A lot has been said about public hospitals, but when my father needed treatment in a state hospital recently, I was shocked and surprised at the reaction.
‘SA Hospitals in Crisis’; ‘Hospitals “Neglect Patients”’; ‘Zuma Concerned About Healthcare’; ‘Baby Deaths:
My Father Falls Ill
As far as I know the last time I was in a public hospital was the day I was born. Not so for my parents and millions of men and women around
It all started on my birthday this year. My uncle, my father’s brother, died on my birthday a few years ago and this year I had invited my parents over for dinner. It was a Thursday evening and that was the last time my father had a morsel to chew on or a drop of water.
This was not the first time this had happened. He is prone to ulcers and we blamed it on his heavy-meat diet and taste for highly refined and processed foods and carbonated drinks. Usually after a few days it clears and though he promises to eat healthier once he is well again, he goes right back to his old eating habits.
The Panic Begins and the Sickness Intensifies
However, this time around my dad was not getting better. He lay in bed for five days regurgitating everything he ate. He could not even suck on ice cubes. On Tuesday evening my mother phoned me in a panic asking me to come home as she was worried that my dad was in a serious condition. He was dehydrated and needed intravenous therapy.
The problem: my parents have no medical aid, for various reasons. My mother wanted either my sister or I to drive him to the private hospital just around the corner. She was hoping they would give him IV therapy and then release him. There was no way we could have afforded to pay the substantial medical bills.
On the other hand, my sister and I argued that when the doctors at the private clinic saw the state of our father they would insist he be admitted. Unfortunately, hospital administration would insist on proof of medical aid or a down payment of at least R5000.
The Choice to go to a
We agreed that he had to go to a public hospital. Having heard various stories from medical staff who work in the public sector, we knew it would not be so simple. Medical staff is under enormous pressure to treat the thousands of patients who enter their doors everyday.
Last year doctors in public institutions went on strike complaining of poor working conditions and measly pay for their 36-hour shifts. I know from my speaking to doctors that with so many patients needing attention they are forced to give priority to those in dire need. I also know that if we had taken my father in our own car, he would not have been attended to.
Phoning then Waiting for an Ambulance
He would need an ambulance. Somehow a van emblazoned with the red letters and a screaming siren speaks louder than a passenger car, even if both are carrying a patient of equally ill health. We were worried about leaving him in bed for a few hours more but we knew we had to call an ambulance if he were to have any hope of being treated quickly.
At 5.55pm my sister made the first call. By 7pm we had not heard anything so we tried again. We were put through to the main call-centre, who then put us through to dispatch where we could learn our place in the queue. Several times we were cut off. We kept trying on the hour every hour, and each time we were told that the ambulance was on its way.
When we explained that the patient had been ill for five days and hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink in that period, in their eyes his state did not quite compare with those who had been in accidents, stabbed or shot and needed care right away. We just had to wait.
A Short Visit to
Just before 11pm that night the ambulance arrived and took him to the
The doctor told my mother that my father would have to be redirected to
The doctor on call at
Entering
It was now day six without water or food. I was surprised that, as weak as my father was, he managed to shuffle along into the car and through the corridors of this massive institution.
Situated in Parktown, this looming building seems like a womb that spews both good and bad every moment of every day. There is security but they don’t really check who goes in. No one manned the reception desk and there were no clear signs relating where we would have to go; but it was busy.
People of every race moved through its doors. It was so easy to tell those who had come for treatment and those who worked there. A brisk walk, an air of confidence and often laughter quickly showed the doctors, interns, nurses and non-clinical staff. Shuffling, deformities, a supreme air of sadness, lazing eyes differentiated the sick.
Waiting for Hours in Queues for a Consultation
We went up to Level six where my parents had to wait in a queue to see the sister first who would then decide whether or not to send us to the doctor. It was a small waiting room that only allowed patients and there were many.
Many times I was told to move to the reception area around the corner even though I was worried about leaving my father alone. In the end, my mother managed to get permission to sit with him.
When he did finally see a nurse and told her his situation, the nurse, a woman in her late forties with a condescending manner, told my father he was lying. When we confronted her about her attitude, she said she didn’t tell my father he had been lying about being turned away from Hillbrow Hospital but rather she didn’t believe him or rather didn’t believe that any hospital would turn him away.
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She obviously hasn’t read the newspapers or listened to news to hear of the many who are turned away, such as the man who had his hand chopped off and was turned away by both Charlotte Maxeke (Johannesburg General Hospital) and Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospitals, and needed to be airlifted to Steve Biko Hospital in Pretoria.
My mother pushed on trying to get her to understand how sick he was and what had happened the night before but the nurse went into the formulae of the public hospital system. My mother had to stop her and warn her that she too was a nurse with the same qualifications and had worked many years more than she had.
At this time I was watching my father keel over in fatigue and weakness. I was spitting.
The lack of compassion, the abrupt manner, the dirty walls, sick patients walking about aimlessly, the loud cacophonous laughter of nurses reverberating off walls and the suffocating smell was getting to me.
Patients Have Rights in State Hospitals
As I waited in the reception area I noticed a referendum on the wall stating patients’ rights: the right to treatment, the right to confidentiality, the right to complain and on and on it went but it seemed none of it truly applied.
A woman in pink tights who could barely walk, being assisted by two family members, friends, or perhaps they were neighbours, was making her way from the adult casualty. Where was she going, I wondered? She obviously needed help right away but no one rushed to help.
The Long Wait for X-rays
By the way time my father had seen the doctor we had been there six hours. It was the same doctor who had prescribed the antacid. This time he ordered X-rays and he suspected cancer of the oesophagus.
It was another trek to another level where we had to make an appointment for x-rays. The earliest we could get was 11 November. It meant another week without food or water.
My mother had to beg the administrator to get us a date sooner. She managed to squeeze us in for the next day. Another day without water or food. At this point we were frantic, but my father was trying to be strong. The next day my parents woke up very early as is often the case when going to state hospitals.
He is Finally Admitted in the
We waited the whole day as my father had his x-rays done then we returned to the doctor who would need to see them and explain the next step. He still hadn’t gotten any medication and he was in pain. After numerous back-and-forths, they finally admitted him and gave him the IV therapy he badly needed.
The next day he had a gastroscopy where they insert a camera into his stomach through his mouth. The news was positive. It was neither cancer nor a stricture, just some pressure that had closed his food passage. He wouldn’t have died from that per se, but its consequences would have killed him.
Money in Public Hospitals
During this time as we sat at his bedside and watched him have his first sips of water and tentatively try some soup, we talked about how the state’s coffers are being plundered.
It was clear that all the money surreptitiously placed in ministers’ pockets – our money – the money we use to pay taxes – could easily uplift the ailing health system in our country. The millions of rands could be used to pay hospital staff, improve the food in canteens and hospital kitchens, increase hospital equipment and supplies and train more staff in the arenas of nursing and customer service.
I was angry at the fact that we, as South African citizens, are not angry enough. When will we begin to see that we do not work for the government but that it works for us? When will we stand up and say ‘no more’ to corruption, to poor service, to badly-paid and overworked hospital staff?
Changing the
In the ward that my father was admitted, the nurses were pleasant. It was unlike anything I had ever heard about nurses in state hospitals. It made me smile however, when my father’s drip was not working and they refused to re-insert it. Apparently only doctors do that.
My sister walked in and offered to put it up for my father but the nurses politely declined. She wasn’t hospital staff they said, even if she was a doctor.
That’s what is lacking, I thought – simple logic – and if you can’t find it on the ground level, it means someone in the higher echelons is not reinforcing it and that’s where we must go – not only to the streets but to the top.
My dad is still weak, but he is doing much better and eating again.
