Postmortem. Maria Phalime
babies. They lacked the cherubic chubbiness of full-term babies as they had missed out on the plumping up that normally happens during the final weeks of pregnancy. They looked almost too delicate to handle.
For these premature babies, survival was a very real challenge in their young lives, and their growth and development depended on the specialised care they received in the unit. The incubators were there to keep them warm as their lack of body fat made it very difficult for them to maintain their body temperature. In addition the incubators limited their risk of infection and helped to prevent excessive water loss. They were constantly monitored and each passing day represented an improvement in their overall chances of survival.
Though the neonatal unit was a centre of high-tech medicine, Mother Nature still played an important role. As the babies grew stronger they were transferred to the adjoining Kangaroo Mother Care Centre, where they were carried skin to skin on their mothers’ chests for most of the day. This skin-to-skin contact was as effective as the incubators in keeping the babies warm; in addition, the opportunity that mom and baby got to bond was an invaluable contributor to the baby’s thriving.
By the time I left it was midday, but I could have stayed all day. I had never had such a life-affirming experience in all my medical training.
When I got to sixth year – the final year – I was excited about the prospect of qualifying. I was nervous too. I had seen during my time in the wards that there was so much more that I needed to learn before I was ready to take on the responsibility of patients’ wellbeing. I knew the theory, but I didn’t feel adequately prepared for the hands-on management of patients, the “doing” of being a doctor.
But these were just hurdles, and I assumed that I would navigate them successfully. I was hard-working and resourceful, and I had already overcome so many challenges in my life. I didn’t yet know what direction I wanted my career to take. So many of my colleagues already had their careers mapped out; they knew the quickest route to their chosen specialisation. I was more focused on going into the wards and getting the job done; I figured I would find my fit along the way.
My graduation in December 1999 was a culmination of all those years of diligent effort, the realisation of a dream. I felt proud of what I’d achieved – me, a girl from humble beginnings in Soweto, now a fully fledged doctor. I held my head up high as I walked onto the stage in Jameson Hall to be capped by the vice chancellor of the university.
The real celebration happened a week later back home in Soweto when my mother threw a graduation party. She had provided valuable support throughout my studies, especially during exam time at the end of each year. I always immersed myself so deeply in my work that I struggled to remember what “normal” life felt like. Everything came to a standstill then; I studied and subsisted on coffee and sandwiches. My only connection to the world outside of medicine was through her. We spoke often, at least once a week. Those phone calls were my lifeline and they played a pivotal role in keeping me centred.
Talking to my mom brought me swiftly back down to earth, as I realised that not everyone was as absorbed in my exams as I was. She’d usually fill me in on family gossip or the latest goings-on in Soweto. Though publicly she had always been the model of agreeability with never a bad word to say about anyone, she had a sharp sense of humour that few outside her inner circle ever got to see. She piled it on for me, and at the end of our weekly calls I came away wiping tears from my cheeks and nursing aching belly muscles.
For the graduation party we pitched a marquee on the field opposite our home in Pimville and slaughtered animals to give thanks to the ancestors for helping me to realise this dream. As was the custom at such events, friends and family members who had acquired university degrees were requested to don their academic gowns and sashes, and they took the seats of honour and announced their qualifications for all to admire.
The whole neighbourhood was there. For the first time neighbours who had previously treated me as one of the children in the community now addressed me with a kind of reverence that made me both proud and anxious about the responsibility that my qualification had earned me.
In those final days before I began my internship I revelled in my new-found status and enjoyed the praise that was heaped upon me. At the back of my mind, though, I knew that the honeymoon would end. I had seen the harried looks on the faces of interns in the wards; I had heard them talk of their long hours and formidable workloads. Inside a tiny part of me dreaded the day when I would be summoned to the ward to attend to a patient in distress.
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