, the patients were on the table, I was scrubbed up, the drugs were drawn and labeled and the instruments ready. I just needed a surgical nurse to assist me.
Tshiamo would look at me in disgust as he walked into my room filled with teddy bears whose throats had been slit, yellow stuffing pouring out of them. I’d smile and tell him not to panic, I was going to save them. And I did. I always saved them.
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I remember first learning about cells in Grade 10 Biology. Mrs. McCartney described them like little factories in our bodies—no, like cities with many factories inside them. She said there were billions of them all packed tightly together. I tried to imagine them, to picture all that activity inside of me. I remember being struck by how much I still had to learn, and wondering if I would ever fully understand the functioning of the human body.
Ma said I worried too much. She reminded me of how concerned I was in Grade 1 that I’d never be able to read. I laughed when she said that. It still amazes me, though, how we go from looking at apples and cats on a big colorful chart to memorizing the names of the blood vessels of the heart to inserting a central venous pressure line into a patient’s neck. I guess this ability we all have—to go from looking at street signs and roundabouts in a learner’s permit study book to overtaking trucks on the highway—makes us a little reckless when it comes to what we think we’re capable of achieving.
I see now that there was actually a lot of luck in my getting to this point, and perhaps a lot of unseen effort by those around me. Like the exam study guides that slowly filled my bedroom and the extra lessons Ma insisted Papa pay for. So when I saw green peas come out of bed A3’s neck, I knew my luck had run out.
Dr. Voel-Vfamba said that is how we learn, that she was going to die anyway and that I shouldn’t feel bad.
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Patients die all the time. Nobody expects you to save all of them all the time. We do what we can. And with our crumbling health system, our staff shortages, our social challenges, well, what can people really expect? We do what we can. This is the mantra I
