Skip to main content

Gives me fever

“Where is Stefan?” someone asks.

We look around the table – it is 7:45am, our morning meeting; the hour in which we exchange news, frustrations and attempt catharsis before leaping up to carpe diem. Stefan – the longest serving member of Hlabisa’s medical staff at a grand total of 11 months – is not there. “He won’t be in today,” says the medical manager, “he’s feeling a bit sickish.” We all murmur our commiserations. I secretly feel a little envious. I wonder whether what he has got is catching – I quite fancy a day in bed. A few hours of rigors would be a price worth paying.

The following morning Stefan is still sick. Apparently he had swinging fevers all night. Someone mutters “malaria”. I grab some blood tubes and needles and wander over to his flat. It is locked and the curtains are drawn. I call his mobile. There is no answer. I imagine him lying in his bed, shivering and delirious. How could his girlfriend have left him in such a state? Has she no heart?

My mobile rings. It is Stefan. He is in outpatients. He sounds remarkably coherent for a delirious man.

In outpatients Stefan looks fine. A nurse is taking his blood for a malaria rapid test. He went to Mozambique 3 weeks ago and hiked in a northern KwaZulu-Natal game park 2 weeks ago. “It is strange,” he says, “I was feverish and shaking all night and now I feel fine.” He is indeed afebrile now.

I examine him – carefully omitting anything below the hips. Nothing to find. Any rashes? “No,” he says, and then pauses. “Apart from this.” He lifts his trouser leg. On each ankle is a small inflamed area with a black centre. Any swollen glands? I let him examine his own groin. One should never examine the groin of an individual into whose eyes you need to be able to look at work the following day. Yes, there is swollen gland.

We conclude that Stefan has tick bite fever. I prescribe him a course of antibiotics and he is back at work a couple of days later. Wonder how many times I have missed the diagnosis in the general outpatients? Make note to self: long trousers when walking.

African tick bite lesion. This is not Stefan's (not his real name) groin. That would be sick.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

10 years on

The door flies open. Lele peers in. "You must come out here and see. They are doing a play!" I finish up my case file annotation and come to the doorway. The waiting area is in chaos. A gang of school children are manhandling a couple of marimba's to the space in front of the consulting rooms, a team of nurses and counsellors are creating a stage area. Patients look on mutely. Some with interest, others - presumably feeling proportionately less well - without. "What is going on?" I ask. "It is 10 years since the clinic started. 10 years since MSF first started the HIV treatment programme and proved that it could be done in Africa. So the staff are celebrating. They are doing a show or something." The sister in charge of the clinic has moved to the front of the crowd of patients. She calls for silence and then gives a short introduction. Lele translates for me. "She is saying that this is a very important day. 10 years ago people were dying. And 10...

Otherwordly isolation

I lean across the reception desk and catch the attendant’s eye. “Sawubona,” I say, dusting off my rusty Zulu. I see you. “Sawubona, ninjani?” she replies. I see you, are you well? “Ngiyapela.” I’m fine. She grins at me. “You must be a doctor.” “I am! How did you know?” “It is only the doctors around here who use Zulu. Even if it is only the greetings.” She arches an eyebrow. “I used to work here, at Hlabisa hospital up the road. I have a few other Zulu words, you know like ‘Does it hurt?’ and ‘Take a deep breath’.” She laughs. And then launches into an excellent impression of an elderly Zulu lady rattling off a series of complaints, waddling across the reception area clutching her back in mock agony. She gets it exactly right. I have come up to KwaZulu-Natal for a few days. Tonight I am staying in the Hluhluwhe-iMfolozi game park, 20 minutes or so from where I used to work. Awarded my entry ticket, I drive into the park. The sun is low in the sky, the kills bathed in amber light. I ta...

Wherever you go...

I pull the sterile gloves over my gown sleeves and look at the nurse. “Please could you…?” I ask shrugging my shoulders in the universal “my-sterile-gown-is-about-to-fall-off” gesture. She grins and slips around the bed to fumble for the poppers at the back. I eye her name badge. Startled – I glance at her. “Your name is Ndlovu?” “Yes.” “But that is a Zulu name!” “Yes!” Her face lights up. “You have been to South Africa ?” “I was working there last year.” “Oh! Where were you working?” “Hlabisa.” She claps her hands for joy, an enormous grin crossing her face. “But I live near there. If you take the road from Mtuba to the hospital I live in a village on the right.” I laugh at the incongruity of it. Here, in the dark at 2am, on a medical ward in an Oxford hospital, working with a Zulu nurse just I did for the last year. We talk animatedly about her home. “Did you train at Hlabisa?” “No. I trained at Bethesda . Do you know it?” “Oh yes – I visi...