How do you continue?

South African Public Servants are on strike.

Last Friday I was asked to help work at Don McKenzie, a tuberculosis hospital I frequent with my patients to pick up medicine because the staff had not been there in days. The hospital whose normal 200 + capacity had to be cut in half with early discharges because there was not enough man power to staff the facility.

When my boss asked me if I would assist her husband, the head Doctor at Don McKenzie for the day I unhesitatingly agreed. It wasn’t until I closed the door to our car and started walking down the hill towards the picket line that I began to grasp to what I was agreeing to. Leaving Sinead sitting in the car and willingly walking towards the locked gate and strikers felt like walking into the lions den. I have never been so terrified. I was all alone and even though many of the strikers I recognize from bringing patients there for appointments I was beyond intimidated.

Chants and screams in Zulu, “Fuck you Umlungu (white person)” and other phrases I couldn’t quite understand surrounded me. Bodies encircled me and vuvuzelas were thrust forcefully in my direction. The exuberant symbol they once stood for just a month ago during the World Cup instantaneously shifted to one of terror.

Friday I joined Dr. Stephen Carpenter and three others in running a hospital. I performed every task: making meals, making beds, helping to administer meds, washing floors, changing adult diapers, doing bed baths for patients that couldn't bring themselves to the bathroom and everything and anything in between.

The day was a blur of chaos and frustration coupled with pride in my abilities. I felt good about being able to assist and I am proud of myself for being able to work under pressure and take charge, but I have also never been so scared.

I sat with a man for a solid hour during my time at Don McKenzie. I changed his diaper, bathed his frail body and cleaned the thrush out of his mouth. At 29 he was the most emaciated man I have ever seen. Frail is an understatement, his body was much smaller than many 10 year olds. I have dealt with death a lot this year at the Respite Center and I am comforted by the fact that I am able to be with the person in their last moments so they are not alone. I then pass the responsibilities of post mortem on to the nurses. Friday I was the only one.

As his breathing labored and then slowed and eventually ceased and his deep dark eyes became glassy and hallow I knew that it was the end. Dr. Carpenter was busy keeping everything else in line and the nurses were outside chanting. I did as I have seen my co-workers at the Respite Center do. I lifted his head off his pillows and lowered his body into a horizontal position. I pinched the skin around his eyes with one hand and with the other pressed his lips together tightly. As frustration and revulsion welled inside me, I swallowed down nausea and I held tight so as his body went into rigor mortis he would stiffen with both closed. I put name tags on the four parts of his body - head, shoulder, stomach and toe so the morgue could identify him.

As I rolled Bafana onto and then zipped up the white body bag I thought of the irony of his name – Bafana meaning “our boy” – the name of the SA World Cup team. I thought of the striking difference between what South Africa was experiencing a month ago with the World Cup hype and now... a world of striking.

Friday was quite possibly the longest hardest day of my life. I love South Africa, the people and cultures here have enriched my life. However I am frustrated – I am sad – I am overwhelmed. I have three months left here and day by day I am trying to make the best of it, but it is harder than I ever imagined. I know I won’t leave early, but I also won’t lie...I have entertained the thought on a fairly consistent basis. Emirates flights are quite expensive...I check too frequently for my own good.

There are days where I feel like I am so far beyond knowing what I am doing here. I knew this year would be hard. I knew it would challenge me and push me to my limits, but putting someone in a body bag was a harsh realization of the fragility of life. Plain and simple – it was terrible. How do you move beyond that?