‘
Their first patient,’ continued Mike, ‘was a black man who had been stabbed in the arm after a fight in the township. Etienne had received instructions from one of the interns to inject him with 1.4 million units of an antibiotic Bicillin—to prevent an overwhelming infection. One of the senior medical students had cleaned his infected stab wound and described how to inject. Your father and Etienne discussed how to place the injection in the patient’s buttocks—upper outer quadrant to avoid the sciatic nerve—like it was a major operation. The patient, sensing that he was somewhat of a sacrificial lamb on the altar of medical research, was wide eyed at the discussion. That he could only grasp certain English words was perhaps both fortunate and unfortunate. I tried to calm him down but that just seemed to make it worse.’
‘
Most of the poor blacks in the townships had never experienced white medicine,’ said Sibokwe. ‘They much preferred going to the Sangoma for traditional African herbal medicine, despite it having very little efficacy. The Sangoma were quite antagonistic to white medicine, as it threatened to undermine their authority and so they often spread the rumour in the townships that white doctors stole your spirit. Many therefore were hugely anxious, like this first patient of your father’s and Etienne.’
‘
That’s absolutely right, and when Etienne decided that he was going to be the doctor in this situation, he jabbed the needle into the patient’s backside with the extra force of inexperience. The patient let out a blood-curdling scream, and the room in the caravan was plunged into darkness. From where the patient had fallen on the floor, he then called out in a terrified voice, “Am I dead?” repeatedly. We could see little in the dark and were unsure how to proceed. Fortunately, one of the senior medical students, having experienced a situation like this before, came to the rescue.’
‘
What did he do?’ said Christian.
‘
The patient, in reacting to the injection, had pulled out the only power lead to the caravan. The older medical student located the plug and re-established power. By this time, the patient was totally overwhelmed by the experience. He took one look at Jannie and Etienne and fled through the door, never, I suspect to be seen again—at least not by another white doctor,’ said Mike, grinning.
Christian was a little embarrassed but then joined in with the others’ laughter.
‘That was one of many shared moments they recounted, which allowed their friendship to surmount their growing ideological differences. Etienne had grown to see a greater need in the rural communities, while your father’s ambition and background demanded that he achieve in the university environment. I think he partly chose the university path because his father considered him a deserter of his Afrikaner heritage and had rejected him. His achievement was a way of trying to regain respect in his own right.’
‘
And these are the things they talked about on the way to Sibokwe’s?’ said Christian.
‘
Yes, and very rapidly, if I remember, as it was only a twenty minute trip to where Sibokwe lived. But back to that story. Sorry for the distraction, but I thought you might find that story with Etienne amusing. It was interesting to know that there was obviously a concern about the lack of health provision for blacks back then even if only through the medical students.
‘
OK, so where was I? That’s right; we were driving to Sibokwe’s and finally turned left down a dusty road where Etienne managed to stop his old bakkie outside a large white painted brick house. The Tamasala’s, as Sibokwe has told you, lived in a small shed attached to the garage. An elderly white couple, the Reimans, owned the large house. We made our way to the house and walked around the side before we knocked on the door of the shed attached to the garage. Kathleena, Sibokwe’s mother, greeted Etienne with a wonderfully warm smile and extended a shyly held out hand. As he shook hands, Etienne explained to Kathleena that Jannie was the surgeon and I was the anaesthetist who would look after Sibokwe in Cape Town. I remember that the door was so low that your father had to stoop to get in, and once inside our eyes needed to adjust to the relative darkness. The only natural light was from a small window at the back of the room. There was a little wood fire in the corner and several schoolbooks on a small desk. We could see that it was really one room in which there was a table and three beds. A small blanket served as a divider between two of the beds, which we imagined separated the children’s beds from Kathleena’s. Once our eyes had adjusted, Jannie asked Kathleena about Sibokwe’s illness and when she had first noticed that he had become sick. I remember clearly her reply.’
‘Master, he started to get tired about six months ago. It was as though he was carrying a huge burden, and he wasn’t his normal happy self. Shortly after that I noticed his eyes a little yellow.’
‘It was about three months ago when Kathleena brought Sibokwe to see me,’ explained Etienne.
‘Kathleena then explained that the white woman that she worked for had also noticed that Sibokwe was not bringing the full load of wood into the white house for the fire. Sibokwe was trusted and was allowed to take the wood into the white house and stack it next to the fireplace. One of Sibokwe’s other chores, which he shared with his two brothers and sisters, was to trim the edges of the white woman’s garden twice a week. However, his brothers and sisters had recently complained that he was not doing his share. They thought he was getting lazy as he got older.’
‘
Perhaps I can take over from here,’ said Sibokwe, ‘as I remember coming in and seeing your father, Mike and Dr Truter standing there at that time.’
Christian looked at Sibokwe, and could see by the strained look on his face that it was not going to be easy for him to relate what he went through.
‘I remember that your father was very tall. When I walked in that day, his head almost seemed to be touching the roof of our house. Next to him I could see Dr Truter and Mike and they all stood looking at me for quite some time before they spoke.’
‘Nice to meet you, Sibokwe,’ said your father. ‘I’ve just been talking to your mother and she was telling me about when you started to first feel unwell and that you are very tired.’
‘I told him I had little energy and that the other children were calling me yellow eyes. They then took me down to the medical clinic where your father examined me. I can remember him looking into my eyes and feeling my abdomen and remarking on how big my liver had become. He then turned to my mother and told her that I should come back with them on the plane. That way they could do all the blood tests that they needed very quickly and start looking for a new liver for me because they didn’t have much time to lose. I can still see the tears welling up in my mother’s eyes and then your father very softly and kindly spoke to her,’ said Sibokwe.
‘Kathleena, I know it’s going to be really difficult, but this is the only way that there’s any hope of saving Sibokwe.’
‘That must have been so difficult for your mother and you, Sibokwe,’ said Christian.
‘
Each time I think about it, it amazes me how my mother dealt with the situation. As a ten-year-old boy, I had no idea that I might die. I just thought that these big white doctors were here to make me well and I’d soon be back with my mother. My mother, though, must have understood that she may never see me again. However, she has an amazing faith, as you’ll find out when you meet her, which has pulled her through many things, including my transplants and my father’s death. I still remember her reaction and words that day when she spoke to your father.’
‘We’re strong, Master Jannie, and I have prayed for you to come and save my little boy. I know that God has sent you and that you will make him better. Dr Truter has said that you’re a wonderful surgeon, and when I was praying about it, I was reminded of a hymn. I think that was His special word to me, and so these are tears of joy for God answering my prayer. “When peace, like a River attendeth my way, when sorrows, like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul”.’
‘Those words sustained me through the transplant, and if I’m not careful they still bring tears to my eyes,’ said Sibokwe. ‘But I do remember your father and Mike looking very uncomfortable when my mother started talking about God and her faith.’
‘
What you picked up on, Sibokwe, was true,’ Mike said. ‘I’ve never been convinced about how much of a role God plays in our lives, and we were overwhelmed by your mother’s amazing faith.’
‘
I’d have thought my father would’ve understood, given that the Afrikaner background was so biblically based.’
‘
I think there’s a huge difference between having the Bible as your reference point and having a living faith as my mother had. When you meet her, Christian, I think you’ll understand more of what I mean; she remains a wonderful example of God’s love in action.’
Christian looked across at Mike and saw that he clearly was still uncomfortable talking about things like faith.
‘She sounds an inspiration, Sibokwe; it will be great to meet her.’
Mike waited until Christian had finished and then continued
. ‘We knew that a transplant for Sibokwe was the only solution. He had a rare condition called Alagille syndrome, in which the bile ducts are only few and partly formed. That’s the reason why, eventually, at around ten or twelve years of age, someone like Sibokwe has liver failure.’
‘
So it was lucky that Dr Truter had identified this and contacted my father.’
‘
Yes, but it was still a very difficult decision to make even though we knew that without accepting Sibokwe he would die. I can remember clearly the conversation that your father and I had with Etienne Truter.’
‘Etienne,’ said Jannie, ‘you realise that there is a high risk involved if we transplant Sibokwe. He will become something of a cause célèbre for the liberal lefties, and that’s without all the surgical problems and logistics. While I have come to see some of the inequities of apartheid, I’m not that comfortable with the liberal left that I want to embrace them, or even be their hero, if this succeeds.’
‘Clearly, you haven’t taken on all the liberal principles at the University of Cape Town then,’ said Etienne, pleased at Jannie’s discomfort.
‘I don’t suppose such a case, if successful, would damage the reputation of a growing transplantation programme, would it?’
‘Etienne,’ said Jannie, trying to ignore the obvious attempt at flattery, ‘this will create a burden for you also. He’ll need to be carefully monitored for rejection of the transplant and his medication will require supervision. Even if he’s intelligent enough to self-medicate, he’ll still need supervision in case his body rejects the transplant, and, if he dies, the black activists will see it as white experimentation with you at the forefront. Then there is the other side of the coin you’ll probably be seen by the whites here as a Kaffir lover. Have you thought of that?’
‘That’s already started,’ said Etienne. ‘When news spread that I had been treating the son of a so-called black activist, appointments from some of my white patients ceased. There’s already been an attempt to brand me a Kaffir lover; someone painted that on the surgery wall this week. Amazingly, though, by midday of the day that that happened, some of my non-white patients had whitewashed over it.’
‘Didn’t you inform the police?’
‘I did but I realised that that was going to be next to useless. They indicated that it was my fault for treating the son of a black activist and that they didn’t have enough police to give me twenty-four hour protection.’
‘There was a long pause, I remember, after Etienne completed that story, as if something quietly changed inside all of us. We decided that irrespective of the surgical and political issues and risks, the overriding fact was that we had a young boy who would die unless we tried to transplant him. It was one of those moments when we all realised why we had done medicine—to protect and preserve life whenever we could irrespective of race or colour or cost,’ said Mike.
‘Let’s do it,’ your father said.
‘As we drove towards Kathleena’s house,’ Mike said, ‘I can remember your father, who was obviously fascinated by Kathleena’s faith, turned to her and asked her where she got her strength and faith from. With her wonderful smile, she responded:
‘Well, Master Jannie, I think it has always been there, at least for as long as I can remember. When Sibokwe’s father was still alive, I can remember going to church on a Sunday, and what a happy day it was. Everyone would be praising God for all the things He was doing in our lives, and even though we didn’t have much we seemed to be so blessed. In addition, we were never so happy as when we were all together talking to God as though He was our Father. He always seems to answer prayers and confirm to us that He is real.’
‘But your husband, Thompson, was killed by the police,’ Jannie said. ‘Surely you couldn’t have praised God for that?’