Nonku was sitting up in the hospital bed, supported by a cluster of different pillows, her face wrapped in bandages and her body squeezed into a post-surgical garment.
I perched on the edge of the bed. There really was nowhere else to sit. Each surface was covered with a gift or flowers or a basket of delights. “The staff tell me you would like to see me,” I said. She nodded and asked me to read her the cards on her gifts as her eyes were too swollen to see properly.
I was surprised at the lengthy paragraphs some of the cards contained. A few from colleagues and business associates wished her a speedy recovery, but friends and family’s messages included quotes and Bible verses. Her husband declared undying love, mentioning how her pain hurt him too. In other letters, he wrote that he could not wait to hold her in his arms again and that she will always be his greatest blessing. Her congregation (sender of a few baskets and enormous teddy) delivered a sermon on hope and healing I had to wade through.
The common theme was that the gift-givers were inspired by her bravery and in awe of her fight to recover. They mentioned her sacrifices and courage.
Nonku nodded while I read and even shed a tear when I described the drawings her children sent, included in one envelope. I was glad her eyes were swollen so that she could not see my expression.
You see, Nonku was not here because she survived a life-saving intervention… she had a face lift, tummy tuck and bum lift!!!
It was clear that everyone, including her husband, was under the impression that she was in Johannesburg to cut out or fix whatever was supposedly killing her. I am not sure what she told her people – maybe that she had a tumour, an obstructed bowel or wayward organ. She knew that I was very well aware of the fact that she had elective plastic surgery, but even with me, she played the dapper survivor and fighter of a dreaded disease.
After my readings, I helped her into her heavy Versace dressing gown, and I pressed the call button for the carers to take her for a walk. Nonku stayed with us for a few weeks before she flew back to Botswana. In that time more gifts arrived, she thoroughly enjoyed Sandton’s online shopping opportunities and spent hours talking to friends and family on Zoom, with the camera turned off, of course.
A few weeks after Nonku went home, our team was sitting around our lunchtime table when Nthabiseng showed us a friend request she had received from Nonku on Facebook. I looked at the profile and the picture was of Nonku dressed in a tailored, glittering golden jacket addressing a congregation on a microphone. Her description stated: “A woman of God, healing after Satan’s attack.”
We all had a lot to say…….but we didn’t. Our role, we remind ourselves often, is not to judge. Our role is only to care for the patient and to meet the patient where they are at and to protect their dignity. If Nonku chose to tell her people an exaggerated lie, that was on her. We did what we were employed to do: we cared for her, full stop.
I have to admit, in the end, somewhere between the Versace dressing gown, the Gucci shopping bags and the endless cellophane-wrapped baskets, I found myself enjoying our conversations. She was highly intelligent, funny and unexpectedly kind. Because of this, I wondered: was Nonku deceitful, or simply terrified of being judged for making a choice about her own body.
I have no right to assess whether Nonku was justified in making up a story to hide her surgery. I can ask questions about why our society promotes a certain way women should look, and then, if they can’t achieve it naturally and easily, they are painted as fake. Don’t we all (maybe not to Nonku’s degree) edit our stories and choose what we show the world?
I curate my life – all the time. I only post photos on good-hair-days. I don’t tell people about my hurt when a friend lets me down. I don’t admit when I am swallowed up in jealousy when others’ lives look so much easier. I don’t share my insecurities on social media. Is that really different from hiding a nip-and-tuck?
Perhaps Nonku simply took what most of us already do and turned the volume up. Whether she acted out of fear, shame or a longing to be admired, I’ll never know.
What I do know is that beneath the bandages, beneath the carefully constructed story, beneath the designer labels and the mountains of flowers, there was a woman who laughed easily, adored her children and desperately wanted to be accepted.
Maybe that’s all any of us really want.