A little bit shaken: a true fright-flight experience

A close friend of mine from my University days had, at the time, recently emigrated from South Africa with her family. Tall and fair-skinned with strawberry blonde hair, she is one of the gentlest people I know. What amazed (and slightly humoured) me however was her over-vigilance: she would routinely lock the steering wheel of her car, alarmed as well, and carry personal alarm in her bag at all times, the kind that would blare out an extremely loud distress signal. Blessed with being raised in one of the safest countries in the world I could never quite relate to my friend’s overly cautious nature. 

That is, until today.

The day started off a bit strange – Kalene woke up to cloud cover, for the first time in my trip. This was quickly followed by down-pourings of rain. I pulled out my rainjacket from the depths of my suitcase and geared up for the wintry day ahead – long trousers instead of shorts, clunky rubber (theatre) shoes instead of sandals and a fleece for extra warmth.

After a ward round followed by reviewing patients I had sent from my afternoon (“GP”) Clinic on Monday I was home in time for a mid-day break before heading back for yet another afternoon Clinic(!). Not long after I had arrived home and sat down with a cup of coffee did I get a phone call from Rachel, one of the missionaries (also a midwife and de facto hospital administrator). A child had arrived just over an hour ago from Angola who was very sick -- on arrival the child had been seizing and she had large nodes in random parts of her body. According to the family she had been unwell for a while and had been receiving “treatment” from Angola.

In the hour following her arrival to Kalene she deteriorated quickly. With a very low blood count (?cause) the oxygen in their body was no where near sufficient. Steph and Mel (the two Australian paediatric nurses I am living with) had managed to get in intravenous lines and start a blood transfusion, but it wasn’t enough. She continued to deteriorate in front of their eyes and they proceeded to bag-masking (= mechanically pushing air into her lungs).

As all this was unfolding, with the two surgeons in theatre for a major case of a child with Hirschsprung’s, they had called me frantically looking for a doctor to come help. Unfortunately in the few minutes it took for me to walk back to the hospital the child passed away. 

I’ll never forget Steph and Mel’s faces as I opened the door to the side room of the Children’s Ward. Mel was standing at the child’s head limply holding a bag-mask, Steph at the child’s side, and as I walked into the room their heads quickly turned to the door like deer caught in headlights, with puffy red eyes and tissues in their hands. The child stared blankly ahead, the father wailed and cried at the top of his lungs and a crowd of strangers began to gather outside the room hoping for a glimpse of the dead.

Steph, Mel and I had all been invited to lunch today by one of the missionaries. Already late we decided I would go ahead and give our collective apology.

The missionary houses (including mine) are about 500metres from the hospital. Though there are some fences and gates, none of it is secure. It is generally pretty safe here (apart from the inescapable petty theft), the hospital and its missionaries, having been here for a hundred years, held in high regard by the villagers. I have never felt unsafe here during the day, even when I go for my runs through the villages outside the hospital compound. There have been moments of nervousness walking by myself to the hospital at night when I have been on-call, but mostly at the sound of the intimidating winds and the blackness of night in the absence of any street-lights.

After today, this has all changed.

As I was leaving the hospital I heard some shouting which I assumed were a couple of locals having a lively conversation. Paying little attention I kept walking. Slowly the shouting started to get louder and louder. It is not unusual for locals to shout after the female foreigner, wanting your attention. The remedy is to ignore and keep walking -- which I did. But something in that moment wasn’t quite right. I could now hear one distinct voice shouting aggressively, getting closer and closer as it got louder and louder. I turned around to see a tall (at least six-foot), broad shouldered middle-aged man only a few metres behind me. My heart quickened, my fright-flight response kicking in. I started to walk faster but he instantly met my pace, getting ever closer; at that, I started to run. In my clunky rubber theatre shoes, holding my bag and rainjacket, I started to run towards the house -- but he was still only a breath away. Realising I wouldn’t be able to outrun him I changed direction and ran back towards the hospital where there were people standing around.

I’ve never been chased before in my life; I’ve never been threatened in that way before. There are no words to describe how it feels. 

The moment keeps coming back to me, over and over again, and I feel sick to my stomach.

What was more… horrible, was that as I started running towards the hospital where there were people standing around outside, running towards them for help, they simply watched -- with amusement -- and even laughed. One shouted to me, “He’s mad!” (as in, he’s our local crazy man) and continued to laugh, as if that was supposed to bring me comfort whilst I was being chased.

As I reached the hospital gates the man just suddenly changed directions, leaving me completely shaken, unable to process what had just happened. I walked straight back to the Children’s Ward where I knew Rachel and the girls were, walked into the room with the child who had just passed away, closed the door behind me and burst into tears. In between gasps and sobs I explained to them what had just happened.

The man who chased me is notorious in the area. He is, indeed, the local “mad man,” and has caused trouble for the mission and the hospital for a long time. This man has been threatening and violent to (mostly female) missionaries in the past. He has even recently tried to snatch a baby from the maternity ward. Despite repeated reports to the local police very little has been done. They did once take him across the border to The Congo (where he is allegedly from) only to have him walk back in a few days, border control being non-existent.

I’m still quite shaken up to be honest. I'm not sure if I'll ever feel comfortable again walking around here by myself (definitely not at night!). I can’t seem to stop seeing images of the man standing, running, right behind me. I can’t seem to escape that gut-wrenching feeling you get when your personal safety is under threat. Watching episodes of the West Wing, the debate on gun control always seemed so black-and-white to me: for the life of me, I couldn’t comprehend why someone might want a gun! After today it no longer seems as simple as that. Not that I ever would use a gun, not that I’ve changed my stance on the theoretical debate, but I got a glimpse today of why some people might be driven to that point.

Thinking back to my friend from South Africa, I realised today just how much we/I take for granted life back home in New Zealand...

Since my last post I have been meditating on God’s Purpose. There is more to say but I might save that for another day. For now I leave you with Jonah’s prayer (from Jonah Chapter 2). 'Till next time.

In my distress I called to the LORD,

and he answered me.

From deep in the realm of the dead I

called for help,

and you listened to my cry.

You hurled me into the deep,

into the very heart of the seas,

and the currents swirled about me;

all your waves and breakers

swept over me.

I said, “I have been banished

from your sight;

yet I will look again

toward your holy temple.”

The engulfing waters threatened me,

the deep surrounded me,

seaweed was wrapped around my head.

To the roots of the mountains I sank down;

the earth beneath barred me in forever.

But you, LORD my God,

brought my life up from the pit.

When my life was ebbing away,

I remembered you, LORD,

and my prayer rose to you,

to your holy temple.

Those who cling to worthless idols

forfeit God’s love for them.

But I, with shouts of grateful praise,

will sacrifice to you.

What I have vowed I will make good.

I will say, ‘Salvation comes from the LORD.’