I see nothing noble in a patient’s thrashing around in a sweat-soaked bed, mind clouded in agony. Nor can I see any nobility in the crying of a lonely child in a ward at night. . In those days, they didn’t have sophisticated heart surgery.
I have always found the suffering of children particularly heartbreaking–especially because of their total trust in doctors and nurses. They believe you are going to help them. If you can’t they accept their fate. They go through mutilating surgery , and afterwards they don’t complain.
. One morning, several years ago, I witnessed what I call the Grand Prix of Cape Town’s Red Cross Children’s Hospital. It opened my eyes to the fact that I was missing something in all my thinking about suffering – something basic that was full of solace for me. .
What happened there that morning was that a nurse had left a breakfast trolley unattended. And very soon this trolley was commandeered by an intrepid crew of two – a driver and a mechanic. The mechanic provided motor power by galloping along behind the trolley with his head down, while the driver, seated on the mower deck, held on with one hand and steered by scraping his foot on the floor. The choice of roles was easy because the mechanic was totally blind and the driver had only one arm.
. They put on quite a show that day. Judging by the laughter and shouts of encouragement from the rest of the patients, it was a much better entertainment than anything anyone puts on at the Indianapolis car race. There was a grand finale of scattered plates and silverware before the nurse and ward sister caught up with them, scolded them and put them back to bed.
. Let me tell you about these two. The mechanic was all of seven years old. One night, when his mother and father were drunk, his mother threw a lantern at his father, missed and the lantern broke over the child’s head and shoulders.
He suffered severe third-degree burns on the upper