It was a beautiful, windless Saturday morning with cyclists and runners in full force, full of families and friends enjoying the crisp ocean air. If I didn’t need to have my eyes on the road I might have seen dolphins diving through rainbows, it was that perfect for all involved, except me: I was on my way to the Tokai Medi-Clinic to have my balls inspected.
While inside the waiting room I imagined what it must be like inside a government hospital. I looked up at the clock and considered my next move.
I’ve heard some stories of False Bay Hospital that made my stomache turn, and have avoided it like a plague since. This was an opportunity to find out for myself, so off I went, straight down the rabbit hole.
As I pulled into the parking lot I was pleasantly surprised by how few cars there were and my initial excitement was overhauled by the realisation that people who come here do not own cars. As I entered through the sliding doors my mind was overflowing with disturbing images of warzone emergency wards with screams echoing down the corridors. Naturally, it was not what I expected. I greeted the receptionist and he pointed me in the direction of the waiting area.
I took my place on the cold wooden bench among some very weak, sick looking people. I felt privileged as I opened the first page of a new novel while everyone else had their eyes glued to a game show on SABC 1. The character in my book was at a point in his life where despite having everything he ever wanted felt bored, and so became known as the Dice Man. He was even more self-indulgent than me and it felt better projecting this into the novel than into the people around me.
At the far end of the room a coloured mom had completely lost control of her son who was about 5 and running up and down spilling Simba Chips and hanging of strangers’ legs. I made eye contact with the mother and tried to hide my expression of severe judgement with a weak smile. I immersed myself back into my world of fiction.
If was going to sit here there was no point in being an observer, I would have to talk to people to have a full experience. I needed to find out who they were and why they were here.
A man wheeled himself in on a wheel chair with a wooden a cast on his right leg exposing his swollen foot. Hi name was Henry. I asked him what happened. He had slipped and fallen of the pier at Kalk Bay Harbour. I asked him what he was going to do and he said that he thought it was a sign that maybe he needed to change his direction in life. He felt like things weren’t going anywhere and actually felt quite positive as he could now stop to reflect and consider. I admired his attitude. He moved in closer and we exchanged our own “war stories”. He asked me what I was doing and I told him I was studying copywriting. His eyes lit up and he launched into the workings of the human mind and how advertising triggers certain chemicals in the brain and that people are manipulated into buying things they don’t need. Of course I defended this.
Henry turned out to a remarkably intelligent man and told me about how Germany is fast becoming the world superpower, the future of space travel and the fate of the Vatican Church. From there we entered into a two and a half hour conversation about reality, the mind, back to advertising and media and into technology and into the meaning of life and fiction.
There was a time of about what seemed like 15 minutes where past, present and future all seemed to converge as all barriers between us had broken down. The room around us seemed to shine as before it appeared dull. People who before were hanging onto their stomaches or crouching over in pain were all sitting upright and talking to one another. The energy in the room had completely shifted; it felt as if we could be anywhere.
It was now three hours later and I had completely forgotten why I was there. Henry’s cell phone went off so I stood up and walked to the nurse to ask her why they hadn’t called me yet. She said they called me two and a half hours ago, I replied that that was impossible as I had been sitting there the entire time. Eventually the Doctor let me in, I dropped my pants and he said: “I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that, Saturday mornings are for emergencies only.”
So, with my pants down I burst into laughter at the insanity of my situation. To this day no doctor has been able to pin down the strange rash and I felt like I was part of a larger science experiment for the entertainment of mankind.
Perhaps the reason for me being there was to meet Henry and connect with someone that I would normally just form opinions about. It taught me that everyone has a story to tell if we only just take the time to listen. We are all similar in more ways than we are different. If we overcome our separation through shared experience we will all see that there is nothing separating us from the man passing us on the street except a mentally constructed barrier.
