Letter from my hospital bed

The first time I spent spell in this hospital was for the birth of our youngest child; a happy memory of course, proud, exciting.  I’ve been admitted a few times since, and resting up in bed this time looking across the valley at the sparkling night sky and reminiscing how this skyline of Sandton has changed over a lifetime can’t help but evoke memories.

So while I recover from a sudden and painful bout of pneumonia, there is time to unearth some of my memories and be regaled by those of others around the ward. Some are only too keen to share their stories, as if hospital communing is as common as bookclub or stokvel. And there is the mutual emotional support from a most varied bunch of females.

Ironically, I was admitted on the day that my husband Chris died in this self-same hospital eight years ago. When I had brought him in the weekend before, I casually thought he’d be getting some muti and be ready for work after the long weekend. But we were allowed no more time to share our memories. My next visit, six weeks later, found me on crutches with a broken ankle hobbling past the ICU in a state of real desolation.

And so here I find myself, due to the marvel of modern technology, writing my column from a most unexpected location. What do people’s hospital memories consist of? More sadness than joy? More healing than loss? More anxiety than trust and hope?

It is a place and time for doing some inner review, but I think a chance too to ask families and children what their memories are, recognising that some may be very sad and painful. I can’t really say to my daughter every time we drive past this hospital: “Remember, this is where you were born 26 years ago.” “No Ma, of course I don’t remember,  but you don’t have to remind me.” Or we both silently reflect: “This is where dad died.”

When she brought me here, on his anniversary, it was a tender moment, a faith moment, a family moment. And even painful moments can be healing in their own way. God has his way of using opportunities too, like the words of the psalm when a priest-friend brought me Communion: “I thank you, Lord, for the wonder of my being.”

Sadly there are far too many people who don’t have happy hospital memories. There are cases of neglect, overwork, understaffing and underperformance. Anyone willing to listen to patients can attest to that. But storytelling is also therapeutic for many who have to sit in hospital queues for hours, if not days, so I am deeply grateful for the advantaged background that allowed me to be attended to within minutes, and conscious of the disadvantages suffered by so many in dire need of hospital care.

I am grateful for the patient and dedicated medical staff whose work, especially possibly listening to our stories about the last time we were here, or the times before, can be arduous. And I must remember to ask my children and their children for their hospital memories some time. One of them especially has probably spent more time there than I have over the years.

There is nothing like bodily awareness that makes one recognise God’s greatness and in some way, to some degree be able to utter that psalm: “I thank you Lord for the wonder of my being.”

PS: I wonder if the punk rockers who have just walked in remember to do that some time.