When War Raged On: The Hospital Battle Begins:Chapter 2
When War Raged On: The Hospital Battle Begins
On August 28, 2017, Dr. M’s surgery opened at 10 am, and though I slept fairly well despite my mobility struggles, I wasn’t in a hurry to get there. That day, I walked with the help of a stick. When I arrived, the doctor called me in as soon as he finished with his previous patient. As usual, he was upbeat and full of energy — a kind of motivation I wished many organizations could borrow.
We chatted briefly about how I was feeling. He performed a physical examination and then took my blood pressure. I silently prayed as the numbers appeared. Then he sighed deeply, looked me in the eye, and said, “Perseverance, your blood pressure is 187/124. That’s dangerously high. It’s no longer your choice not to go to the hospital. I’ll have to admit you to Helen Joseph.”
With the sternness of an upset headmaster, he wrote a referral letter, carefully folded it, and placed it in an envelope. Then he asked if he could call an ambulance. I hesitated but declined politely. We shook hands firmly, and he reassured me, “Don’t worry, you’re not bewitched. I know many Africans believe in those things.” I smiled and assured him I wasn’t into that nonsense. Thanking him, I left his office with a racing mind, trying to process everything.
I found a bench outside the mall and thought about who could take me to the hospital. My friend was abroad, and my brother, ever the hustler, would be hard to reach. I called a young man who promised to pick me up around noon. Hours passed slowly. At around 2:30 pm, he called back saying his car had broken down — oil everywhere, gears failed — and he was waiting for a tow. I felt trapped, regretting declining the ambulance. But then I reminded myself: some things are destined. Like Christians say, there’s a book somewhere in heaven called Destiny.
I called another friend, who arrived within the hour. We headed straight to Helen Joseph Hospital for admission.
I’m a fan of the Emergency Room show on DSTV, where American ER teams operate efficiently and save lives in minutes. I wondered how different things were in South African hospitals, especially in poorer neighborhoods.
Traffic in Fourways was the usual nightmare — congested beyond belief, especially during rush hour, which starts as early as 3 pm. My brother Kuda, John (the driver), and I fought through back roads to get to the hospital.
At the hospital entrance, security briefly stopped us and asked if I could walk. John’s emphatic “No” got us directed to the ambulance lane. The reality of the ER was different from TV — a security guard directed us to queue with about twenty people ahead.
Despite my ability to limp with my stick, the waiting room was packed. I’d grown accustomed to the routine of BP checks, diabetes tests, and heart rate monitoring. After the initial nursing assessment, my brother received documents and was told to register me while John helped me to the next waiting area.
Time dragged. If I were driving north on the N1, I might have been in Polokwane by now. Emergencies varied, so I understood waiting was necessary, but it felt endless.
Eventually, a beautiful young doctor called my name — if she wanted to enter the Miss South Africa pageant, I wouldn’t doubt she’d win. I found myself distracted by her presence and briefly questioned how med schools pick their candidates. Maybe my sickness was affecting my brain.
In the consulting room, I explained my symptoms. She checked me thoroughly and detected something unusual with my heart. An ECG was ordered, followed by an X-ray and blood tests. She quickly returned with three vials to draw blood and instructed me to rest on the bed.
Then came a man with an ECG machine — the same device I’d seen on American TV dramas. He attached sticky electrodes across my chest, connected cables, and began monitoring. This was new to me, so I snapped a photo for memory’s sake. I’d never been through anything like this before.
The technician mentioned my heart had irregularities but gave no details. Oddly, I didn’t panic. The doctor returned, saying my heart was enlarged and more tests were needed.
After the ECG, my brother escorted me to X-ray while John waited in reception. We joined another long queue, and it was after 10 pm by the time we finished. The technician handed me a large envelope with my results. Back in the waiting room, the doctor informed me I’d be admitted. I told John and my brother to go home and rest while I waited for the admission process.
I was admitted to the ER ward around 1 am on August 30, 2017. Patients spend only 24 hours there before transferring to the general ward. From arrival until sunset, doctors checked on me every 20 minutes or so. I barely slept. Nurses measured my blood pressure constantly — it swung wildly, like childhood swings we played on, but no one could explain why.
My attending doctor was young, confident, soft-spoken, but pompous. Accompanied by a junior female doctor whose voice was as gentle as a hummingbird’s song, she examined me tenderly — even apologizing when her cold hands made me gasp.
She checked my heartbeat, abdomen, limbs, and vitals, taking careful notes. Meanwhile, my main doctor was frustrated, convinced I wasn’t an emergency case and should be discharged. He blamed colleagues who referred me to the ER, but I insisted on help.
The junior doctor, however, returned minutes later, stating I was lucky not to be discharged. I wondered what kind of luck that was. Both doctors apologized for the confusion, and I accepted. But my biggest question remained: Why were my legs so heavy? Why couldn’t I walk?
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