Christmas is only a few weeks away and it is time for an update to my blog. I don’t want this to become purely a record of health issues, but I have had a rotten time recently.
The reality is that, as we age, ill-health becomes more likely and recovery is slower. I am, again, suffering from an abscess in the fleshy part of my backside. This is technically a peri-anal abscess, not, as I said to my shame at one consultation, a peri-natal abscess. It is a second instalment of the same malady that put me in hospital in Durban a year ago.1
This current episode began about 10 days ago. I went for a 13 km walk with a friend. The problem was brewing but I think my underwear rubbed me up the wrong way and kickstarted the event. The following day, knowing there was something wrong, I went to the NHS walk-in centre in Norwich. I was given antibiotics. They did not appear to be working after four days so I made an appointment with my general practitioner and was given an immediate referral to the Surgical Emergency Unit at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital.
After waiting less than two hours I was seen by two young medics. It really was self-obvious, but they brought in their senior to approve their treatment plan: to continue the antibiotics, with further investigations such as an MRI or CAT scan. Luckily, I had a pictorial record of the whole process on my phone which was useful. I won’t overshare, although some may think I already have!
I saw my GP again a few days ago and he sent me to the practice nurse. I will be visiting her regularly over the next couple of weeks. I have nothing but praise for the NHS. At every step of the way I have been seen quickly, and always with care and compassion. Of course, the main question I have posed to every health care provider I have interacted with, in the UK and South Africa, is why me and what can I do to prevent it from happening again? The answers have been consistent and uniform: we don’t know, and we don’t know.
It brought to mind one of the great lessons from an anthropology course I took as an undergraduate about personalisation of issues. The brilliant South Africa anthropologist Max Gluckman’s field assistant caught malaria. He told Gluckman he had been bewitched. Gluckman explained this was not the case. He described how malaria was a parasite carried and transmitted by mosquitoes. The man had the misfortune to have been bitten by a malarial mosquito and it was not witchcraft. At the end of the explanation the assistant responded, he had been bewitched because why did that particular mosquito choose to bite him?
There was one consequence of this about which I am still extremely upset. We had planned to travel to Cardiff on 23 November to see the Springboks play rugby against Wales. There were to be six of us: Ailsa, Douglas, Rowan and I; Ben (Rowan’s partner) and Richard, his father. Richard was pivotal for the whole enterprise, since he is a member of the Welsh Rugby Football Union, and a real fan, but Ben bought the tickets! It is just as well as the stadium was packed.
Plans were made. We were to travel on Saturday, go to the game, stay overnight in a bed-and-breakfast and return to Norwich on the Sunday. Sadly, by Wednesday it was evident, there was no way that I could sit on a train for five hours each way and at the stadium for at least three hours. It was with great disappointment and sadness that I had to drop out. My ticket did not go to waste since Richard’s daughter’s, and obviously Ben’s sister’s, boyfriend James took my place. He especially appreciated the opportunity since he is originally South African, although currently living in London. An unexpected connection was that he and his parents lived in Piggs Peak in northern Swaziland when he was a boy, about 50 kilometres from where I grew up.
Rowan and Douglas in Wales, 2024
I attach a photograph from the match. I was able to watch the game by locating a Welsh television channel on my computer. The commentary was Welsh, so I had to tune in on the radio to hear an English version. It, frankly, bore little resemblance to what I was watching. After the buildup of getting tickets both for the stadium and travel, accommodation and buying myself, Rowan and Douglas Springbok jumpers and woolly hats it was a huge let down. I am so glad they all enjoyed it, and hope it is something we will be able to do again.
To put my travails in perspective, over the past month I received notification of two deaths of people I knew. The first, Celia Cameron, was the wife of Jock, who lectured at the School of Development Studies when I was an undergraduate. She was a firebrand in local government and the Labour Party and had many tributes paid to her in the local press. I did not know her but she had a reputation for standing up for those less fortunate.
The second was Chris Davies. He taught at Waterford when I was the network director and then a Governor. Sadly, there came a point when he no longer fit into the College and his contract was not renewed. He moved through various schools as he experienced more personal challenges.
I put a note about his passing on various Waterford Facebook groups and was surprised to be contacted by his brother Philip who gave me more details as to his final Swaziland years when he developed dementia. It was great to see many fulsome tributes paid on Facebook by former students and friends, who were not aware of the sad end to his career. After leaving Waterford he went through a spiral of less prestigious schools, and I lost touch with him. I have said this before and will say again: we die twice, once when we take our last breath and once when the last person who remembers us says our name.
With Chris Davies (standing in front of the open door), Malolotja National Park, 1983?2
I hope this prolongs Chris’s memory. He was a great teacher in his time. I will remember his enthusiasm and the short wheelbase Land Rover that he drove across Southern Africa, including to visit us in Durban. It brought to mind the Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) poem, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’…3
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
As a proud Welshman Chris would have enjoyed Thomas’ poetry, so he is an appropriate poet to quote. Chris would also have enjoyed the rugby, though perhaps not the result! I was able to locate a photograph from 40 years ago of him and his Land Rover (and me).
Rage is not my primary driver. I believe I have had an incredibly fortunate life and am working away at a memoir. To be clear, this is for myself. I know I can write nonfiction technical and even ‘trade’ books. For those not familiar with publishing, trade are the sorts of books that are distributed beyond academic and specialised bookshops and can even garner decent royalties! They appear on the shelves at airports and railway stations.
My two titles in this category are ‘AIDS the Challenge for South Africa’ and ‘HIV/AIDS A Very Short Introduction’.4 I know I can’t write fiction although I would love to! Memoir seems a good middle ground. I have greatly enjoyed the extensive research I have put into the writing. I don’t anticipate a commercial publication although I may seek an opinion from my friends at Ike’s Bookshop in Durban. They have a small but developing publishing wing.5
- https://alan-whiteside.com/2023/11/05/cape-town-and-the-rugby-world-cup
- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malolotja_National_Park
- https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night
- Alan Whiteside and Clem Sunter, ‘AIDS the Challenge for South Africa,’ 3rd Edition May 2001, Human and Rousseau, Cape Town; and Alan Whiteside, ‘HIV/AIDS A Very Short Introduction,’ Oxford University Press, Second Edition 2016, Oxford.
- https://ikesbooks.com/
Alan Whiteside 