From Doctor to Guinea-pig

By Angelique D

Alex was born on a Greek island and moves with his parents to Congo-Zaire (Democratic Republic of Congo). He studies medicine and goes to work in a hospital in the bush with his teenage wife. Faced with seemingly unsurmountable problems he works wonders and moves to Kinshasa for the comfort of his family. He is a man married to his work, he contracts AIDS and fights the difficulty of announcing this terrible news. Truly philanthropic, he offers his body to science to test the various drugs that are created to treat this new virus. You will be fascinated by his medical exploits, and be torn between him and his wife both struggling to face the problems that life presents to them. A story about life, faith and our approach to death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398433250

Angelique D

Angelique D was born in Doula, French Cameroon. She is married and the mother of two children. She passed her tender childhood years in Africa where she was raised by Africans, as her parents were much occupied. After primary school she travelled between France, Greece and then Zaire (Democratic Republic of Congo) where she entered the faculty of medicine. She always dreamed of writing this book not only because great men should rest eternal, but also to help those who are suffering. The book is written in a simple style and is easy to read by all.

Book preview

Introduction

The summer of 1992 a great man died in silence…he was a doctor – AIDS did not spare him and yet he didn’t look for it. He was only 44; the twilight of his life arrived too quickly. Africa, that he loved so much, took his life without intending to.

At the bush hospital, he touched the isolated lepers with his naked hands when even their families wouldn’t go near them – he would only put gloves to bandage their wounds and he would take them off to bandage their hearts with his legendary compassion.

For the more than 40 years that this hospital had existed, no doctor had ever approached the lepers. He had many achievements at Binga. He would say afterwards, Somebody had to do it. I couldn’t leave those people to perish in their pain and solitude…

Later at his dispensary in Kinshasa he would treat among others the poor and handicapped for free and would give them medication and often even money. There were so many poor in Zaire…I don’t think that there are many people who would have done that much.

He knew what it was to be poor. It was by the glimmer of a petrol lamp that he swallowed his books…which is probably the reason that he earned a distinction for his diploma – a distinction for his short life and a distinction for his unconditional love.

Healthy, sick, poor or rich, he never complained about anything. For him, there were only problems and solutions.

He treated people, he saved people, risking his diploma and even risking his life.

He loved his fellow-man, the entire humanity, animals, nature, music, photography, life, he loved…

He had an agreeable and optimistic personality. He was a joker and had at the same time a very highly developed sense of duty – he, who was so cheerful and jovial, could be amazingly serious when necessary. His character was extraordinary and brushed perfection. Those who knew him can testify and those who will know him through these lines will understand. His look was pleasant, nothing much…athletic, well-built, medium-height. Regular features, chestnut hair, which fell in blonde curls at his neck. On the other hand, his eyes were magnificent – big, honey-coloured, expressive, radiant, sparkling and most of all kind. Generally, he was considered rather handsome.

From doctor he became an experimental subject, a guinea-pig as he would say. Contributing in this way, even after his death, to an eventual discovery. To help the AIDS researchers, whom he admired, he would take piles of new medicines that made him even more sick. He would say, It’s all I can offer now…I hope they’ll find a cure soon at least for the others…

He exercised the most noble and most ungrateful profession until his last breath which he always did so well for the others cost him too much.

Africa and he adopted one another. She gave him her landscapes, her culture and her sunsets. He gave her his knowledge, his most complete devotion as he honoured life so much. He was of those who shine in the mass like a shooting star.

This foreign doctor spoke five African languages. To better understand my patients and heal them better, he would say. Zaire was a very cosmopolitan country at the time. The Africans would call him the black-white doctor – what an honour! The whites often compared him to Hippocrates even to Jesus – the Indians to Gandhi and so on. Me, his wife, I was proud of him! He simply murmured, I’m just doing my job.

He said there was only one race on earth, the human race, and what makes it beautiful is its different colours. He studied medicine out of love. He was born to be a doctor and dedicated his life to it, to the detriment of his family without realising.

A few years later we were divorced when he wrote me a telegraphic and overwhelming letter, a while after his hasty departure for Belgium in which he said about the following:

"I am hospitalised in Antwerp. I am HIV positive and on top of that I have AIDS. There is nothing to be ashamed of it’s a sickness like any other. The problem for you, the girls and my parents is that I am going to die. You must be strong. Tell everybody, they must know to protect themselves. I didn’t have time to tell them because of my lightening-quick departure. Do you remember my terrible headaches? They were caused by cryptococcal meningitis which I contracted from my young patient that I accompanied to this very same hospital. What irony!"

For a few seconds, I thought it was a joke and then quickly, It’s not true – he can’t die, he’s the doctor…it’s impossible…AIDS? Him? How? Why?

Later he would answer, Why not me? It can happen to anybody even if no one deserves it.

It goes without saying that for the first time in my life I felt as if the sky had fallen on my head…I was suffocating, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t cry. Alex was the person that I loved the most on earth apart for a period of a few months of misunderstanding, clarified later, too late perhaps. Mistakes cost a lot, sometimes too much…

His human values never ceased to amaze me from the first day that we met until his last words…which were encouragements for all of us, adding little jokes with a feeble voice. He would do all that being conscious of his condition, knowing perfectly as a doctor that he was living his last hours…

I have never met such a strong person in my life, who could love to such a degree until his dying breath.

Against his wishes a renowned psychiatrist wanted to visit him. She ended up leaving in tears after hearing a part of his story.

Three days after this devastating letter, I left my children, my husband, my job and I took the plane hiding my eyes behind those dark sunglasses that he didn’t like.

After almost 24 hours of travel, I arrived at the hospital before visiting hours. Even though I had prepared myself, I opened the door of his room very slowly, trembling. The view is unsupportable, I am petrified and I wanted to step back, close the door and go? But the unbearable reality must be confronted. He is skinny, his blonde curls are cut, his hair seems less, short and dry. Alone, sitting on his bed, like an abandoned little boy in the middle of an immense room. He doesn’t have his glasses on and can’t see me. I enter, he turns towards me, his huge eyes stare into space. I greet him, he recognises my voice. His happiness is so big, my anguish perhaps greater. Above all he mustn’t see me shaking, I mustn’t cry, I must be stronger than ever.

What to do? What to say? And then what? Ask, How are you? I kiss him, he hugs me strongly for a few seconds and I quickly sit, my legs are weak. Once again he breaks the silence and helps me out. Transforming immediately, with enthusiasm, the heavy atmosphere into an agreeable encounter.

Realising my state he makes the questions and the answers and attacks a subtle little joke at the end of which he burst out laughing, I burst into laughter and tears. In a few seconds, he would comfort me once more.

I knew he was a great man but not to this point. At this precise moment, I said to myself, If I could take his place, I would do it immediately.

Visiting hours started, the empty room filled with people from all over. He was loved! Even on his deathbed he entertained people. The jokes and bursts of laughter relayed continuously and could be heard outside. At the same time in the corridor and in the waiting room, people were crying. I had never seen so many men crying at the same time. It is only with people like Alex that the world seems more beautiful. So why do the good die young?

1

What can I say in a simple book about a young doctor who died from AIDS at 44, knowing better than anyone the consequences of this illness, who loved life, what can I say about Alex…

What can I say about the life, so tempestuous, rich and perplexed of such a great man?

On the highest point of a magnificent Greek island, there is a house in a hamlet of three houses. On 14 December 1947, a woman gives birth with the sole help of a midwife to a beautiful little boy of four kilograms.

The house is big, old – the walls are thick – in the front there is a yard with a huge tree on the left – behind the house we see a slope, nearly vertical, composed of sharp rocks, which ends in the transparent blue sea. It resembles a poor, small castle. There is a single little road on the right of the yard, not wider than three meters, which leads to the other villages. The inhabitants are the father, the mother, a girl of three years, a little boy of one year and of course the new arrival, Alex.

The father is chestnut-haired with a big moustache, medium height, always well-dressed and very respected by everybody on the island. He is educated and works for the town council in a neighbouring village.

The mother is a tiny, cute little woman with a huge heart. She doesn’t have much education but she is extremely clever and is always happy with a smiling face even in their poverty. She is a housewife, occupies herself with the children and does the washing by hand. She does her cooking and even her bread in an old built-in oven because the village does not have electricity. Her happiness is always to help. Everybody loves her.

Some of their relatives are in Africa and they tell them to come to make money. Straightaway the father leaves for this unknown Africa, he stayed there with his wife about 20 years and returned to Greece not having made any fortune.

One year later this adorable and untireable mother takes her three children and courageously goes to join her husband, taking the boat from the island to Athens to wait three days for the aeroplane. The twin-engined little plane takes them to Cairo where they change for another plane which stops twice to refuel before they arrive at Leopoldville (Kinshasa), the capital of Belgian Congo. From there with the burden of her three children, she takes another plane and after four hours flight she arrives at Elizabethville (Lubumbashi) but their five-day journey is not yet finished. Her husband is waiting at the airport with an old jeep. After a drive of several hours on the single road through the infinite bush, they get to their final destination. Alex is now four years old, it is 1952.

Their home is a small house adjoined by a little shop which faces the narrow and only road in the area. Their house is isolated far between two small villages on the way to Likasi-Kolwezi. The house is divided into three small bedrooms – one for the parents, one for the seven-year-old girl and one for the two boys – the fourth room is used as a dining room – it has one table in the middle and a few chairs. Without a kitchen the sweet lady cooks for her family in the back yard with her two pots balanced on three stones, over a fire which they also use to boil water to wash themselves or to drink after filtering it. The toilet was outside and next to it two walls with a curtain which they used as a bathroom. There is no shower so they have to use a bucket to wash themselves. There is no electricity. Their luxury is petrol lamps and a little radio for entertainment. Their relatives live in Elizabethville (Lubumbashi) so to visit each other they have to drive for about two hours, being very busy they see each other once in a while.

The shop is six metres by eight with three shelves on each wall. In the fourth wall is the main entrance, which leads to the single road. They sell sardines, pilchards, maize flour, dried stockfish, canned tomatoes and a few other condiments. They also have some batteries, plastic shoes, cheap shirts and shorts. It takes three years with the maximum economy possible before they show a small profit.

Not without incident of course, they are burgled a few times at night and one afternoon five drunken soldiers arrive, pointing their guns at the father, who was alone, saying, Give us all the money you have. While they were distracted, stealing shirts and other items, one of them closer to the father, turns his back to him, the father seized this opportunity, to grab his empty cola bottle and pushed the mouth into the soldier’s back shouting, I’m going to shoot him and all of you if you don’t drop your guns and everything and leave immediately. Instantaneously they did as he said and left running. Unfortunately, the soldiers encountered the father’s sole employee, a young 20-year-old African, David, a few metres from the shop. Knowing where he worked, they beat him badly and left him at the side of the road. The father left everything and rushed to rescue him. He carried him into the shop, locked the door and took him through the connecting door to the house, where he and his wife washed and bandaged the wounds before taking him to the hospital. Fortunately, it was nothing serious. Leaving David in the hospital for X-rays the father gave the soldiers guns to the police. I don’t know if they were loaded with bullets, blanks or were empty.

This incident happened in 1964 (I want to stress here that at that time it was a rare incident, the Zairean people were peaceful, there was practically no violent crime).

From this day forward and for their entire 20 years in Africa, they had no more unwelcome visitors. As the father now had the reputation of a very dangerous person and a gun owner there is a second positive thing to come from this day: David, the young employee, became like a member of the family. Later being sent to university and finishing his studies in accounting he stayed with them until they left forever, leaving him money to build his own house.

After the first three difficult years, the father bought two second-hand vans, which he and David drove and started selling soft drinks and beer in the neighbouring villages and in his shop to the passing trade.

Meanwhile the children would go to the francophone missionary school, run by Catholic priests, which was two or three kilometres from home. All three had to wake-up early, between five and six in the morning, to help their parents, have breakfast and get ready for their long walk to school. The three children walked to school, holding hands, distant from the small dangerous road, brushing the marvellous dense vegetation that Alex admired especially at this time of the day, early morning, when the dew is thick on the leaves, when you can hear through the absolute silence, the chorus of the birds and the buzzing of the insects. They often saw antelope, tortoises, hares, snakes, monkeys and of course multitudes of colourful birds and butterflies.

Then the path, which leads to the school, built in the middle of a section of razed forest and surrounded by it. The school is made up of little wooden colonial houses, each one serving as a classroom. All the students are intrigued by these three white children, who have the same colour as their teachers, but are short and don’t speak the same language. Similarly, for these three white children, who are now intrigued to see small African people, speaking the same language as their big white teachers. They soon adapt to the language and make a lot of friends. They are very popular, especially Alex, who is enthusiastic, laughing, teasing, helpful, playful and never cross for any reason. He is also naughty but when punishment is necessary nobody has the heart to hurt this smiling little face – on top of this at the end of every month his reports read very good conduct which he later said he didn’t deserve. Since he could speak whenever he was asked what he wanted to be later he would always reply, A doctor.

He succeeded and finished his primary school in 1960. Each year, as he became older and stronger, he had to help his parents more and more despite his homework. Every morning at five he had to wake up and with his father, brother and David load the two vans with cases of beer and soft drinks, which were at the time packed by the dozen in wooden crates.

After school, they had to help for the dinner, wash themselves, eat and of course study with petrol lamps, which affected their eyesight. Later, they would all need glasses. When it came to helping, his mother would tell me some years later that since he could walk Alex was always the first to volunteer.

He was only 11 when one afternoon he saw a young man behind his mother mocking her little gait. He jumped on him and beat him in rage until he fled losing his shoe. His mother shouted at Alex saying, What did you do to this man? He didn’t do anything wrong.

He was mocking you behind your back. I can’t accept that. They can mock me or anybody else. I don’t care but I don’t want anybody to touch you. He would be like that with his mother until the end of his life.

Before the end of primary school, Alex speaks French very well and also Kiswahili (Swahili) and Chiluba. His parents decide that for his secondary schooling he has to go