Never say Never

I can’t remember exactly when or where but I have definitely thought it a few times. I may have even spoken the fatal words once, if not twice.  

“I will never work in the Free State Province!”

But yes, here we are.

Despite having seventeen years to think about it, I didn’t really have a game plan when I finished specialising. Then quite unexpectedly, I was offered the opportunity to come and do some locum work up here and it seemed like a breath of fresh air after four grey years of registrar time. The change that would be as good as a holiday. A great opportunity to try something completely different, stretch my wings a bit and shake up my comfort zone. Incidentally I had also planned to take a few weeks off and this job coincided perfectly with when my savings would run out. Was I aware it was in the Free State? – Yes. Was I aware it was in the middle of winter and likely to be 10 degrees colder than what I was used to? – Yes. It really was only after I crossed the Orange River that it dawned on me that this might be a lot harder than it looked.

I don’t want this blog to be about what’s been tough about the first 3 weeks. I don’t want to rehash the fact that there often aren’t the basics like running water at some of the hospitals, let alone luxuries like ventilators, x-rays and doctors. It’s been tough and eye-opening and hopefully doesn’t stop shocking me regularly (because the danger of desensitisation is that it facilitates this failure).

I’d rather tell you about things that made me smile, and that make me love the work, the profession and the people. I want to tell you about lovely patients that I encountered this week.

The first was a shy, sweet, 9-year-old girl whose mom brought her to the practice with the long-standing complaints of a poor appetite and not being able to hear very well.

They spoke enough English to get through the consultation and the patient could actually answer most of the questions herself. (Always such a win in paediatrics, which often more closely resembles being a vet examining combative baby tigers). After chatting a bit about the problems I got her up on the bed to examine her. She was wearing a pink dress with a beautiful winter white jersey and wool-lined ankle-high boots, exposing her skinny little legs.

“Nana – aren’t you cold?” I asked her.

“Yes” she said.

“Then why did you wear such a pretty dress?”

“I didn’t want to,” she replied. “My granny made me!”

The second was a little boy, about 3.

A pink-cheek, chubby face, blonde haired chap who came for the winter special – cough, blocked nose, vomiting.

He didn’t look too sick and dived into the toy stash unashamedly while I got the story from his mom. He also was very quick to spot the sweet jar on the desk.

“Tannie, kan ek ‘n sweetie kry asseblief?” (Aunty, can I have a sweet please?)

I let him pick a sucker out of the jar.

He carried on playing with the toys, I examined him and reassured his mom that his symptoms were all viral and he would be back to his normal self in a few days.

While I was finishing up notes and a script, he saunters up to the desk, sucker in his mouth and casually asks “Tannie, kan ek nog ‘n sweetie kry?” (Aunty, can I have another sweety?)

In an effort to nip this request in the bud quickly I shook my head.

“Nee, sweeties is eintlik net vir kinder wat inspuitings kry.” (No, sweets are actually only for children who get injections).

I’m assuming this will a) dissuade him from more sugar by the possibility of what all children fear the most at a doctor, and b) make him aware that he actually got a sweet for free today.

He is standing across from me with his rosy cheeks and little head just sticking out above the desk. Sucker in his mouth he tilts his head to one side thoughtfully, then removes the sucker and asks a bit more calculatedly…

“Is dit ‘n baie groot inspuiting?” (Is it a very big injection?)

I never regret choosing to work with children or combative baby tigers.

* “Tannie” which directly translates to English as Aunty is a respectful term used to address female elders.