Some South African Hospitals
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- Written August 2020
The Provincial had not been my first experience of hospitals. That was in the Cape Town ‘Booth’, but more of that later. I must have been little more than seven when my sister and I were admitted to the Provincial, side by side for tonsillectomies. The enduring memory is that of being encouraged to swallow the ice cream, offered to sooth the searing post-operative pain. I never understood why I was also left with a clicking jaw. It was only at medical school that I discovered why; the temporary-mandibular joint over-stretched by the Boyle’s gag during the anaesthetic. In later years I would again be part of the SA band’s monthly visit to the Provincial, playing hymn tunes on a Sunday morning while dad would go round the wards greeting staff and patients. He loved it. And me? I loved the tea and scones served after an hour’s playing.
Medical School introduced me to the much better-known Groote Schuur Hospital in Cape Town. I got to know its corridors and tunnels, the lifts and the stairwells, the wards on one side for whites, those on the other for people of colour; the first bedside tutorial learning to feel the radial pulse; watching from the gallery as Prof Louw performed an oesophagectomy; my final clinical exams, especially the one in medicine, Dr Helen Brown the examiner. I didn’t hear a third heart sound. That robbed me of a first. Then the years as an intern, including cardiology which put me into closer contact with teachers I’d admired and some I felt less enthusiastic about. One was Chris Barnard when heart transplants might only have been a dream. I giggle to myself when I think of the paediatrician I worked for - Prof Ford. His round of the premature baby nursery began with a check on its cleanliness.
There were two Salvation Army maternity hospitals in Cape Town - the Booth for whites, the Non-European for others. I’d done my first deliveries yjrtr. It was in what was designated a white area. Apartheid laws made its closure inevitable. Meanwhile economics were pressing on the Booth. Residents mounted a ‘Save the Booth’ campaign. My sister and future wife had been born there. And one of my earliest memories is my mother being carried down its stairs after the delivery of her fourth child who didn’t survive. The Booth survived; the Non-European didn’t. I shall never forget scrubbing up with the head of Obstetrics and Gynaecology, Prof Davy, around that time. He knew of my Salvation Army connections. ‘I’m surprised the Army didn’t stand its ground against government,’ he told me. ‘The Non-European was the one they should have kept.’ Even if I agreed, I made no comment, but his remark lingered, strengthening my opinions.
The Booth subsequently switched to elder persons care. Both our mothers died there in later years. On our return to South Africa in 1994, one of my duties was to preside at the board of the Booth. Just before I took the chair one of its long-time members had retired - Dr Helen Brown. At least that retirement saved me the embarrassment of her asking me whether I could hear a third heart sound these days. She was a gracious woman. We’d both have smiled.
Margaret was the first social worker on the wards of the Red Cross Children’s Hospital, also in Cape Town. She would not only be part of the ward rounds but out and about in the shanty towns of the Cape Flats, following up children who’d survived a range of illnesses - severe burns, plastic surgery, malnutrition. She was always proud to tell us about her Siamese twins, successfully separated at the Red Cross. She would often point out the statue of Peter Pan that stood near the front entrance. It seemed to embody her love for children. She used to joke about me. ‘Before we were married and you were still a student,’ she would say, ‘you were Miss Siebrits’s boyfriend. Now you’re one of the doctors here, I’ve become Dr du Plessis’s wife.’
The 1980s and my role as international medical adviser took me to three other Salvation Army hospitals in South Africa. The first, was Catherine Booth, a general hospital in KwaZulu. I didn’t let on that we’d been scheduled to work there in 1970, but a change of plans meant we stayed at Chikankata. Then there was William Eadie, a small maternity hospital in northern Venda. Both were doing fine jobs.
By the time we returned to South Africa in 1994 only Mountain View Hospital in KwaZulu survived in SA ownership. The others had been handed over to government. My job was to chair the board. But the matron, Eileen Parkin, had other ideas. ‘Please will you come and look at one or two of our patients,’ she pleaded. ‘We only have the district surgeon visit once a week.’ I gave in. I was soon back on the medical register and I suspect that the seeds of my return to the bedside some ten years later were starting to germinate there.
I think back; I hear about problems at the Livingstone and wonder whether I should be doing something about it. I sigh wistfully and realise those days are gone for me. Many of the skills of earlier years are lost. But I do still remember how important it is to wash my hands. And I do have many lovely memories.
August 2020