The end of the party

Me on the medical ward round

There is a curious atmosphere at work – a sense that the party is nearly over. The 2007 intake of doctors has begun its exodus and I am back on the medical ward this week. Sister looks at me in surprise as I walk on.

“Where is Dr Riddick?”

“She has left.”

“Hauw – why?”

“She was only here for 1 year and the year has ended. She has gone to her next job.”

“And Dr Janssen, and Dr Mkhwanazi?”

“They have left also.”

She shakes her head sorrowfully. “It is terrible. All our doctors are leaving us. What will happen? Just as we get to know each other, you leave. Are there new doctors coming?”

“A few.”

I don’t expand my answer for her. For 2008 will be a more difficult year than even normal for South Africa’s rural hospitals. For several years now a good fraction of doctors working in places like Hlabisa were “community service” doctors. After qualifying doctors did a 1 year internship and were then required to work for a further year in a understaffed institution before being “signed off” for other employment within South Africa. It was not a popular idea at the time, but most “comm-serves” would now say they benefited from the experience. This year however there are no comm-serves. The internship has been extended to 2 years, so for 2008 hospitals like Hlabisa will have to do without. We are losing 5 doctors (just over a third of the staff) and gaining just 1 South African. The short fall will most likely be made up from overseas graduates like myself.

So the medical team at Hlabisa has had to tighten its belt. The on calls are more frequent and the days that little bit busier. But Hlabisa has it relatively easy. Some of our neighbouring hospitals are down to 5 or 6 doctors.

Comments

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...

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...

In Sierra Leone

Search This Blog