“Uncle Riyaahd, do you still want my mama’s booty?”
Silence befell the room.
Sidney-Jonah had obviously overheard several conversations regarding my posterior, my least favourite of which I will go into in a moment.
Yes, dear reader, you and I have become close enough to enter my posterior, as a unit. Do not be fooled, as many have ventured before you, and have come out mostly unharmed, besides for the odd casualty.
A few weeks ago, I ended up in the rear end of Cape Town’s medical system [Ironically, surrounded by odd casualties].
Mitchell’s Plain hospital in Lentegeur is the most dreadful facility that the Democratic Alliance has ever vomited upon the coloured people.
I have no political agenda.
And thanks to the staff at Zille’s House of Horrors, I nearly had no colon.
The Thursday before the ab-pocalypse which I mentioned in my last entry, Sidney-Jonah came down with a case of gastro so severe that I gagged at the site of his bowel water. I am aware that mothers are supposed to be able to stomach anything that oozes out of their children’s orifices. Let me bust that myth right now. I do not like mucous, diarrhea, pre-cum, actual cum, urine, hard stools, soft stools, puss, saliva or anything else that oozed out of people my own juices have produced. I don’t want a piecey sucka covered in green snot and I don’t want bek-flavoured noodles, Rose.
This is not a comment on my love for my children.
I can love them wholeheartedly without tasting them.
I digress, on this particular Thursday, after putting Sidney to bed, I felt a familiar tingling in my abdomen, and as any logical person would deduce, I assumed that I had caught the superbug and promptly took off work.
When Friday morning arrived, the party in my digestive tract reached mediocre volumes at best, and the neighbours didn’t see it fit to call the popo… So I didn’t think anything of just letting it ride out…
But nothing happened. No bowel movement.
Imagine the sensation of diarrhoea, with no actual diarrhoea.
I had entered the gates of hell. Or so I thought.
Still, I decided to wait it out.
Saturday morning I woke up convinced I was going to die.
I woke Riyaahd, just in time for him to see me drop down in front of the toilet and vomit up everything that I had digested, but as I would find out on Sunday, what was coming out of my mouth was brown, because my colon was blocked. Meaning my fecal matter was coming out of my mouth.
I need to repeat this for emphasis because I have promised not to swear excessively.
Fecal matter was coming out of my mouth.
OUT OF MY MOUTH.
What cannot go down, must come up. Or something.
Bare with me.
To make a mossage story short, on Sunday Riyaahd had had enough of my shit, so to speak and packed myself and the kids into the car, called my parents and we all convened at the reception area of Mitchell’s Plain hospital.
And so, my real story begins.
At this point, I was sweating popo.
I waddled up to the trio of what I assumed were nurses, and breathing heavily, I mustered a very simple; I need help.
Florence and the Nightingales looked me up and down with what can only be described as ‘nog n overdose’ judgement, and said “When did this start?”
“On Friday, sister”.
“Oooh, Friday? Gat maak oep n file dan ko sit jy weer hier”.
It was safe to add rising blood pressure to my list of symptoms, but I obliged.
I waddled further to the waiting area, and sat in the line of several ‘emergencies’, waiting for the wizard behind the window to administer a sticker that would decide if they were serious [a red sticker], mild [a green sticker], or just taking the government staff for a gat out of boredom [a yellow sticker].
I saw no sticker for ‘deceased’, so I assume that’s the default presumption until admin decides otherwise.
Turns out kakking through your bek is a green sticker.
Thank God I had nothing serious.
Regardless, the wizard behind the curtain decided that I wasn’t a priority and I kindly proceeded to the waiting area, and sat down… on a rogue drip.
“Well, that looks important”.
The children had gone home with my parents and Riyaahd had decided to stay with me and play ‘Clash of Clans’ in close proximity to me, for support.
I was happy for his presence.
The waiting-to-die room was both underwhelming, and a sight to behold.
Allow me to paint you a picture.
Shortly after my arrival, I started to talk to the other inmates, all in various degrees of stickers.
As a green sticker, I felt drawn to the other members of my elite clan.
Next to me was Simphiwe, who had severe lacerations on his back, chest and limbs. He had been given a wheelchair at 5pm, and told to wait till he was called in to the surgery. Turns out, he told me through his gritted, remaining teeth, that his younger cousin had been accused of stealing from a man in his township. Simphiwe had argued in his cousin’s defense and in turn, was dragged to a nearby river, beaten with with a panga, and thrown into the water, after he pretended to be unconscious.
He gripped his green sticker tightly, and swallowed his two Panados.
Aunty June was next in my peripherals.
I actually made small talk with her son, who was in his forties. His mother had not been to the bathroom for several weeks and had been experiencing pain in her back and hip. She was administered a drip in the waiting room, while she sat on a plastic chair. She had been this way for eight hours.
Aunty June is 73 years old.
Aunty June also had a green sticker.
I suddenly felt unworthy of my colour code. I had been favoured. Whatalotigot.
My attention fell on Fatima.
Fatima was eight months pregnant.
Later that evening we would find out that she was suffering from a severe chest infection and would need to go for a test to see if she had TB But as it was already 2am, she was going to have to wait till morning.
She laid on the floor in the waiting room. There was no bed for a sickly pregnant woman.
But at this point, I had already said the Rosary for everyone in team Green Sticker.
Hail DA, full of grace.
The Law is with thee.
Blessed are you amongst poor men,
And blessed is the fruit of your womb, Diseases.
Helen Zille, Mother of God
Pray for us coloureds
Now and at the hour of our death
Before anyone says my anger towards the City is misdirected, go and see the boardtjie infront of the entrance.
“This hospital was vomited onto your community by Helen Zille”.
So proud of it, there is a plaque.
More specifically, a Kak plak.
Dit is lekker om te lewe in die Western Kruip.
The pain in my abdomen throbbed. Around 12pm I met Angelo.
Angelo was wheeled in by his aunty. The bling bling told me Angelo lead an interesting life.
The three gunshots in his leg confirmed it. He was screaming with pain, unsettling the other green stickers. Even some yellow stickers looked very worried.
“Sister, is daar niks virrie painnie.. yor”, the sister walked passed him. She must not have heard him while she chatted on her Whatsapp enabled mobile.
“Security, gee n bietjie water man… yor…. Is seeeeeer…. Is seeeeeeer”.
Angelo was not afforded the luxury of a pain killer, even though some Plain killer had tried to take the O out of his name, to I assume, show him exactly who the ‘ou’ is.
En dis n ou storie oppie Kruip flats.
But I sat there, bent over, Whatsapping with my mobile device, left to my own devices… without even being offered a Panado, I felt that diarrhea tingle again….
Now, those of you that know me, are well aware of my inability to release my bowels anywhere besides the comfort of my own home, and a few of my friend’s homes. That is as far as it goes. My mother raised a lady, and ladies don’t utilise their anus [Well, for the most part].
But the urge hit my kneecaps so strongly that I waddled, with all my personal belongings… because, Lentegeur…. To the one cubicle within walking distance of forty very sick people.
And took one look before my body reacted like a nipped entjie.
[Hey, maybe they did cure my phantom diarrhoea after all – because the toilet paper on the floor, amidst what I am hoping was mud was not going to see my gat. That would be a luxury only reserved for me and my future husband].
And if I get my way, I would like to show Zille my hol too. But for very different reasons.
And perhaps shove this entire hospital down her throat, so that she too can experience what a blocked colon feels like..
Maybe then she can utilise this putrid facility. Although, I am 90 percent certain that upon entry she would be covered in red stickers, and then soema treated for chicken pox… just in case.
“Sharna Genever”, the Nurse was annoyed that I took a few seconds to register that it was finally my turn.
I cannot make up the next sequence of events.
She sat me down at 2.15 am, and proceeded to repeatedly enter her computer password incorrectly.
This was the woman who was in charge of accurately depicting my symptoms to my physician. She couldn’t even accurately depict her username.
My confidence waned further.
She asked me all the pertinent questions regarding my symptoms, whether I was pregnant … where I think the I.T guy might be…. And after 20 minutes, when she finally told me to go back to the waiting room, I politely informed her that she had forgotten to take my blood pressure.
“But now, whose reading is that, my diieeear?”
“The person before me, sister. It never went on”.
“Oh no… We can’t have that hey”.
We certainly cannot.
I went back to give my fellow bandits the update. And we sat in blissful ignorance of when we would actually receive help.
In the hospital’s defense, it had only been eight hours…
And our stickers were togma green.
I met the doctor in his office. I gave him the information. He sent me for x-Rays.
“We will have your results in about four hours”…
I gave him the “nog n overdose” face.
“Riyaahd.. take me home.”
The next day I awoke bright and early, and we made our way to the abattoir once more.
“Hi there, I was here last night and went home to bath… I had X-rays done”.
“Please ask that sister over there to find your file”.
“Please ask that nurse over there to find your file”.
“Please ask that sister over there to find your file”.
“What is your name again?”
We found my file.
We found the doctor.
We examined my X-Ray
Silence befell the room.
“Oh no. Sharna… This doesn’t look good”.
To be continued…
PS: My name isn’t sharna