Chapter 12
I wake up late at around 7.
The four travellers have disappeared in the night.
I have to push back a sense of fear and panic and dread about just waking up.
So irrational.
I head on a local’s directions to the Tsumeb doctor's clinic.
A consult’s gonna cost me $N400, which is 40 bucks.
Fine.
My heart is belting in my chest.
Here we go...
The clinic is pretty shonky, but there’s hints of western medicine about the place; diplomas and charts. Plus, the quack, a heavyset Namibian, is wearing a white lab coat.
That’ll do.
I tell him what’s going on. I spill my guts; the nearly blacking out, dizziness, tiredness, all of it. That it’s been happening since all the way back in Nigeria. Maybe earlier...
The quack draws a blank.
He's got no idea.
A shame. I was hoping he was going to be like “oh yeah, that’s XYZ’s disease, take this tablet and you’ll feel fine this afternoon”.
But, alas, no.
The doc takes my blood pressure.
It's 120 “over” 90.
The 120 is fine, apparently.
But the 90, that’s no good.
90 is the high limit where, any higher than that, and you have "hypertension".
And hypertension, apparently, is not good.
He's talking this up in a roundabout way as a cause for how I'm feeling, which I don't like.
Seems to me he's clutching at straws.
I think the hypertension is more likely a symptom of stress - because I’m seriously crook with something else - and I tell him that.
He agrees that that's a possibility.
He says that he could do some other tests like blood, urine and "stool" tests.
I’m all for it.
Let's run the gamut.
He tells me that, while we wait on results, he can give me medication so that I have a "very, very deep sleep".
I tell him that sleep isn't the problem and that I'm sleeping like a baby.
He starts ticking boxes on a blood test form for each of the tests that he wants to run.
He says that he doesn't want the costs to run up too high.
I tell him that money isn't an issue and to go nuts; give me whatever it is he thinks is necessary. So, he duly goes nuts, ticks everywhere, and I'm happy with it.
We're going the whole nine yards.
Let's get this fucker, one way or the other.
The "lab guy" takes my blood in maybe 5 different vials. The vials are slow to fill. The last two don’t fill at all, and only get a little splash of the red stuff.
The “lab guy” is wiggling around the needle under my skin, in and out of my vein, to try and find the sweet spot again.
Again and again and again. Jab, jab, jab…
Fucking... rookie... prick.... fuck...
He’s turning the crook of my elbow into minced meat.
I’d rather he cut off the end of my finger and milked it like a cow.
Fuck’s sake.
I'm gonna whack him if he doesn't get it soon.
He gives up and says what he's got will be enough...
Nope, fuck that. I don’t care, just make it work!
He refuses. Seems he can’t be bothered.
He gives me a couple of tiny containers. It's time for the skill and agility test; pissing and crapping into jars.
Here we go...
Container number one is a breeze, it's cutting the flow off halfway that’s the problem... But I manage it with panache.
Container number two is not so simple...
It's not like it's easy to just squeeze out a half-nug on command... And then there' the added technicality of some very tricky, very blind, hand-eye coordination, if there even is such a thing...
Working from dead-reckoning - fraught with risk.
Try getting just a smidgen of shit, the smallest of nuggets, into a jar the size of an espresso cup, without turning it into a horrorshow.
Good luck, with that.
Nothing left to do but to do it...
I'm proud of the result; only a tiny chunk missed the target.
All things considered, pretty damn good.
I hand those lovely gifts - still warm - back to my mate, the lab guy.
You couldn't pay me a billion dollars to work in the medical industry.
Fuck that.
Anyway, they’ve got to send it all away to a proper lab in a different village, where someone who's probably trained for years gets to pull my turd out of a jar, smear it on a slide, and look at it through a microscope. Why do people want to do this job? Imagine how close their nose is when they're looking through the microscope. It's not even their shit!
Bugger that.
Apparently, they’ll have the results back, via email, tomorrow afternoon.
Namibian efficiency.
Impressive, especially given that tomorrow is a Saturday.
So, my thoughts prior to getting the results back?
I'm expecting it to show up nothing.
Maybe not a clean bill of health, given my shocking diet through a lot of Africa, plus my lack of exercise. But I don't think it will show up anything that's drastic that could cause me to feel like I do.
Best case scenario is that they do show up something that can explain the issues that I'm having, and that it’s treatable. It would be wonderful to tie a bow on this awful feeling and then kick it in the arse and out the door forever.
But I'm not banking on it.
In the case that they come up with nothing, well, that won’t be so bad either. I will at least know that my bodily health is ok and that I'm not at risk of anything awful happening; I won't be dying soon. It will also tell me that the likely cause would be being stressed out. That’d be something I don't want to medicate for; I'll deal with it myself, just like I’ve been doing so far.
If that turns out to be the case, that it’s nothing to do with body and that it's all in the mind, well, that’s going to be pretty fucking terrifying, verging on unbelievable; that my body can be so heavily, tangibly effected by something as abstract as a state of mind.
This is the problem that I'm expecting to be confronted with tomorrow.
I'll deal with whatever comes.
I head home to wait, and kill another day.
I feel fucking brilliant.
Things feel clear, I feel myself. Everything is normal. Wonderfully, magnificently normal. I can think, I can move, just like I used to.
I could fucking tap-dance.
It’s a brief window, and before long I'm back again. Fogged. Scared. Like I can’t breathe properly.
The four backpackers come back to the hostel after their day trip to the national park.
Again, it's another glowing review.
Tonnes of animals. Not the usual, boring suspects either. Not just herbivores. Cheetahs and lions and elephants. Crazy shit.
It sounds amazing.
It’s right there, a geographical stone’s throw away from the hostel, and I can’t do it.
Such a missed chance.
I’m half in and half out of sleep, dozing off.
I roll over and a throb of deep of pain comes from the back of my jaw. Right side.
One of my bottom wisdom teeth...
A lot of pain...
Fuck.
What now??
It’s always been a bit on the piss, that tooth, coming out on a bad angle.
My tongue starts the inspection. It’s like I’ve got a big marble glued next to my tooth. Badly swollen. Raging.
Hurts like hell anytime my tongue goes near it.
What the actual fuck happened??
I panic.
Getting a wisdom tooth extracted in a Namibian village isn't going to be fun...
I can think of nothing that would cause it...
Do I floss it? Brush it? A little bit? Or go hard? Or do nothing?
Shit.
What do I do?
Maybe it's from some overzealous flossing?
An injury that’ll heal itself...? I go back to sleep.
I can't.
I get up, while everyone's asleep, and re-floss and re-brush my teeth, brushing that wisdom tooth furiously hard.
It kills. But as I go at it more and more it seems to reach a threshold of pain and gives up.
I head back to bed and pray.
This is the last thing that I need...
I wake up to a tender tooth. Still hurts but not so bad that it’s time to get the vodka and pliers out.
Hard to say whether I saved myself with the midnight floss and brush. Who knows.
I go and buy new running socks. I've only got one pair left after the other went missing.
My shoes are starting to stink.
I head to the doctor’s.
They’ve got nothing yet.
I wait.
I wait. For the whole day...
Simmering in fucking nerve juice.
Africa’s made me a pro at staring at walls, I can do it for hours, days, even - I’m the best person I know at staring at ceilings and other inanimate objects. But this wait is grinding me out pretty bad.
I inspect the backs of my hands. The rash has turned into a million tiny scabs that cover the backs of my hands. They're itchy and flaky and starting to come off to leave behind pink skin.
I reckon they’re going to make me wait till Monday...
A clean bill of health.
Red blood cell count, haemoglobin count, white cell count, sugar count, kidney function: all in the normal range.
Theories: debunked.
Anaemia, diabetes, busted kidneys, cancer, HIV, AIDS - the whole shooting match - disproved.
Shit.
The only bad note on the report card is my liver.
There are some high and low “flags” in the report with some of the "protein counts".
What about that??
It's not “good”, but according to the doctor it's not causing what ails me - it's nothing to be worried about.
I’m fine...
The Doc reckons that if the other liver metrics were off and not the ones I was having a problem with then he would be concerned.
In other words, the liver is ok for the important stuff and letting down the team on the lesser things.
I tell him that I’ve eaten four big steaks in the last two days. I ask if he reckons that might have changed things and that my red blood cell count might have been no good before that?
He gives me a weird look.
This guy’s got no idea what I’ve been going through...
Apparently, red blood cell metrics take months to move by a single point, and I’m a long way in the clear.
I don't have anaemia.
He’s insisting that I’m healthy.
"No problem. You are healthy."
Fuck.
I think...
I know I’m being irrational to wish that I was sick. I know that’s crazy, but I just don’t want to deal with what being healthy means.
I’m not dying; So I’m going insane.
Wait. Not so fast.
Stool!
Where are those results?
Apparently, the turds take time to “culture”. Which, other than sounding just delightful, could, might, reveal something.
It’s not over yet...
The doc will send me an email letting me know if I’ve got parasites in my colon.
Thanks.
I go home to stew.
As I stare at the ceiling it’s all boiling around in my head.
So, the problem becomes more complex. More complicated.
The signs are pointing more and more to the stress and anxiety of the trip having an adverse impact on the body.
That’s a much more tricky customer to pin down.
I still can’t believe that.
How tangible and real these impacts are; they feel as physically real as if someone whacked me in the nuts with the flat back of a shovel.
I’m not imagining this.
I’m certain of that.
If “the mind” is creating this, all these physical responses, in so debilitating a fashion, completely out of my control, well, that would be as incredible as it is frightening.
A new backpacker comes in and interrupts my train of thought.
His name’s Chris. He’s from England. That’s enough common ground to get to talking.
Chris is dressed in khaki’s that have gone to tattered, ripped rags. They're obviously hard earned, and he’s obviously proud to be sporting them as the wearable passport of a windswept and interesting traveller.
He left England almost at exactly the same time I did.
Uncannily close departure dates.
At the crossroads of Africa he went east coast, I went west coast, only to meet up again in the South.
We share war-stories and I forget about my problems for a while. I love interesting characters like this who are good for a chat.
I wake up into consciousness and I don’t have to check my pulse, there's no need, my heart is smashing away so heavy and fast in my chest, it's so violent that it's enough to wobble my whole body to its rhythm under the force.
I haven’t even moved a muscle. I’m supposed to be “at rest”.
This is my resting heart rate.
What the fuck is going on??
I don’t know what to do. I try to breathe calmly, which dampens things off, a bit, but it’s still hitting hard enough that I can count the beats.
I get up, throw my shoes on and head out for a run.
Again, it's pathetic.
A few kilometres at most.
I’m puffing and panting
Stitching up.
My arse is still jiggling.
My calves are tight as a tiger already; they're not strong enough to support the body, even at this shuffling pace, and they're complaining. Loudly.
I know that this is bad for my running. I’m putting the running "cart" before the strength "horse". I’m going to pull up sore. I’m going to break something.
But my mind needs this.
So I run.
I know that what I need right now, for my mind, is to completely exhaust myself physically; I know that it's those type of gut-busting, all out runs that leave me in a headspace that nothing really matters.
But, in my current state, going for a thirty click tear isn't going to happen. I just hope this is going to be enough.