28 October, 2009: The Diagnosis

Today is October 28, 2009. The sky is grim with dark clouds that look ready to release buckets of rain any minute.

A few hours ago I found myself rushing towards Newlands station to catch a train to Rondebosch. I had a 12 o’€™clock appointment with Dr Lee Miller. I left the office in a huge hurry (thinking I’€™m late as usual and I was indeed late) it was already 11:30 am when I left.

I got there just in time and even had a few minutes to catch my breath and get ready to see Dr Miller who was going to examine my cough that day. Luckily she turned out to be nicer than all the people I had seen for it in past weeks.

I had been to two different clinics – both offering similar treatment of Moxypen antibiotics, to heal the infection and reassuring me to ‘€˜go home and rest you are going to be fine’€™ the nurses I had seen in Durban and here in Cape Town had said. I believed it myself. Of course I was going to be fine who wouldn’€™t with just a mild cough that has lasted for a couple of days with no sign of leaving.

‘€˜You seem healthy enough,’€™ the doctor said.   She asked me to describe my symptoms.I listed them. ‘€˜Well, I have a persistent cough, greenish and sometimes rusty-coloured sputum with no streaks of blood, a rattle in my chest and throat, chest pains and shortness of breath.’€™

 ‘€˜I think I might have bronchitis,’€™ I added.   I had spent a few minutes researching my condition using the internet, before going there.

She examined my chest with a little stethoscope. It’€™s funny how everything in the doctor’€™s room seems little if it doesn’€™t have a needle sticking out of it! She did the examination in a way that none of the nurses I had seen before had done She asked me to lift my top, placed the stethoscope on my back and listened. That left me worried because I had never seen it done like this, even in movies.

‘€˜Do you have pain to your left?’€™, she asked, still holding the cold instrument on my back.

‘€˜Yes. Sometimes when I cough it gets even stronger.

When we were done with the inspection she told me not to panic, but thought I should get an x-ray. She said this would help determine whether I had Tuberculosis or not.

I wanted to scream at her and say:’€Of course I don’€™t have Tuberculosis!. I thought I told you that I might have bronchitis.’€ Instead, I decided not to say anything because she would tell me it’€™s not bronchitis but might be TB.

I wanted to ask her why she was so convinced it should be TB when both the clinics I went to seem to think TB was the last thing I could have. She asked me if I would be willing to have an x-ray. Deep within me I wanted to say no, walk out of the consultation room and never come back again. A few minutes before leaving the office I had told Nina, one of my colleagues that I hope I would not have to face a needle. At that moment I would have preferred dealing with a needle rather than facing the prospect of TB.

Though I knew TB was curable, I felt as if she had handed me a death sentence. She was very concerned and said she wanted me to find out so that I could start treatment immediately if I did have TB.

All the time she was talking to me I wasn’€™t even listening. A part of me couldn’€™t believe she was making the right diagnosis simply because I couldn’€™t believe that I might have TB.

I then remembered that contracting TB, didn’€™t mean I had done something wrong.    I agreed to have the x-ray. This meant walking to Claremont Hospital and waiting at reception for the radiologist .

 ‘€˜Miss Langa can you come through please’€™, the radiologist called out.

She took the x-ray images and gave me a disk which was going to be examined by my doctor who would  explain the images to me.

I was so anxious I couldn’€™t understand why she couldn’€™t just read the x-ray herself and why only the doctor should but I couldn’€™t argue that with her. I had to go back to work and on the way back I saw that I had a few missed calls listed on my phone from a number I didn’€™t know.  I returned the calls that come from the same number but I was met with a voice mail response, ‘€˜this is Dr Miller I’€™m not on call at the moment if you’€¦’€™

A second later my phone wiggled in my pocket and on the other line was Dr Miller telling me she has seen my X-ray.

 ‘€˜You have TB my darling’€™. She said.

 I wanted to say that is rather absurd doc, I can’€™t have it. You probably have the wrong X-ray. But there was nothing absurd about it I had TB.

The minutes I spent walking to the office were the longest of my life. I got to the office and phoned the doctor to get a clear understanding of her earlier statement. I found out from her that she was not mistaken she told me again in more detail that my right lung was ravaged by TB.

The reality began to sink in.

I started sobbing. I cried because as much as I had seen people suffering with TB it was different now that I was one of them. I had heard many stories about the terrible medication, drug resistance, stigma, the mask, going to the clinic and being seen by everyone that I have TB. All the thoughts cornered me including the possibility of dying while on treatment. No, I have never heard of people dying while on treatment but, of course I thought it might happen to me.

I made some calls and announced to the world that I might have contaminated them. OK, I might be exaggerating a bit. I called my family (since I had been visiting them in Durban), my friends and colleagues and told them that I had contracted TB and suggested that they get tested as a precaution. I also asked my family to please get my two year old daughter Sthabile tested.

I have just arrived home and taken one of the longest showers of my life. Maybe it’€™s a Zulu thing we think showers can solve any problem (take it from my president).   I’€™ll try sleeping. Maybe when I wake up all will be normal again…

Oh, before I forget the doctor has booked me off for a week so you are stuck with me.

29 October: Reality Sucks!

I still cannot believe I have TB; these words confirm that I’€™m alive and did not die in my sleep. That is all I can think of this morning, this TB thing. Calling it a ‘€˜thing’€™ takes me back to a story I did on patients that were not accessing treatment at Edendale Hospital. One of the patients kept on saying ‘€˜Nami,   I have this ‘€˜thing’€™ my sister.’€™ He was referring to his HIV status. All of a sudden I understand what he was going through. I want to take another shower and wash the TB out of me the way our president tried to wash HIV.

I have taken a shower but the TB is still here. I took one yesterday when I got home but that one was for the tears ‘€“ you can’€™t taste them when they are mixed with water.

Any other day I would have a long list of things to do but today I need to get myself to a clinic to get a test that will confirm the doctor’€™s diagnoses.

I just got back from the clinic. I was told to go to another clinic because that one didn’€™t treat TB referrals/patients! What’€™s more is that this important bit of information was only given to me after spending almost an hour waiting to be attended to by the nurses I had tried showing my referral letter to.

Frustrated, I took a train and went to another clinic where I was told (surprise) to come back tomorrow at 7:30. Apparently, the sister (who was supposed to be seeing patients up until 4 o’€™clock today) had gone out. ‘€˜I don’€™t know where she might be but when she returns it might be too late,’€™ the receptionist said.

She said it would do me good to get there early since the sister normally starts with TB patients before attending to the others.

I feel like this is a wasted day. I’€™m depressed disappointed and more than a little irritated. I have spent R 16.50 for nothing! I want to blame someone for all this, not just the lack of access to good health care but the diagnosis. Maybe  I  blame myself for not suspecting I had TB in the first place. Or I could blame the nurses at the two  clinics I visited previously for delaying the diagnosis.

Read Part 2 next week