Skip to main content

MDR

I am flicking through the pile of TB culture results back from Durban. All the sputum from patients with TB requiring culture are sent to the massive hospital there to be cultured. As always there are a few which have been identified as multi-drug resistant (MDR-TB).

MDR-TB is South Africa’s other health crisis. The TB epidemic has exploded, fuelled by the HIV epidemic. The biggest single component of our outpatients work is TB related – people with chronic cough, people with TB related complications, people deteriorating despite TB treatment. And if people do not complete their treatment, or take their drugs erratically there is a risk that the organism will become resistant to standard drugs. They will then fail treatment and stand a good chance of passing their resistant organism on to someone else. When that person develops symptoms they will unwittingly be put on treatment to which the organism is already resistant and continue to deteriorate for weeks or months (coughing all over their family) before the treatment failure is recognised.

Experts say that MDR-TB is evidence of a failed public health system: if everyone got treatment and was compliant, completing the whole course, resistance could not develop and they would be cured.

I hand the results to the coordinator of the TB tracing team. He will track the patients and we will try to arrange follow up for them in Durban. We are not allowed to start people on MDR-TB treatment – it is felt, perhaps not unreasonably, that if just anyone started MDR treatment exactly the same failures that led to the creation of the MDR epidemic will result in an epidemic of even more resistant TB: the dreaded XDR-TB. Last year there was an outbreak of XDR-TB in Tugela Ferry, another KZN town – embarrassingly enough it appears many of the cases were transmitted within hospital. I think of our wards and cannot even try to pretend exactly the same thing could not happen here.

An hour later the coordinator returns with the details of the patients. Two are fairly well and one is sick – they are bringing him to the TB ward. I phone Durban to book them appointments at the MDR clinic.

“What?” barks the doctor at the end of the line.

“I would like an outpatients appointment for three people with MDR.”

“Oh God. I have no appointments. We are in complete crisis! Complete crisis! We have no staff.”

“Well when can you see them?”

“I don’t know. No idea. What is your phone number?” I give it. “I will phone you sometime. How many men and how many women?” I tell him and hang up despondent. Sometimes it can take weeks before appointments come up. And in the meantime well patients infect their families and sick patients get sicker. I go to the ward and cast an eye over the patient admitted there. He looks fairly well at the moment. I hope he is still when Durban calls.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...

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...

The first rule about run club

This is what death will be like. My heart is pounding, chest constricting, I can barely lift my foot from the ground. The sweat pours from me and my head pounds. It is Thursday run club. An hour ago Ibby was rounding us all up, exhorting us to get a move on, and allocating us to vehicles so we could lurch through Freetown’s commuter traffic to Lumley Beach on the west side of town. Half way there, the traffic solid and the heat stifling we hailed a street trader and we bought packets of drinking water (improbably branded “CLIMAX”) and biscuits (incongruously labelled “made in the UK for Aldi”). A King’s Sierra Leone Partnership tradition – started by Ibby some years ago – the whole team go beach running after work every Thursday. “The route’s fine” they tell me. “Flat, and you can 5k or 7.5k”. It started well enough but it’s 28 degrees and my pale body is unprepared. The route is straightforward but weaving in and out of other runners, stray dogs, unexpected ga...