It’s probably not the best Belgian expression to introduce what follows, but I like it, so I’m throwing it in anyway!
There’s laughing, and then there’s laughing. But pissing down my back and telling me it’s raining? That’s not funny anymore.
Here’s a little story I wanted to share with you. So, if you have a few minutes, sit down, grab a coffee, a Coke, or a focaccia, and make yourself comfortable.
P.S. The whole planet now knows that I have a sensitive bowel, but honestly, nobody really cares! So it’s all good.
Moving forward
This photo was taken in the hospital. I’m not posting it here to join the great voyeurism parade of our time. I think it’s because I rarely see my face looking vulnerable. An emergency hospital admission to monitor my intestine. It’s all good, I’m back home now and everything is fine.
I was watching TV (Télématin, that’s my weekend show when I wake up before everyone else), and I came across a guy who had just published a book called “I’m Old and I Don’t Give a Damn: A Manifesto Against Ageism in the Workplace.”
Before I knew it, I was in my study. I had to get this out, as Saule would say in one of his latest songs, which I highly recommend.
At the hospital, I witnessed a few situations that gave me stomach aches more than once (and my belly was already in pretty bad shape), the kind that make you want to throw up, the kind that make you think: I never want this to happen to me… I’d rather die.
No, I really don’t want this to happen to me… I’d rather die.
So on Tuesday, because there were no beds available, I couldn’t get a private room. Yeah, ever since I became self-employed, I’ve been paying for DKV insurance for exactly that, but if you know me, you know I don’t really care and I’d never make a scene about it. There simply weren’t enough beds in surgery, so I ended up sharing a room with someone I’ll call Claudine. It was 11:15 p.m. She was already fast asleep. The door opened, every light in the room was switched on. I later learned that the exact same thing had happened to her the night before. Unsurprisingly, Claudine didn’t greet me with a big smile, and I don’t blame her. She apologised later.
I woke up the next morning and everyone was taking great care of me, which wasn’t exactly the case for Claudine. Why? Probably because Claudine is elderly. The skin on her hands and forearms tells the story. That morning, she was struggling to speak. Her voice was deep, she wore hearing aids, but they didn’t work very well. Later, she told me she would have preferred having a small device implanted directly inside her ear, but she had been told it wouldn’t be possible in her case. I even started doubting whether that information was true.
She was having trouble speaking because fluid had accumulated near her lungs. To give you an idea, that morning they drained 1.5 litres of fluid from her body, fluid in which traces of metastases were found. Claudine has cancer. That’s when I learned it.
A doctor walks into the room. A young one. Yep, a young one. Under thirty, I would guess. She speaks to Claudine, but Claudine doesn’t understand everything. Since Claudine is quite direct, she tells her: “Could you please speak more slowly?”
The truth is, I couldn’t understand everything the doctor was saying either. She was speaking… way too fast. Right then, I thought to myself: damn, getting old is tough. She explained to Claudine that they were going to drain fluid from around her lungs and then perform a scan.
I fell asleep. To be fair, I hadn’t slept much in the previous 48 hours.
Later, two residents came in like cowboys. Their tone of voice said a lot about how they viewed patients. Not at all like my current family doctor, or the doctor who treated me when I was a child, or my gastroenterologist, or Claudine’s gynaecologist.
No, these two residents spoke loudly and quickly, and Claudine was clearly unsettled by it all. “DON’T MOVE, OKAY!”
I heard the more senior resident whisper to the trainee beside him: “Don’t tell XXX that you performed the procedure yourself. She won’t be happy to find out I made that decision without her approval.”
Then he laughed.
“Haha, if there’s a complication, I’ll just say it was your fault.”
Excuse my language, but what the actual hell.
In case you hadn’t noticed… Claudine is right there, and you’re draining metastatic fluid from her body! She has cancer, and just because she doesn’t hear very well doesn’t mean she hears nothing. And anyway, apparently nobody cares. This is a woman who has lived, lived well, who told me she spent her entire life standing up for herself, speaking up when others stayed silent.
And I said nothing.
They left in a rush. Honestly, I don’t think there were even ten seconds for something as simple as: “Are you okay, ma’am? We’ll come back and check on you later.”
Later, Claudine said to me: “Oh no, I forgot to thank them. They were kind.”
Claudine can finally go home. While I’m still there, she receives a call from her medical pedicurist. Claudine had postponed her appointment from Monday to Thursday, thinking she would already be out of the hospital. She has some issues with a few toenails and, as a matter of fact, she thinks they look quite awful! She’s a classy lady.
“There were some complications.” Just those few words should have prompted an “Oh really? And how are you doing?”
Instead, Claudine got a proper telling-off because, you know, blah blah blah. The nurse on duty at that moment walks into the room, sees the look on my face and asks what’s wrong. I explain that I simply don’t understand how anyone can respond like that. The nurse listens for a few seconds and says, “Well, I’m going to pick up that phone and tell her exactly what I think!” Then she turns to Claudine and says, “You should find yourself another pedicurist, madam!”
I’m thirsty, so I walk to the vending machine at the end of the corridor. You can even pay by card. I buy two bottles of water, one for me and one for Claudine.
As it turns out, Claudine lives not far from me. During the day, she tells me that she keeps “losing” all her doctors. They all stop practising or move on. She no longer has a family doctor. She doesn’t trust the person she’s currently seeing. She just doesn’t feel right about her.
I tell her I’ll give her my doctor’s number.
While she’s taking a shower, I write down my doctor’s phone number and my own. I hand her the note along with the bottle of water and tell her I can’t promise I’ll always be available immediately, but if she ever needs anything…
That smile. Honestly. I even offered to drive her home. After all, I was being discharged too. She declined because she had already arranged for a volunteer organisation to take her home.
Benja calls me. I leave, give her a kiss on the cheek, maybe two or three. I turn around several times as I walk away.
Take care of yourself, Claudine.
I have to admit, I’m waiting for a message from her.
As for me, two members of staff, an assistant and a nurse, had been told that I had undergone surgery. I hadn’t. I was simply there for observation.
_-°°°-_
I’m telling you this because those two days scared me. Not because I want to criticise the hospital system. EVERY SYSTEM IS STRUGGLING.
I’m writing this because, for the first time in my life, at 47 years old, I felt a genuine fear. A fear of living through what Claudine is going through. I don’t care that her voice is deep and authoritative. Some people might even call her bossy. I don’t care that she’s hard of hearing. I don’t care that she didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms. She apologised for that anyway.
She has cancer. She lives alone. She handles everything on her own.
She is a human being.
Everything I’ve written here really happened. Why am I posting this? Because the world needs more humanity. And because if you can take the time to listen, to care, to talk to someone today, tomorrow, someday, and simply give a little bit of yourself, the world will be a better place for it.
That’s it
Not easy to squeeze a call to action in after a story like this. There’s no real need for one, actually. But if you feel like giving me a call, there’s a very good chance I’ll pick up.
Yep, I’ve got a ridiculously soft heart that beats way too hard and gallons of tears hidden somewhere inside.