Amandla!

I have a patient in my ward; shall we call him Mr T; a sweet young man who has been an inpatient in the ward for many weeks. He has full thickness burn wounds to his leg and foot. Obviously such an injury is accompanied by excruciating pain particularly during the dressing changes which are done every second day. Patients who call hospital wards their homes for extended periods of time become accustomed to the routine of the ward and even adopt some of the medical jargon they pick up when communicating with the ward staff. This particular gentleman has become adept at doing his own dressing changes and is quite an expert at describing wounds in medical terms (using words such as granulation tissue, although he calls it ‘graduation tissue’).

I recall another patient who was a long term resident of a medical ward, mainly because he suffered from brain damage and could not remember his own address or any next of kin contact details. This guy quietly observed the nurses going about their daily duties. One morning he joined them in making the beds, perfectly copying their particular way of folding the corners and rolling the blanket into a tight sausage at the base of the bed. Needless to say, as soon as the patient revealed his very useful bed-making talent he quickly received an invitation to stay as long as he wanted to.

But I digress, back to Mr T: we took him to theatre today to cover his burn wounds with skin grafts. This we perform under cover of spinal anaesthesia, numbing the patient’s legs while his consciousness remains intact. Mr T was acutely scared of the procedure and especially concerned that the spinal might stop working at any moment during the procedure, flooding his nerve ends with unbearable pain. We needed to constantly reassure him that everything was okay. We guided him through every step of the procedure. The operative site is hidden from the patient by a green fabric shield so he could not visually follow what we were doing. (And thank goodness for that as I cannot think of anyone who’s stomach could stand seeing an operation being performed on themselves).

At one point we needed to take a split skin graft with a machine called a dermatome. Unfortunately this contraption makes a terrifying noise, just like a grinder splitting through bone. In reality it very smoothly and effectively removes a super thin top section of skin (epidermis) from the dermis. Mr T was understandably completely freaked out by the hair-raising screech of the dermatome. He quickly realised though, that the spinal was indeed working perfectly because he had no sensation of pain at all! I think it was the whole stress of the situation and his extreme fear combined with the sweet realisation that he was not going to feel any pain after all, that made him burst out in, first giggles and then, deep tummy guffaws. He kept saying how he felt no pain from the grinder! The atmosphere in the theatre, previously sombre and a bit stressed by the patient’s panic, changed so drastically that we all started laughing along with him. Then he started singing the praises of all the doctors in the theatre saying how wonderful we are to give him new skin and save his leg.

At the completion of the surgery, still on the theatre table but nicely wrapped in bandages, the patient punched his fist in the air and bellowed “Amandla!” Now, this cry was used during the Apartheid years as a cry of togetherness by the ANC party members. It means power. One person, usually at a political rally would call out, “Amandla!” and the crowd would answer, “Awethu!” meaning, “Power to the people!” Most white South Africans, including myself, not really understanding the beautiful meaning behind the words, experience debilitating fear when we hear those words called out in great crowds. Or, at least, we would have during those dark ages of Apartheid. When exclaimed by the voice of a thousand people at a political rally it sounds like a proclamation of civil war.

The most amazing thing is that today when my patient, Mr T, cried, “Amandla!” I really HEARD him. He was celebrating that he had power in his court again: he was strong enough to survive the fear of surgery; strong enough to survive the burn wound and strong enough to take on life after months of being incapacitated in hospital. But he wasn’t doing all this alone. He invited us to join him in jubilation. We had walked the path with him, daily. We gave his legs the power to carry him. He gave us power to serve our other patients and to do it with an abundance of energy.

And we answered, “Awethu!”!