Skip to main content

Pick your battles

I come to the next patient. She was admitted earlier in the week “happily psychotic” (as opposed to “aggressively psychotic” – which will lead to the nurses locking you in the side room and laughing at you through the window). As such she was allowed a bed in the main ward - in which she sat and smiled and giggled.

She looks a lot quieter now. I have been slowly winding down her sedatives trying to get her settled. Sister looks over my shoulder as I re-write the drug chart.

“I think we can reduce the haloperidol now sister. She is looking much quieter now.”

Sister puts her hands on her formidable hips.

“Ah – no doctor. We cannot do that.”

“But I have been halving the dose each day all week – and look at her, she is still quiet and probably over-sedated. We can reduce again now.”

“Ah – but at night doctor she is different. In fact doctor – I have been giving extra haloperidol – same dose as on admission.”

“But you have signed on the chart where I wrote 2.5mg?”

“Yes doctor – but I gave 10mg.”

“Why?”

“Because at night doctor, she gets up. And she sings and does Zulu dances in the middle of the ward. And then she goes to the male ward and does the same."

I think of raising the point with sister that perhaps she should have told me rather than ignore the drug chart entirely – a loss of temper might be justified. But instead just meekly write on the chart as instructed.

I don’t want to end up locked in the side room being laughed at through the window.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...

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...

Ceza Hospital

I am woken with a jolt. The 4-wheel drive has left the tarmac and we are on dirt road. I look ahead into the hills – the road wends its way high up into the distance. “How far?” I ask Amos, our driver. “About 40km.” I settle back and watch as the settlements become less and less pseudo-bungalows and more and more mud rondavels. The road to Ceza It was about a month ago that our medical manager first mentioned that we had been asked to help out at Ceza Hospital – a remote rural hospital about 2 hours away. Its medical staff (only 8 at the best of times) had been steadily departing and only one remained. He was leaving at the end of May and they were desperate. Desperate enough to accept help from us. As I said – a month ago – but it was only last Thursday that I found myself agreeing to go. Two of the others had been that week. I phoned them to ask what it was like. “There are no words to describe it,” said Nomfundo, “speak to Dr Kekana.” Dr Kekana comes on the line and after humming an...