On my way to the ward, my heart thudded and multiple thoughts jostled in my brain.
The first was that this was not what I had signed up for. Soweto could be a dangerous place, especially in the wrong parts, but I had always thought we were safe within the hospital walls.
The fear in Sister Ndlovu’s voice told me that this was not the case. I tried to phone Chloe for back-up but was transferred to her joyless voicemail.
I groaned.
In our psychiatry block we had learned how to deal with violent patients, but there had never been a lecture on how to approach violent family members. As I raced to the ward, I realised that I didn’t have a plan.
By the time I arrived, a sizeable crowd had formed around the bed of the patient concerned. I remembered him vaguely from the previous evening. An elderly gentleman who had come in confused, likely due to pneumonia.
We had started him on antibiotics and oxygen, and he seemed a bit better on rounds, although still disorientated. It was likely that he would need at least a few days of treatment in the ward before we would consider discharging him.
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I made my way through the crush of nurses and patients that had formed around his bed.
Two huge men dressed in matching jeans each had two imposing guns tucked into their belts, and were pulling leads and cords and the oxygen mask off the patient. He was sitting up, looking a bit dazed, but repeating over and over, ‘I want to go home …’
I approached the men with what I hoped was an air of calm and authority, but I was very frightened. I hoped my voice didn’t betray my fear.
‘Good morning. I’m Dr McAlpine. I’m the intern looking after this patient. Can I help you?’ is what I hoped I would say.
‘Uh … er … Hi! What’s going on here?’ is what I actually said.
Or squeaked.
‘Are you the doctor?’ An imposing and intimidating voice from one of the large men silenced the entire ward immediately. It was a voice that commanded deference through the implicit threat of violence.
‘I … am. What can I do for you?’
‘This is our father. We’re taking him home.’
‘But … he’s sick. He has an infection in his lungs and he’s old. Without proper treatment, it could get worse.’
‘We’re leaving.’
At that moment, my phone rang. It was Chloe. I nearly fainted with relief. I walked to the side and answered.
‘Alastair? What’s going on?’
‘Chloe? Where are you?’
‘Just with my supervisor … Dr Simpson. Sorry, it went on a bit long. What’s up?’ I tried to explain the situation as best I could as I watched the elderly gentleman yank his IV line out of his arm, which them caused his arm to bleed.
‘Doctor! Come sort this out,’ the one intimidating man ordered.
Before I could react, a nurse hurried in obediently and placed a gauze over the exit site. ‘I don’t want you. I want him,’ he growled, nodding at me.
I raised my hand to try to buy myself some time while I explained the situation to Chloe.
‘Whatever happens, you can’t let him leave. He’s confused. He cannot sign a red slip.’
I glanced over and saw that he was, in fact, writing on a red slip the nurse was holding in front of him.
‘Just keep them occupied. I’m on my wa—’
Before I knew it, Chloe’s voice was gone, along with my phone.
One of the men had grabbed it and was tucking it into his pocket.
‘You don’t talk when my father is bleeding. You fix it.’ The humiliation burned, but I didn’t see what choice I had.
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One of the nurses thrust some gauze and a plaster into my hand. I approached the elderly man who was trembling and looking around like a bewildered cat.
‘I want to go home …’ he mumbled.
‘Okay, okay. I understand. Let me sort out that arm, okay? We don’t want you bleeding out before you make it to the parking lot.’
Once the gauze was secure, I turned again to face the men and cleared my throat.
‘I need my phone back now. It’s essential for other patients.’
The man who had taken it drew it out like a blade and slapped it into my hand.
‘Thank you. Now I know you say he wants to go home but I don’t know that your dad is in a state to sign that refusal of medical treatment form.’ I was pointing at the red slip.
‘Fine. He won’t sign it. But we’re still leaving.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea …’
The man glared at me. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
At that point, a nurse shuffled up to me. ‘Just let him go, Doctor. Please! We don’t want violence. Some of us live in the same community. He and his kids are bad men. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes. We don’t want to upset them.’
This is an edited extract from Prescription: Ice Cream: A Doctor's Journey to Discover What Matters by Alastair McAlpine (published by Pan Macmillan South Africa).
