let’s allow the doctors to do their work,” Richard responds, as he ushers me away from the door of the emergency room and out of the building. I am too drained to argue. But something doesn’t feel right. I don’t understand how me having a quick look in can mess anything up. With a heavy heart, I shake my head, struggling to understand. As we make our way to Honest’s car, I pull out my phone to text the family again. “Doctors have asked for more time to work on Gugs. We’re heading to the hotel.” As I press Send, my phone slips out of my hands, falls face down and the entire screen cracks. I pick it up and it rings almost immediately. It’s Gugs’s dad. I can sense the worry in his voice as he asks for an update. I repeat what I have just said in the text message. “Okay, keep us updated.” The phone goes silent.
I find myself moving like a machine as I tumble into the car beside Richard. I replay some of his words in my mind. “The doctors are going to need more time with him. Let’s go to the hotel, take a shower, a quick nap and come back in an hour or so.” Unless the hotel is right next door, this really doesn’t make much sense to me.
“How far is the hotel from here?”
Richard takes a long pause. “It’s in Marangu … An hour away.”
No, this makes absolutely no sense. Just as I am about to start arguing, Honest walks up to the car and beckons, “Dada, come with me. The doctor wants to speak to you.” He takes my hand and marches me back into the building. My legs are so tired and heavy, but somehow I find strength, almost jogging to keep up with Honest. We rush right past the emergency room and turn towards some offices. Honest slows down as we walk into an office where two female doctors are quietly seated. I greet them; they usher me to sit down. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Honest slip quietly out of the room.
The first question directed at me is, “Who are you to the gentleman in the emergency room?”
“His wife,” I say.
The next few questions are around general health. Does he have high blood pressure problems or any heart-, liver- or lung-related illnesses? My answers are all “no”.
I desperately want to ask if I can see my husband. Instead the questions continue.
I’m asked to describe his state of health before the climb, during the climb, leading up to our arrival at the hospital. And so I tell them:
“Gugs had what seemed like post-nasal drip before we left South Africa to come to Tanzania. This is a normal condition in our household between him, our daughter and myself, so it was nothing out of the ordinary. I did, however, ask him to speak to the team doctor and alert her of his symptoms. He brought his usual medication along that he uses to treat post-nasal drip. When we arrived at the hotel on the first night, he told me he had consulted the team doctor and she had said not to worry, that he must be exhausted and should get as much rest as possible. He seemed lethargic, not his usual energetic self over the next three days. I kept asking him to continue consulting the doctor and he assured me that he was doing so each day. On his last leg from Horombo to Kibo, we unfortunately didn’t walk together as he was feeling tired and elected to go with the slower group.”
I am suddenly reminded how upset I was when Gugs decided not to hike with me because he was tired. We had made so many plans before leaving for Kilimanjaro – weeks, months of planning and dreaming of reaching the summit together. I knew I was probably just being emotional but I was deeply disappointed that we would not be doing this part of the trek together.
I’m back in the room with the two doctors. I continue my explanation.
“So, because I was not with him on his last walk, I was not privy to his condition. That evening, upon arriving at Kibo, he told me he felt extremely tired and consulted the team doctor again. She decided to put him on a drip to energise him for summit night. But instead of improving or getting energised, he fell into a deep sleep. He began to snore, a loud disturbing gurgle. I had never heard him make this kind of sound before. I asked the doctor what could possibly be causing this and she said she too had never heard it before. She added that it was odd, too, that he was sleeping so deeply because the drip was meant to increase his energy levels. Then she left the room. Everyone went to bed. I stepped out of the room to speak briefly to Richard and, moments after I came back, I found Gugs foaming at the mouth. I was horrified. I ran to the doctor next door to inform her. She simply told me to turn him onto his side into the recovery position. Startled and confused, I ran back to the room to do as she instructed. He was really heavy and I’m really small compared with him, but somehow I managed to turn him. Then he stopped breathing! I waited a brief moment and when I was sure another breath wasn’t coming, I screamed really loudly and everyone woke up.
“Finally, the doctor was back in the room, attempting to resuscitate Gugs. She must have succeeded because suddenly I heard a loud gasp and his eyes briefly popped open before closing again. Then she inserted an endotracheal tube down his throat and gave instructions for an emergency descent. She showed us how to keep his drip upright and how to keep it open. So Richard, myself and the guides headed down with my husband on a stretcher and drip. And that’s how we landed up here.”
It feels like I have been talking a lot, babbling, trying to give the two doctors as much detail as possible in order to help them get Gugs back on his feet. Suddenly, I hear a group of women singing what sounds like a hymn. I’m immediately filled with panic. It sounds so sad and sombre.
“What’s going on? Who are these women singing for? Are they singing for my husband? What’s going on?”
One of the doctors responds. “No madam, this is a Christian hospital – we start every day with praise and worship.” I nod and try to control my panic.
Then there is a long silence. The second doctor takes over. “Madam, thank you for sharing that with us. I have to tell you that the weird snoring sound you heard your husband making was his lungs filling with fluid from the drip. We have come to the conclusion that he drowned. I am so sad to tell you, but he has unfortunately passed away.”
There is only silence. My brain stops.
Dead? I don’t believe them. There must be some terrible mistake.
I jump up and run out of the office towards the emergency room, my heart pounding in my chest. I push open the doors to find the mountain guides still inside. I turn towards Gugs, who is on a bed. I stop midstride as my eyes fall on him. He is so still. Dead still. He seems so peaceful. I slowly walk towards him. He is pale, much paler than I have ever seen him. He still has that tube down his throat. His eyes are closed. His head is turned slightly to the side, just as it has been all night. To me he looks like he’s just taking a nap.
My brain can’t complete a thought. I know what the doctor has just told me. But I can’t make sense of it. I want to collapse, scream and cry in despair, but I am caught off guard by how peaceful he looks. How can I fall apart and cause a scene in the presence of such serenity?
I call his name, loudly, “Gugs!”
He doesn’t respond. I move closer. I rest my head against his chest. The room is silent, his chest is silent. The absence of a heartbeat finally brings on my tears.
He is gone.
He is gone. How can he be gone?
But he is. And just like that, my project to save him comes to an end. He is dead.
I touch his bare hand. His skin is still supple. Tears stream as I run my hands over his chest and face, still watching, aching to see his chest rise again. But I know it won’t. I turn to the others in the room and quietly ask for someone to remove the tube from his mouth. I want him to be free of this terrible intrusion.
I immediately regret my request. I watch them yank the tube from his rigid jaw, which has frozen from the cold night – they struggle to remove it. When they finally manage, his mouth gapes wide open. He looks gruesome. Nothing like my Gugu.
I lie back against his chest longing for his arms to wrap around me, knowing that they won’t – that they can’t, not now, not