Last week we chatted about stones and so today, we move away from the stone age, gallop right past all the other ages (bronze, iron, medieval, industrial and classical) and meet here, at the modern or intelligence age. (Yes, I know I’m blonde and therefore not really qualified to write on said age).
When the blog landed last week, my gallbladder was still firmly imbedded somewhere near my liver. Today though, I am gallbladder-less and there is a tiny bottle on my bedside table with particularly gross little stones in it (which I of course plan to sell to the highest bidding sangoma in Hillbrow’s muthi-market once I am up and about). Looking at these tiny stones, I am amazed at how incredibly sick they made me and the organ they called home. There is a saying about how “the small things are actually the big things”. After my being so sick, it really rang true for me. It is, without a doubt, small things that caused my health problem, but also small things that carried me through the last eleven days.
I recently listened to a podcast in which Simon Sinek and Trevor Noah chat about small talk. I am not a fan of small talk, but I totally agree with their conclusion about it. Trevor Noah emphasised that small talk creates shared realities, serving as a foundation for deeper conversations. Banter builds bridges by finding common ground. Discussing the weather or everyday experiences acts as a social lubricant, making it easier to approach complex topics later on, or in my case, to build relationships one small chat or encounter at a time.
Let’s rewind to the night I was rushed to ER. Picture this like a movie. I am being pushed through two swinging doors bursting open into the trauma department. It is all bright lights on this Friday night with lots chaos and noise. I am convinced I am dying. The next minute, everything slows down. A gentle light refocuses what I see, music changes to a nostalgic orchestral tune, and in slow motion a dignified man (picture Madiba in scrubs) turns around and walks straight to me. Despite my terror, I say his name: “Phineas!” I remembered him right away. In 2020, before the vaccine, when COVID scared us right out of our logical minds, Phineas stayed at our lodge (along with many other virus-stricken Netcare employees). He never really saw me because I was in a hazmat suit for his entire stay, but when our eyes locked now and I said: “ Phineas, you were in our care in 2020!” he was so wonderfully politically correct and immediately said, “I will look after you, not because I know you, but because you need me.” And he did exactly that. He looked after me with such tenderness, calm and brilliance. It made the whole scary ordeal so much more human and humane, being cared for by someone with which I’d had many “small talk” moments. It made a huge difference to my state of mind.
I wonder if these connections we form, over hundreds of tiny conversations, are the building blocks for a sense of authenticity? Maybe it allows us to be vulnerable? On Sunday afternoon while I was lying in my hospital bed, one of the most incredible physios I know came to see the patient across from me. She was surprised to see me, and probably more surprised when I burst into tears. I was sore and sad and hungry… and the hospital food was, well, just sad. She gave me a hug, dried my tears and asked what I wanted. I told her I wanted my mom’s toast, with butter and Bovril. Not an easy request. 30 minutes, later she showed up after arranging for her legend of a son to bring Bovril from home and somehow somewhere finding me toast. She fed me bit by bit, allowed me to cry (more) and helped me drink a cup of tea. In that tender moment, I was grateful for the hundreds of uncomplicated chats we’ve had over many years that slowly deepened into a relationship in which I could feel safe enough to demand Bovril toast.
Throughout the days in the hospital I listened to various conversations and micro-moments between patients and their visitors, healthcare workers and patients, the ward-hostesses and the cleaners, all of them busy sewing a tapestry of belonging. There are certain threads that are brighter and stronger, but they all form part of where we belong in this world.
The afternoon after my surgery, Olida ( Sunninghill Recovery Lodge’s formiddable manager ) Whatsapped me and asked if she could come see me the next day. I said, “No, please come today.” I wanted her and I wanted my team – the people with whom I have a hundred silly little conversations daily. I wanted the be around the guys I sit next to at the lunch table, tease in the kitchen, get frustrated with when the gate breaks, cry with when a patient dies and laugh with when a confused patient demands we send a fax from his oxygen machine. All the staff came at one point or another, and they all did what they do best, while making me feel loved and treasured. They did not need to “tend” to me. The Netcare staff were beyond capable and efficient, but it is different when someone you love and know gently puts your pjs on and rubs cream on your feet.
These small, precious moments are what we experience every day. In the spectacularly insignificant moments of brushing someone’s hair, giving encouragement to take a step on crutches, or just holding someone’s hand while they rest, we build our lives. We lay the foundations of relationships. We borrow courage from one another to carry on with tiny steps, small talks, little gestures. I agree with the author of the Alchemist, Paulo Coelho who says “The simple things are also the most extraordinary things, and only the wise can see them.”