Where Bubbles Meet: A Doctor's Journey Through Community Service

By Dr. Suzanne Walter

My journal of a doctor experiencing community service in
under-resourced medical facilities, during public sector strikes
and the world cup addresses the diffi cult and often funny
experiences of providing medical care to divers and often
poverty-stricken patients. The journal is a personal account
and takes place over a one year period in many different
clinics and types of clinics (primary health care, HIV/
AIDS, psychiatry) servicing the West Rand. It also contains
photographs of the clinics, strikes and world cup celebrations
in order to take the reader closer to the experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Dec 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469141497

Dr. Suzanne Walter

I am currently a palliative care doctor working for Hospice. I studied Medicine quite late as I had fi rst done a BA, Honours and Masters degree in Psychology. Qualifying as a doctor in South Africa requires 2 years internship and one year community service. My community service was done in a variety of rural and community clinics with poor medical resources. I wanted to capture some of these experiences through a journal. I have only published a journal article and have not been on writing course

Book preview

Introduction

I was born a long, long time ago. This is probably true for me as most of my colleagues at my stage are in their early twenties. They went straight from school into medical school. I, on the other hand, am middle-aged at the age of thirty-six. I took a rather tortuous course to get to medicine. My marks at school were very average and I certainly would never have got into medicine. I started out with a year of microbiology but was not captivated by looking down a microscope at crawling bugs. I then switched to three long years of education, only to discover that I was not a teacher—I am not a great disciplinarian and the chaos that ensued in most of my lessons left me requiring loads of benzodiazepines. I then ventured into Psychology as this was the only degree in which I could get some credits for my previous studies.

I completed my Bachelor of Arts and drifted into an honours course and finally into a master’s programme. My master’s research was on spinal cord injury and sexuality in males. I don’t care to think what Freud may have thought. I finished my master’s and worked privately for two years doing mostly neuropsychological, emotional, and developmental assessment. This became quite tedious, and I applied for medicine. I failed to mention that at this stage I had a three-month-old baby, was a single mom in the throes of anorexia nervosa, and despite all odds, I was accepted into medicine.

Medicine was hard. As a graduate I went straight into third year, missing out the basics such as physiology, anatomy, and pharmacology. I distinctly remember a lecture on cardiology. The discussion was on beta-blockers, an agent used to slow the heart rate. I sharply turned to the student on my right and asked in a not-so-quiet and slightly hysterical voice, What’s beta? The lecturer fell silent and gazed at me above his gold-rimmed glasses in disbelief.

I made my way through the military of medical school, albeit on many anxiolytics. Amy, my daughter, seemed to cope with it all except the long 30-hour calls. These continued into my two years’ internship at Johannesburg Hospital, and fortunately I was able to opt out of calls for my community service year. Whilst doing internship, I did a one-year diploma in palliative medicine.

Amy is currently eight years old and in Grade 2. She is quite a mature little girl—perhaps because she is an only child with a working mom. She is soft but determined and a very talented little dancer. Her dad is still involved in her life and he loves her very much. Since my father’s passing last year, Amy and I live with my mom, who is instrumental in Amy’s care and a great support to me.

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The other three that I must not neglect to mention are my three hounds: Tinkerbell, a teacup Yorkie who is on antidepressants and in therapy. Butterball, my Labrador Retriever who still believes her 30-kg frame to be 5 kg. She has a habit of sitting on my lap. And our latest addition, Tuscany, a rescue dog that was abandoned at two weeks of age with his brother. Tuscany is a black Spaniel whom we reared through malnutrition and mange. He is now healthy, shiny, and feisty; he also has very bandy legs.

This book is a journal of my thoughts and experiences through my community service year which I did in the West Rand Region. My work was based in various clinics in rural areas and shanty towns. Every day of the week I attended a different clinic and covered primary health care, which is general practice, psychiatry, and HIV/AIDS care.

I have included photographs which were all taken from my iPod phone. All photographs are printed with the permission of the relevant patients, most of whom were intrigued and actually very excited that one day they would feature in a book.

My patients are from disadvantaged backgrounds and areas. Money is not just tight but absent. Despite their struggles, I have found these communities to be very close and supportive. Naturally, there are bad elements, but on the whole these have been the most appreciative and welcoming people I have had the fortune to meet. I have rarely felt unsafe in their communities and have only been given smiles and hugs and car washes—oh, and a pair of women’s underpants that have the South African flag on them.

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Patients

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

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THE ‘BUBBLE INITIATIVE’

It had just been Easter. Amy had received a huge basket of Easter eggs from the bunny. In addition, we had gone to Amy’s godmother Jackie’s house for an Easter egg hunt and Amy had come home with a large packet of eggs, amongst which was a bottle of bubbles—bubbles that children blow through a bubble ring.

When we got home, Amy suggested that we go through her huge collection of eggs and give some to the children at the clinic tomorrow. So we did. We sorted out half the eggs as well as the bottle of bubbles to give to the sick paediatric patients.

On the Tuesday following Easter Monday, I was going to Muldersdrift Clinic. I took the huge packet with me and deposited it next to my desk.

Sometime later that morning, a very mature-looking eight-year-old girl came in clutching her mother’s hand. She was Amy’s size but seemed very wizened somehow. I asked her what was wrong and she timidly and very politely told me that she had a sore throat and was coughing. She punctuated each statement with a respectful ‘madam’.

‘Please, sweetie, call me Sue.’

She glanced nervously at her mom, who gave her a nod of permission, and then back at me.

I examined her and took out her medication and explained how to take it.

As they were about to leave, I remembered the bag of eggs.

‘Uh! Sweetie, would you like an Easter egg?’

She cautiously looked back at me from the door. I realised she did not know what I was speaking about. I quickly retrieved an egg from the bag and held it out to her. A small smile broke on her face as she saw it was a sweet of some sort. What a gorgeous child!

I put my hand into the bag and happened to pull out the bubbles. I handed them to her