As I was driving to fetch an Angolan patient from Medi-Clinic Morningside today, I had a bit of a pity party. How is it that 27 years after I started this business, I am still just a glorified driver? Should I not by now have fleets of cars and drivers, and while we are dreaming big, a jet perhaps? Why do I still pop into PnP to grab a packet of Niknaks and Eetsummores for a patient with a craving? Should I not by now have branches stretching from Hermanus to Hoedspruit? Why am I in tekkies, not in Jimmy Choo’s, and why do I have 9am meetings with cleaners in the kitchen instead of board meetings in an airconditioned room drinking a latte? Surely, somehow I got it wrong.
You see, in April I always get a bit nostalgic, it is our birthday on 1 April (yes, I know, I tempted fate opening on a day that celebrates fools).
When we opened our doors, with five rooms, bright blue linen and yellow walls, I had no idea of what awaited us. (Thank heavens I didn’t. Only the aforementioned fool would have gone ahead knowing how hard it is to deal with builders, plumbers, the CCMA, debtors and service delivery that seldom delivers). In the same breath, I wouldn’t change a thing. Out of every challenge, no matter how hard, a lesson was learnt or we were forced to morph into a change. I would not have imagined, in April of 1998, opening a guest house to the corporate market, that we would end up with 37 rooms focusing on patient care. From the beginning, every detour, roadblock and 100m-deep pothole moulded us to who we are today. If I knew then what I know now, I’d still do it all over again. This is what we were called for. We were made for a time like this and I know, with absolute conviction, that these serendipitous meetings, relationships, and bizarre opportunities were so that we could offer what we offer, on the scale and level of intimacy that we do. No one else does what we do and if I had those stilettos and sat in that boardroom chair, I would not have made sure that the 95 year old Mrs Borelli in room 1 got a haircut today by a catholic, Italian-speaking hair dresser. I would not have been there to take the before and after photos, and I get that in the greater scheme of things, this haircut doesn’t matter. But today it did. In this moment it did… for me, for the patient, for the hairdresser and even for the extended family in Italy who know that their mom is looked after and loved thousands of miles away.
Having the privilege of still being able to be so hands-on is indeed a blessing. (It is not such a blessing at 3am when a geyser bursts or a patient has an anxiety attack). On Friday I got a call and a young husband needed his recently paralysed wife to be looked after. It was an unusual request and the care she would require is unique in many ways. The fact that she is in her early 30’s breaks my heart. We chatted and twenty minutes later he was walking with me in the garden and we immediately connected. He is Zimbabwean and definitely does not want her institutionalised. He wants her to see the gardens and bring her dog, he wants her to keep her permanent carers, he wants her to be loved and cared for. We can do all of the above. He left hours later, both of us in tears, and with a plan on new birdfeeders, French doors in her room and a program of who would come and read suspense novels to her on which days. This morning, I spent some time with them both at their house. We made plans for the transition, cried and laughed. I met the dog, the carers, and tentatively started laying the foundation of a friendship. As I left, I realised that you cannot compare Jimmy Choos with this… a deep connection with people, a knowledge that you made a difference, an opportunity for a husband to know he can trust us and to see a young paralysed woman, who cannot even wipe away her own tears cry, because she will not end up in an institution. How lucky am I that we can do this?
I quite like what Jordan Peterson says (and by quoting him it does not mean I agree with everything else he says, especially not about feminism) but he says; “The purpose of life is to find a mode of being so meaningful that the fact that life’s suffering itself is no longer relevant.” And maybe that is why purpose is so important and why we are able to create this space for all patients, whether they are definitely going to recover, definitely going to die or whether we definitely have nothing but uncertainty..
I love that we are getting the groundwork right, continually working, learning and adapting to get the best leaders and carers. Recently we had a young couple here from Zambia. He was riddled with cancer. It had spread everywhere. She was full of hope that he could fight this and survive. Every medical professional and every logical thought indicated that he could not survive, but neither of them are were able to accept it, so when he started having seizures we had to respect them and had him admitted to hospital. Chances are, he will now die in ICU on a ventilator after being subjected to endless tests instead of gently slipping away in our calm, peaceful environment. She will be traumatised forever, but we know and have to respect that this is not our choice to make. How dare we take their hope away? How dare we not step aside when the patient’s wishes are so very clear? In other words, we are learning on a daily basis, that we are here to serve, not to decide. It is always about what the patient wants, never about our opinions.
In the same week we spared a precious man, Mr Becker, from an awful ordeal of spending 6 additional weeks in a hospital he hates. He can come to us to receive the much-needed IV antibiotics and get his favourite physio to walk him up and down the garden. In every room there is a story. A simple hip-replacement patient was suddenly able to open up to us about her situation and we got her to see a social worker. She has eventually built up the courage to leave her abusive husband. A cosmetic surgery patient is with us for the 6th time!!! We’ve always thought she is beautiful and tell her so, despite her own crippling doubts. Our chemo patients basked in the sun this afternoon enjoying the gentle winter sun and outside, I hear the sound of a 7-year-old heart patient running around, almost finished with his recovery.
I can think of better things to do rather than ordering Checkers Sixty 60 for some patients, and I would rather be sipping a cocktail in a boardroom than be picking up a patient from hospital, but if that meant that I would miss out on all these other miracles, triumphs, tragedies and witness the strength of the human spirit I have the privilege to see, I would always choose this. Every day.