Picture this. It is July 2021. Covid’s third wave has hit the country with devastating effects. As with many things on this continent, we arrived late to the COVID drama – on what some jokingly call ‘African time’ – but when we did, the storm hit with devastating force. More people died from Covid in July 2021 in South Africa than at any other time during the pandemic. When Delta landed, it was like a wildfire that tried to devour an already exhausted nation that had barely got through the first two waves intact. Our hospitals were full, the ICU’s were turning people away, and the shortage of concentrators and ventilators were mentioned on front pages daily. People were scrambling to get the vaccine that had arrived only a few months before. There were wild conspiracy theories and Ivermectin was hailed the new super drug.
It was during this chaotic time that I met Peter.
The referral from Peter’s doctor was that he was an 85-year-old man who had contracted COVID-19, and as a result, had developed a blood clot which had to be removed surgically. He was in hospital for weeks (in a general ward as the ICU was for those younger, and stronger and with better chances of survival) and the doctors needed to discharge him. At that time, just about all our patients at the Lodge were recovering from COVID and we prepared room 9 for Peter.
I personally went to fetch him. I remember the anxiety of entering those COVID wards in hospital very clearly. Everyone was exhausted, masked up and kitted out in a variety of PPE’s. It felt like war, fighting an enemy you didn’t quite understand with methods and weapons you are not convinced were up to the task. Peter was lying in bed, and as I entered, made a wildly inappropriate, but very funny comment, in his heavy Yorkshire accent that I cannot repeat here. He was propped up on pillows and eager to get out of hospital, but too weak to get out of the bed. It took me and another hazmatted person, all our strength to get him onto a wheelchair, carefully avoiding the catheter and oxygen tubes.
When we arrived at the Lodge, Peter’s wife Gwen was waiting for us in the carpark. She was not allowed to visit him while he was in hospital, and we could see her holding back the tears as we got his limp body out of my car. She was used to her husband being strong and independent. He was an exceptional physio therapist with a strong, ripped body – in fact so ripped that he did modeling until he was in his late thirties. She did not recognize this shadow of a man. Within days of Peter’s arrival, his care was changed from “recovery” to “palliative.” He was too old, too weak, too ill to get better. His wound would not heal and he had a negative pressure dressing, which literally sucked the life out of him. But for some reason, and against all odds, Peter did not die. He made a full and fabulous recovery after 75 days with us and will celebrate his 90th birthday next month.
I want to tell you that the reason Peter recovered was because he had a resilient will to live and was determined to fight, but that isn’t true. He repeatedly told us that he wanted to die. He moaned a lot. He was not particularly positive either. He swore and complained often and loudly, and to be honest, he was extremely dramatic. He did not have an intense desire to live to see a child graduate or a grandchild’s birth. His only son had died a decade before. He had no one to forgive, no book to finish writing, and no big purpose to achieve. He adored his wife, but she would have been okay without him. He was 85 and had had a good innings. He lived his life and he lived it well. He could have died knowing that. I know Victor Frankl says we are able to achieve just about anything if we have purpose and meaning, but despite not needing to cling to these things, dearest Peter survived anyway.
Now that I think back about his demands, I giggle because they were theatrical to say the least. We bribed him to eat, begged him to exercise, cajoled him into having physio, and even though he got all sorts of other infections, we got him through those too. He made so much noise that we were nervous people would think we were torturing him. He would press his nurse call button for the smallest of request and was wonderfully unashamed of how he needed us for the tiniest acts. Despite being so difficult, he was a delight. His humour was endearing and his wit made us forgive him for being so tiring. I did not think he would live, but he did, and I am so grateful. He has become a dear friend, and so has his wife. We visit each other and chat often. He is still dramatic and theatrical and gets me in stitches. In fact, he is in stitches too right now because he had to have his finger amputated after slamming it in the car door. Yes, Peter did not only recover fully, he still drives.
I don’t understand why some people get to live, and some people don’t. During that awful July in 2021, a physio we all loved took her own life on our premises. She overdosed in her car, and I found her lifeless and ice cold body outside our gate. She saw too much heartache in the COVID wards. A young dad of 32 died and his baby was just three months old. He was in the room next to Peter. We heard stories daily of acquaintances, sometimes friends, that died hooked up to ventilators. We also heard about people who recovered, with everything stacked against them. Since then, I realized strength cannot determine survival, and neither can the sheer willpower or force of spirit. It almost never makes sense. And maybe it’s not meant to?
This week I popped in to visit Peter and Gwen. I knew he wanted some corduroy pants and couldn’t find any (he might have made a miraculous recovery, but he still cannot shop online). I found a beautiful khaki pair and took it across so that we could see if it fits. Just there, in the lounge, Peter whipped his shoes and sweat pants off and Gwen and I dressed him. Four years later, and we all just fell back into our old habits and his needing us to help him dress. He looked lovely, struck a pose for me and said, as expected, something wonderfully inappropriate and rude.
I do not know or understand why Peter lived, and other people didn’t. I will never comprehend why that gorgeous physio with so much to give chose to die, or why the young father with the young baby had to die. What I do know, is that healing and recovery is never linear, survival doesn’t always look like resilient courage, and sometimes the most reluctant fighters make the most remarkable come-backs. Peter didn’t live because he deserved it, or wanted it more, or fought harder. He lived because, for some reason, he could. And that is enough. As we near his 90th birthday, I am reminded that sometimes grace comes in unexpected forms – messy, loud, dramatic, and full of life.