My sinking heart returned to its rightful position. Qualified people would soon be on hand to sort it out. I was on my way home at the time and got there just before the ambulance, finding my son slumped against the wall with a man pressing a cloth against his stomach to staunch the bleeding. I saw he wasn't too pale, felt his forehead (don't know why), can't remember what I said. In the distance I heard the siren. People stood around looking fearful and concerned.
The paramedics soon assessed the damage and said good under the circumstances. Yay. Options were given. Off to hospital for further assessment and essential repairs. For various reasons, a state hospital was the destination - Victoria Hospital in Wynberg. Having always been lucky enough to have private treatment, this was an experience I was not really looking forward to, although I have always believed the medical treatment doesn't differ. I got there about an hour after him and went into the crowded ER waiting area, where a security grille gate was standing open, leading into the ward and I leapt through, having no idea what else to do.
The ER was wall to wall beds (stretchers?) and doctors and nurses bustling efficiently, cheerfully and frantically to deal with what must be an ongoing nightmare in terms of work hours, stress levels and communication challenges. My son lay on spotless, laundered bedding, in a row of patients awaiting attention. I waited with him, but no one made eye contact or attended to him. He wasn't bleeding to death, and it was easy to understand that we would just have to wait our turn. I still wasn't quite clear on why he hadn't gone to a private clinic as I had confirmed I would pay, and I went into the passage to make a phone call when I was told by a fierce, and very capable, nurse that I had to go into the waiting room behind the gate! 'Out there?' 'Yes!' She handed me a form and said I had to fill it in at Reception so that a file could be opened and they could treat him. It should have been done when he arrived. I would hear nothing for another three hours.
This lengthy preamble to the purpose of this blog leads to my experience of the waiting room of a state hospital.
The poorest of the poor attend state hospitals, if they can even get there. The benches are the hardest you have ever sat on. Three hours is normal to wait. Sick babies and children wait three hours. Two people have drips attached to them, hand held. Faces are lined with pain and years of hardship. They know the drill. But they talk to each other and to me. Brief friendships form in mutual discomfort. They tell jokes and laugh. Many of them come from other parts of Africa and still consider these good conditions. The facilities were clean and adequate, but some sort of food or even water should surely be available, even if just for the children. I fitted in well, in my dishevelled hiking clothes and uncombed hair after a morning up in the mountains. We who can afford private care know nothing of deprivation or suffering. We should all experience time in the waiting room of a state hospital.
Eventually a fellow 'waiting relative' said I should go to the gate and wait for the nurse when she called the next patient. I had no idea if my son had been attended to. I did so, and immediately I was told he was all sewn up and getting his medication, ready for discharge! A miracle. He shuffled out of the ER, having been given the very best medical attention, 15 stitches and a fistful of tablets for the princely sum of R110.
I wasn't the only privileged person in the waiting room. There was a young couple who didn't mind the long wait. That really is the difference. We need bigger facilities, more doctors and living conditions that don't exacerbate illness. That would be a perfect world. Greed and corruption are robbing the poor.
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