Felcetera

40: Cup Full

A friend once said to me: “I wish I have what you have!”

I looked at her in shock, “What do you mean? You want to be a single mother?”

She replied, “Yes, it would be so much better because I don’t have to fight with my husband, my mum and my helpers. I’d rather have kids and do it my own way , like you!”

I bit my tongue, really, do you?

__________________________________________

I never thought my current life would be one where someone would say, “I wish I were you!”

Once upon a time, I was a lost soul, reading endless self-help books trying to find the secret to happiness. Trying to relieve the existential crisis I felt in my heart: directionless, unmotivated and not really interested in anything except being on the trails and breathing in mountain air.

Once upon a time, I thought the answer was finding purpose (according to these books), and living in the moment. I was on the trajectory of trying to find that purpose. I thought it would be about saving the children, working in Non-Profit, doing yoga and going on meditation retreats. All these things, I tried and failed. None fulfilled me.

Until I had a child

Having a child changed all that. Giving birth to Samara also gave birth to a new me.

Of course the first few months were crazy. Nothing prepares you for the craziness of a newborn baby. Especially alone. I was lucky I had support from my parents who cooked and cleaned, did endless laundry for me. At first, it was all about keeping her alive, was she breathing? Why isn’t she waking up now? Why is she feeding so much? Always trying to find a routine that worked, and then a few weeks later, she changed it all again.

During this time, I used to pray desperately for a man to complete our family. Someone to accept us, to take care of us and most of all to help me. I missed being in a relationship. I missed the cuddles, the emotional support. I wanted that so much my heart would ache as I pray for it every night. Sometimes bargaining with God so I could meet someone who would share our life.

Now, fast forward a few years. Today, life is a bit easier. I have a walking, talking, little miss sassy. She is gorgeous, she is funny, she has a smile that cracks the hardest of hearts. I live in Hong Kong, I have a helper, who cooks who cleans and who takes care of the house and does the school run whilst I work.

I still cover the emotional and financial labour of two. There is no respite from life – from the admin which we all have but single mothers have double. Whilst I am lucky I have a helper with the housework, I am still the one to has to make sure Samara gets admitted to schools (via lots of applications, interviews etc), coordinates her extra curricular activities, performs due diligence on where to go, costs/travel/calendar management, helps with homework, read endless stories, explains where babies comes from, ensures she has the age-appropriate toys that will educate and push her, the right tools for schools, makes sure she has clothes that fit, shoes that are comfortable, manage the weekends and playdates, be both the good and bad parent, buy the groceries and still balance the chequebook at the end of the day.

Then there are chores and activities for me – filing tax returns, going to the gym, paying bills on time, trying to save for the future, and the list goes on.

There is no respite from it all. Yes, I make all the decisions. I am CEO, CFO, CCO, CTO of the family – all rolled into one. I have all the burden but no “team” to negotiate and discuss business plans and future strategy. Am I making the right choices? There’s no one but me and my imaginary friend in my head. I am sure I have overpaid for so many things because I am the a female making the decisions (try buying electronics or getting a mortgage).

Then there’s the discrimination in Hong Kong for single mothers. I’ve been told more than a few times from friends that I shouldn’t let people know my single mother status. At a renowned local Christian school, when Samara was being interviewed by the principal, she asked, “Where is your daddy today?” Samara shrugged. I answered for her, “Her father isn’t around, it’s just us”. The principal scrunched up her face and responded with a “Tsk Tsk!”. No surprise, we didn’t get into the school.

As much as there is overwhelming burden of single motherhood, I am also overwhelmingly grateful for what I have. My friendship circles here are the best. They support, nurture and treasure my daughter and I. Some even go so far as to be a pseudo father figure for her. My helper gives me freedom to balance a social life, work and still look after myself. I can still go to the gym, hang out with my friends, go for drinks and go to work. My workplace is amazing, and I have to say I love what I do! Mondays are the best! And of course, grateful for the love of my life, my little girl, Samara. I see myself reflected in her, and it makes me want to be a better person. I never knew the meaning of true unconditional love until she came along.

So would I change it all? If I could go back in time and talk to a younger me, would I still choose this path? Resoundingly yes!

At 40, I can honestly say my cup is full. Full of love, full of friends and full of life. I am happy and fulfilled without constantly feeling like I’m searching for it. I can’t ask for more. No longer do I pray for a man to complete my family. I finally understand why God didn’t grant my wish, it was because He needed to show me that I am complete. On my own. With everyone around me. And of course Samara, God’s precious gift to me. I learnt that I may be alone, but I am never lonely.

June 19, 2019 0

Turning 39

On the eve of my 39th birthday, I am reflecting on the most significant decade of my life. Gail Sheehy in her reknowned book “Passages” calls it the “Catch 30s” decade: a time to make, break or deepen life commitments. This is indeed true for me. In the past 10 years: I had a fairytale wedding, a heartbroken divorce, a pause in corporate career, a journey of self discovery through a magical kingdom in Africa, a new life creation, nurturing a child, the enduring journey of motherhood, partnering in a startup and still learning, creating and most importantly growing.

If someone had asked me a decade ago, what I imagined my life to be, never in a million years would I have said nor imagined this. A decade ago, I thought my life was on a trajectory to the normal 2.4kid family in the suburbs. I was young and stubborn and didn’t realise that a marriage needed two people to work on kindness and compassion (read John Gottman!), our respective careers made loneliness in our marriage the norm, whilst we slaved away in our corporate jobs, we saw little of each other, and feeling stressed and lonely, I was too quick to throw the toys out of the pram and give up.

After that, together with the forced pause in my corporate career, came the journey of destruction: I tried to experience everything I didn’t get the chance to see whilst in a long term relationship in my 20s: fleeting romances; drinking way too much and wholeheartedly had no idea what the hell I was doing.

One day, a friend of mine pulled me aside in the midst of complete self destruction and said she didn’t want to be my friend anymore because she thought I was turning into an ugly person. I was shocked and shamed. I had no idea. I had always held myself to this ground that “hey, I’m doing what I need and not hurting anyone in the process” but what if I was? What if i was leaving a trail of broken promises and hurt feelings in the wake of my journey?

I spent more time mediating, cue the silent retreats and spiritual catholic workshops where I prayed, chanted, begged for enlightenment. It was the first time in my life where I was forced to stop and sit still, not think, not feel, just breathe and be present. To this day, I am surprised at how centred, happy and elated I felt in this process. I was closer to God and felt the beginnings of new life.

In the midst of this, my application to volunteer at an NGO in Lesotho was approved and I ventured off: semi dazed, secretly frightened out of my wits but succumbing myself to new adventures. My other option was to travel through South America on my own, but since my application was approved, i saw this as God’s Plan.

Living in Africa is indescribable: scattered amongst the poverty of village communities with no running water, outdoor toilets and kids who have nothing more than mud to play with, are happy smiling faces, the most incredible sunsets, and peace. Whilst I lived in relative luxury, our lodging was still fairly basic. Little insulation meant freezing ice boxes (I got quite good at building fires!), no water in the morning with taps frozen over and concern over safety meant we were to stay indoors after dark. Most of all, being highly extroverted, I was lonely for company. There exists a small expat community, we are grouped together not because we like one another (of course we do!) but also because there are no other options. I would never forget my first night there where I was invited to a home with 20 other expat aid workers gathered in a tight space to watch an overt gay movie. The silence in the room was palpable, I was wondering if there would be an orgy after the movie and what I had signed myself up to!

In all honesty, there is nothing like “finding yourself” in a place like Africa. My journey there was wonderful, I had found a beautiful soul in my house mate, had a youthful fling, and most of all learnt my limitations. On the day when the political coup started an uprising and began shooting up the police station close to my house, I decided enough was enough. I ventured to Cape Town and decided to make it my home. I found a room in a house, and moved in with the intent of staying for 3 months and if I liked it I would move there permanently. During this time, I did the things I loved best: went on trail races, danced ballet, attended workshops and met people. I was beginning to enjoy my own company again when I met Brett. He was attractive, tall, handsome and looking for the same things in life. He was introverted where I was extroverted, he was a planner where I was spontaneous, and he shared the same birthday as my best friend in HK! I couldn’t believe it, it was a sign! The few months we spent together were amazing, he showed me his city, the trails and mountains, we even went on holiday back to Lesotho. We parted ways when I had to leave and I promised I would return when my visa was approved.

Back in Melbourne, my parents anguished at their lost soul daughter traveling in crime-ridden-rape-capital Africa. Furiously stubborn, I wanted to exert my independence that this is my life! I will do what I want with it. They prayed and prayed for me to stay in Melbourne, I countered that I was staying as long as it took for my South African visa to be approved.

I guess praying works.

I was 9 weeks pregnant.

I called Brett, a seemingly mature 41yo male suddenly attacked my judgement, accused me of trapping him and wanted nothing to do with the baby or me. All of a sudden, my world came crashing down. When I found out about being pregnant, I couldn’t stop crying. I had always wanted a baby, but was this the way?

I was 35yo, unemployed, living with my parents and pregnant: what the hell am I going to do? “Suck it up Felicia. Yup you heard me , suck it up, you can do this, it’s the way it’s meant to be”, said a voice in my head.

With support from my parents, so many donations, help and advice from friends, my pregnancy was an absolute joy; i delivered my baby naturally at 39 weeks.

At the end of the day, the cliche is true, there is no greater love than the love you feel for your child. There is no greater motivation than children, God made it this way.

And with baby around 1 year old, my ex work colleague who founded a startup offered me a role in Hong Kong which I couldn’t refuse, an opportunity to work in a dynamic start up but most of all, an opportunity to collaborate and create with the best team in the industry. So along with baby in tow, I made the move to Hong Kong. Hired a helper and started a new career at 38 years old.

Today, I am 39 years old, Single mother to a toddler, I am a giver, a nurturer, a daughter, an employer, an employee, a self-confessed critic, a hoarder, a sentimentalist, a wannabe writer, a budding psychologist, a Zumba addict, an ice-cream lover, an outdoor enthusiast, a risk taker, an adventurer, a party animal, a home maker, a persuasive negotiator, a comprising partner, a slow burn but a firecracker, a crazy dancer, a closet performer, a good listener, young at heart, forever striving to be better, but most importantly knowing I am enough. I am enough because I am me. Ready for my final year in my 30s before rocking it into my 40s. Whatever will the next decade bring? Bring it on, I am ready!

May 15, 2018 0

My Birth story

Saturday 5th Sept: Birth Day minus 1

I was counting down. Only eight days to go until my due date on 13th Sept 2015. I had this feeling my bubba would be born on 14 Sept, to coincide with my dad’s 65th birthday. I jam packed my last week and wanted to fit as much in as possible before I popped. Just this week, I had posed nude for a life drawing class, attended my regular aqua aerobics session, and this day was no different. I was attending a photoshoot for my best friend’s 1 year old son, and celebrating a joint Father’s Day / dad’s birthday with the family at night where I had baked a spectacular cake.

That day, I noticed my pelvic bone was quite sore, more than usual. I thought nothing of it, another one of those pregnancy pains I took in my stride. I made a mental note to go swimming tomorrow to help alleviate the pain.

The celebrations for dad ended around 11pm, I bid farewell to the guests and headed to bed. I was knackered.

Life drawing model: Birth date minus 4 days: 38.5 weeks pregnant

Sunday 6th September – Birth Day

It was 1am and I woke up with stomach cramps and pelvic pain. I had been getting these pains on and off the past few weeks so thought nothing of these. Sat on the toilet for a while thinking it would pass and went back to bed, hoping to get some sleep.

Half hour later, I woke up again, with the same pain. Like a mad woman thinking the same process would produce different outcomes, again, I went to the bathroom and hoped it’ll pass. Then bed and tried to sleep. This went on for a few hours: alternating between sitting on the toilet and taking showers which alleviated the pain the most. At 4am, I messaged my best friend and said I think I was having Braxton Hicks Contractions, they didn’t feel strong enough to be real contractions (what are real contractions anyway?). She messaged back at 6am saying yes, it’s hard to tell, try to get some rest.

By 8am, I had enough. I called the hospital and said I’d been having contractions which weren’t that bad. They asked about the bubba and if I’d felt it move that night. What bubba? In the midst of all those stomach cramps, I’d forgotten to even notice her moments and had not felt any kicks.

So I was told to go to hospital to make sure bubba was fine. I arrived at hospital around 9am, fully expecting to be sent home. I didn’t even bring my hospital bag or Tens machine (which lazed in my bedroom unused). After doing all the usual checks and confirming bubba was a-ok, they prepared to do an internal exam with the nurse saying, “oh I think you’ll only be about 3-4cm dilated and you’ll go home and come back later”. Nope, lo and behold, I’m one of those people who was 7cm dilated and had no real signs and still looked relatively ‘normal’.

Was sent to the birth unit straightaway and asked to stay there. Frantically I called my doula, the cord blood collection people, asked my parents to go home and grab my hospital bag and messaged my closest friends to tell them what’s going on. It was midday by this time, by my rough calcs, normally it takes 1 hour for 1/2 cm dilation so I expected her to arrive in the world by about 6pm.

My original birth plan was simple: water immersion, gas, pethidine and epidural. In that order. I wanted a natural birth. If my grandmother can give birth to eight children with no advanced medicine, I can definitely do this. I am woman, hear me roar.

From about midday to 2pm: In the bath water I go. Honestly contractions in the bath was not that interesting. It felt nice to be in the bath and all that but I couldn’t really find a good comfortable position, and sitting whilst contracting is just painful. I would’ve preferred to have a shower, as I can stand and lean against a wall, but the hospital didn’t have large shower jets which were hot enough. After an hour or so in the bath, I decided to get out and go back to the birthing room.

In the birthing room, I turned up the radio, dimmed the lights and tried to just have a zen birthing experience. Alternating between standing and kneeling on all fours, (sitting was too painful), the contractions became closer and closer together. After about 2 hours, I asked for the gas. Bubba was not coming out without some form of pain relief.
Gas was a godsend, as was my doula Sam. She held my hand and encouraged me through the entire birthing process. She laboured with me and it felt great knowing someone was cheering me on. There was no way I could’ve done it without her.

The gas really took an edge off the pain, breathing it helped me with the contractions and I felt almost no pain at all. The doctors came to check me and told me I was fully dilated by about 5pm. The midwives said to me that if I felt the urge to push, I should. So I pushed. And pushed. And pushed. They wanted me to push without the gas so there goes the pain relief. At each push, the doctors checked bubba’s heartbeat with a doppler. Always the same response: she was oh so happy the entire time. A catheter was introduced to ease the urine out and have no blockages for her to traverse down. My waters broke in spectacular fashion as I was standing and leaning against the bed. I was so surprised when a big gush of water ‘popped’ all over my feet like a balloon!

I asked for some stronger painkillers then, but it was too late. I asked myself why oh why did I choose this natural birth malarkey? Give me the pain free and fast option next time. The outcome is still the same. Bubba score!

Another check by the doctor said I had another small membrane of water blocking the bubba coming down and also needed to pushed out. I had been pushing for over 2 hours and in between poops and water (and blood) coming out, she was just so happy inside and wouldn’t come out! I was pretty much over it by then. If I counted the hours from my first contractions at 1am to then, I had been trying to birth her for about 19 hours. In hospital, I was there for just 10 hours. My little membrane of water popped. The doctors came again and did another internal and wanted to help assist with delivering her as I’d been pushing for so long. I said yes please, it’s about time!

They suggested a vacuum extraction to guide her out, so had to make a cut to my perineum. Fine, I was too conked out to care. By this time, the dimmed lights were changed to bright fluoro, radio turned off and about a dozen people suddenly flooded into room. I was told there would be a nurse to ‘catch’ her when she comes. I had a sudden image of her flying across the room like a football.

In my semi comatose state, local anesthetic was given for the perineum area, the cut was made, vacuumed inserted on my bubba’s head to guide her way around my spine. I pushed once, nothing happened. My next push, everyone said, “her head is out!” Yay. About bloody time. And the next push, she was out and was put on my chest in all her gooey glory. (Good job by the bubba-catching nurse!)

She cried and cried. Poor little bubba, so shocked at the world. Staring at the lights and me. She must’ve been thinking, “what on earth is this?” I was in shock and was glad it was all over. Took me a while to give her a kiss and cuddle. Afterwards, nurses asked me to breastfeed her. She latched on straight away like a hungry wolf, gulping down as much colostrum as I could produce. Which was incidentally quite a lot. It’s so amazing to think, just minutes into the world and she has great survival instincts. What I know of my daughter is this: it might have taken her a while to come out. She was stubborn and too happy enjoying the moment she had inside of me. Yet, once exposed into the world, she was scared but curious to know what’s out here. Well, there’s plenty of time for that my little bubba.

Like mother like daughter.

Placenta is a lot bigger than I thought it’d be! Some people eat this!

It was all a bit of a blur, cutting her cord

The Aftermath

Samara Naledi En-Hui Lim came into this world on 6 September 2015, at 2055 AEST, weighing 3.150kg, 50cm long, head circumference 33cm. Hospital labour was 11 hours, labour from time of first contraction was 20 hours.

I was in a state of shock after my daughter was born. My whole body was shaking and I couldn’t be still. The doctors stitched me up, whilst the nurses and crew cleaned up. The room looked like a tornado: I could see blood soaked sheets, blood on the floor, bright fluoro lights and dozens of people rushing around. Someone gave me scissors to cut her cord, it was a beautiful moment.

In the end, I lost 1750ml of blood, was borderline for a blood transfusion. Was given 3litres of IV drip instead. After a sponge bath, I was told to rest. The nurses expressed some colostrum from my breasts and took Samara to the nursery whilst I slept. I was woken up at around 4am to give my bubba a cuddle. She was divine.

I was feeling quite dizzy and sore the next day. All I wanted to do was sleep and yet I had a new bubba to take care of. A few visitors came and went, they made their visits quick which were lovely. My bubba fed and slept mostly. My first night with her, I felt anxious I might not be able to fill her needs. She went on a feeding frenzy on my breasts, and rested for 5 hours afterwards. Crazy. I thought to myself how on earth would I survive breastfeeding like this?

Was discharged from hospital on Day 2. Blood count was 85, still no blood transfusion because apparently I looked alert and fine (even though I could barely walk to the hospital corridor without feeling faint). Attended physio classes where they reiterated the importance of pelvic floor exercises. I couldn’t imagine doing them with all the pain I had. Hemorrhoids were massive and I could barely sit. It was agony. Sitting to breastfeed her was a weird combo of pain and joy.

Going home on day 2 was tough. Samara was very unsettled, I was still only producing colostrum and was up all night feeding her and yet she would wail and wail. My parents were on my case about formula top ups which I frankly refused. I want to breastfeed her and that’s that. But her persistent crying just wouldn’t stop and it was a nightmare for everyone. I didn’t sleep that night.

The midwives visited on day 3, told me about baby blues and what it’ll be like when my milk comes in. They said my breast milk should come on Day 4, it still didn’t. I caved and bought some formula for standby, just in case. She continued to wail and wail. My mum gave her some formula and she slept. Thank God.

Milk finally came on day 5. Along with the baby blues. Had a nice old cry about how I was going to cope with her. The breast milk was a miracle cure, all of a sudden, she was sleepy and settled. She stopped wailing at the top of her lungs. She became an angel.

It’s day 14 now and we are still learning about each other. No two days are the same. She’s mostly happy and settled in between some bouts of crying and curiosity. She loves to feed and has strong bones; she can already almost turn side to side and hold her head up. She’s going to be a feisty and strong one!

Samara is a true blessing, she is a beautiful gift from God and I’ll do anything for her. She’s my gorgeous little star and I pray for God to protect and keep her safe always.

September 20, 2015 0

36: Single and Pregnant

2015 is one helluva year. I came back to my hometown Melbourne after a 9 year hiatus with the intention of renewing my visa and returning to South Africa where I spent most of 2014. Instead, I managed to land myself at the doctors office who told me the reason I was feeling lethargic and exhausted was not because of any weird virus or cancers. I was 9 weeks pregnant.

Holy crap. What?!

‘Who’s the daddy?’ Asked one of my closest friends.

‘What are you going to do?’ Asked another

‘Will you keep it?’

A brief two month interlude with a cute Capetonian has resulted in a foetus. A life inside of me. What am I going to do? He’s in Cape Town, I’m in Melbourne. We made no commitment together, was just getting to know each other. He’s not going to be happy about this but I should tell him.

‘When are you going to get an abortion?’ ‘I don’t want a baby’ ‘please get me out of this!’ ‘If you want a baby so badly, I’ll pay for a sperm donor, but please abort this one!’ ‘Can you please sign a financial waiver?’

Yup, I sure knew how to pick’em.

Not completely surprised, I knew he didn’t want children. But his remarks still shocked me. I understand it came as a bit of a shock for him but at the back of my head,I was remembering the advice of a wise friend: it’s at the darkest times when you see the true soul of a person. The benefits of hindsight. I decided I’ll have to make this decision on my own, taking into account everything that matters, most importantly the growing foetus inside of me.

I am 36 years old, previously married and separated. Single for over 3 years, and had a ton of experiences: grew up in Australia, worked and lived in London, Hong Kong and Africa. I’ve done the work abroad thing, done the travel world thing, done the volunteerism thing. Last year in Africa, I saw my first shooting star and I wished for a family and children. ‘Hey you out there!’ I wanted to scream, ‘You got this wish thing the wrong way round!’ There was meant to be a man in this dream, someone to share the ups and downs and journey through life together.

So take note peoples: one needs to be very specific when making wishes. I can’t predict the order of the universe or what is in store for me, but I know having a child is a blessing. I know many friends who are in great relationships, trying to have babies and still the universe is shaking its fingers and saying,’oh no, it’s not your time yet!’ I am blessed, this child was not planned but I have a responsibility to bring a soul into the world because that’s infinitely what God wants for me.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. My mother was going through a downward spiral of depression since my African journey and wished I would return home. This was God’s way of granting her prayers. Perhaps not in the way she’d hoped but I’ve come home, and I’m staying home. South Africa is no place to bring up children, being a single parent in Melbourne will be tough but I know I’ll have great support from family and friends here.

So I bid farewell to the brief chapter in my life: Mr Capetonian, the father of my child. He will not know what I’ve been through: the crazy emotional process of having to make the hardest decision in my life. One that determines whether a human life lives or dies. And whilst I’m sorry he has not consented to this, I strongly believe this is the right thing to do. He will not know the ups and downs of pregnancy, the emotional turmoil, the heartache of knowing that my baby will never know her father.

Fast forward, I’m 36 weeks pregnant now, she’s arriving in less than 4 weeks. I can’t believe how quickly time has flown by. I’ve been in bed on many sleepless nights wishing someone would cuddle and hold me. I’ve read pregnancy books, forums and blogs who talk about keeping your partner involved and wished I had one too. I went to birthing classes, the only person without a partner or husband and was grateful I have a doula to help me through my experience. Some nights, I am tired and emotional, and cry for no reason but then my thoughts goes to my child, and what’s best for her. I’m choosing to give her life, I want to be a good mother, I’m sure being stressed and emotional does not help. Can she feel it? I don’t want her to be sad.

‘What will you say when she asks about her father?’

I still grapple with that. I don’t know is the true answer. I’m fearful of stigma, I’m fearful of how we’ll live after she’s born, I worry for our future. I’m going to be a single mother. But one thing at a time; for now, my scariest journey is the next step: giving birth. I pray for an easy labour (ha!), I pray she’ll be healthy and happy. One day I will tell her the truth when she’s ready; for now, after she’s born, I hope she sleeps like an angel, feeds when mummy is awake and cries only intermittently! Is that too much to ask?

August 17, 2015 0

17 November 2014 – What does this day mean to you?

What does today mean to you? Is it your birthday? An anniversary? Perhaps it’s nothing special, just another day in the office. For me, it’s symbolises one important milestone in my life: one year out of the corporate world.

A year out of the corporate rat race –what have I done?

Here’s a short list:

Spent a brilliant few days reconnecting with my family and cousins in Penang, Malaysia.
Spent a crazy weekend in Ho Chi Minh City whereI learnt USD 5 lets you cut the queue for entry visa and nearly got more than I bargained for during a massage.
Camped overnight and went skinny dipping for the first time in Hong Kong (Shhhh don’t tell the authorities)
Experienced the Vipassana meditation technique in Hong Kong where I learnt it’s all about how loud you can belch….
Got my first tattoo, learnt it doesn’t hurt, and want more.
Relived some childhood memories, travelled to Queensland and learnt the advantages of being a single rider at Warner Brothers Movieworld.
Drove on a beach like a freeway, floated down a stream which leads to the ocean, camped under the glorious moon in Fraser Island, Queensland. Unforgettable, one of the most amazing places in the world.
Camped in the Grampians, Melbourne Victoria with one of my best friends in the world. I didn’t know this would be the last time we’ll ever see each other. Rest in Peace Patrick Chung, you are still very much alive in my heart, and I still talk to you in my dreams.
Spent a month at home with my family in Melbourne, Australia: my little nephew could finally recognize and talk to his ‘Auntie Lisha’.
Moved to Lesotho and dabbled in the NGO space – learnt a bucketload about the Basotho people, the running of restaurants, conferences and hotels (very hard wok – hats off to the team!).
Had my 10seconds of fame in Lesotho with my name published in the local paper.
Rode a motorbike in Zanzibar, seriously broke my arm, had an operation and experienced the African public health care system
Skydived for the first time in South Africa
Completed 50km race (HK), 15km race (Lesotho), 5k (Colourrun Cape Town), 17km (UTCT SA), 10km (Dirtopia SA), 24km (Cape Point SA)
Danced danced and danced in Cape Town
Got my wallet stolen in Cape Town, and got everything back except the cash
Met a ton of amazing people
Made a significant life change – said goodbye to someone who was once a constant
For the first time in my life, I have no permanent fixed address or phone number.

One day, in Lesotho, I came home from work emotionally distraught and in tears. I learnt that one of our volunteers was being physically abused by her husband. They have two children, live in a shack and she couldn’t leave – she needed the support. Yet everyday, she would come to work, immaculately dressed, with a bright beaming smile. Finally, with support and encouragement from the team, she found the courage to leave and do what’s best for her and her children. She is working towards a bright future and never once complained. What an inspiration. I am forever grateful for all I have. Learn to treasure the small joys and moments, everyone who walks into your life gives you lessons you never thought possible.

Dance the dance you dance, don’t dance the dance people who dance dance – Platypus the wise

Amazing Lesotho - this man dribble a ball across Africa to raise money for Kick4Life. — Amazing Lesotho – this man dribble a ball across Africa to raise money for Kick4Life.

Exactly 2 months after breaking my arm, did a 17km trail race and it felt GREAT!!!

November 17, 2014 1

The Ins and Outs of African Hospitals: Make sure you have Insurance!

In late August 2014, whilst travelling in Zanzibar with my friend Juan*, we decided to hire a scooter to explore the island. After spending a lovely day seeing the sights, it was just past 10pm when we finally decided to take the 30mins ride back to our lodge. The roads were quiet, few people were around – all we saw were small groups gathered outside houses to watch football on the one and only TV in the village.

With less than 7km to go, Juan, who was driving the scooter yelled “Oh crap!”. We skidded off the road, fell off the scooter and landed on the dirt path with the scooter on top of us.

I was in shock and couldn’t feel any pain. Until I looked down. My mind finally registered the strange angle of my arm and the pain suddenly shot across my body. I screamed. Juan, whilst badly grazed all over, managed to keep calm and was able to use his mobile phone as a torch to flag down a passing car. I couldn’t even hear a car coming.

We were lucky. The car that stopped turned out to be Zanzibar tour operators. They took us to the police station to lodge a report (this took at least 30 mins) and then to a private medical clinic, Dr Metha who did a very sloppy job trying to clean the blood out of our wounds (think he was angry at being woken up at 1am in the morning). His one piece of invaluable advice was, “no matter what the hospital says, do not get an operation in Zanzibar”. We were then sent to the best hospital in Zanzibar for x-rays and treatment.

Zanzibar Hospital
When we arrived, the hospital was dark and dingy and eerily quiet for a Saturday night. It was rundown, no air-conditioning, mosquitos everywhere and did not look very sanitary. We were placed in wheelchairs, seated far from each other and whilst there were no patients, were told to wait.

At this time, Juan was feeling rather faint and wanted to sleep. Feeling afraid he might fall into a coma, I kept nudging him to stay awake. I went for an xray and the nurses attempted to clean Juan’s wounds. He had large grazes on his arms, legs and feet. They started by rubbing his wounds abrasively, sprayed stinging iodine and were told to air-dry for quickest recovery. Not believing this theory, he insisted on bandages. (Wouldn’t there be massive risk of infection if wounds were not covered?). The nurses relented and put cotton wool which stuck to his open bloody wounds and were impossible to remove.

The scariest experience for me was when they wanted to admit me to the ward. The nurse wheeled me to the back of the hospital where it was completely pitched black and the only thing I could see were iron bars, behind which stood an unused gurney and a ramp up to the next floor. I panicked. There was no way I was entering that space, it looked like a scene straight out of a horror movie, a point of no return. I shook my head furiously repeatedly saying ‘no no no’. The nurses replied with ‘Oh your friend will join you later’. I don’t think so.

Another hour later, it was about 2am at this point, with periodic yelps coming from the surgical room, the nurses finally finished cleaning Juan’s wounds. He was dead tired and just wanted to sleep. I relented and was admitted to the ward. They allowed Juan and I to share a room. Needless to say we didn’t sleep much.

A few hours later, the orthopaedic surgeon came to see my arm. I had severely dislocated both the Ulna and Radial bone in my arm and urgently required surgery. He tried to convince me to have an operation in Zanzibar but Dr Metha’s advice was ringing in my ears: no way was I getting an operation here. I was wheeled into the emergency room where he gave me a backslab cast. With no painkillers, he twisted and prodded my arm back into some sort of alignment. This was one of the most painful experiences in my life (the most painful experience was when I decided to get a tongue ring). Juan experienced a similar story and got a cast on his ankle. I later learnt that it’s normal to get morphine in developed countries.

Then came the tidal wave of visitors, none of these were friends: from the Zanzibar tour operators who scraped us off the side of the road, to the owners of the scooter company, to our lodge owners. I just wanted to go home, why were they here? We had to tip each of our ‘visitors’ so they would leave us alone. We decided to fly to Johannesburg for treatment. Enroute to the airport in the hotel chauffeured taxi, my iPhone was stolen from my handbag.

Johannesburg hospital

We checked ourselves into the emergency room at the Sandton Mediclinic (Private hospital). I was asked to take xrays again (post backslab) and wait for further treatment. This is a great hospital, run with efficiency and very comfortable even if they kept asking for medical insurance and payment information. The emergency doctor Dr Mwunze was amazing and was keen to help. She called the orthopaedic surgeon on call who quoted at least R100,000 (USD 10k) to insert metal plates into my arm. They needed at least R50k deposit to secure the operation.

I had bought 1 year travel insurance when I left Hong Kong to work in Lesotho, so I called and asked them if they would cover. It took 2 days of ringing around to get a clear answer. Since I had left the country for more than 90 days, my insurance would not cover this. So what do I do now?

I contemplated going back to Australia to get the operation done. At least healthcare is free. Feeling rather stressed, anxious and in pain, I finally broke down. I didn’t want to go home, it would feel like a step back in my African journey.

God sent me an angel. We met some local South Africans at lunch who recommended the Johannesburg public hospitals. I went to Helen Joseph Hospital immediately, was admitted and operated on straight away. All for a cost of R150.

Helen Joseph Hospital is one of the best Johannesburg public hospital though it is very run down – if ever a place could do with the ‘broken windows theory’ this is it. It has high electric fences, bars on all the windows, flies everywhere. The food is awful and the nurses are downright rude. I was put in a ward of four patients and every morning at 4am, the nurses would wake everyone with a tub of hot water so we could ‘clean ourselves’. Then we were told to sit around and wait for doctors’ rounds at 8am. I was one of the lucky ones, at least I was able to get up and walk about. The patient across from me had been in hospital for 2 months after getting hit by a bus, was pretty much paralysed from the waist down and had at least another 4 months of treatment to go. She is my age.

One day, I heard two patients talking: a nurse in another ward was raped the same night I was getting my operation. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. My operation had gone well but the healing process did not. The cast was on too tight and I had blisters from the swelling. My cast was removed and I was told to elevate my arm as much as possible. I also had a funny rash on my arm which I later realised were bedbugs. I begged to be released, I couldn’t stand the place a minute longer. Luckily one of the resident doctors took pity on me and released me after 4 days in hospital.

It was a gruelling experience in a public hospital but for R150 (USD 15), this is good value. I was lucky I didn’t have to wait 2 weeks for the operation and a post-surgical check by a private orthopaedic surgeon gave me the all clear.