As we approach, I see Gugs sitting alongside the Kibo sign, some of the group members scattered around him. They seem upbeat; they are all singing. As we get closer, Gugs stands and walks towards me.
He gives me his smile, his wonderful Gugu smile and says, “My love, I’m sorry.”
My world is immediately lighter. “I’m sorry too.”
Then we hug, both of us crying; we hold onto each other for what seems like forever. Finally we draw apart, he looks at me and says, “I need to go and see the doctor – I’m not feeling well … But first we need a picture here at the Kibo signpost!” We stand together, and hand someone our camera to take the photograph. This will be the final picture we have together.
CHAPTER 4
The eight-hour trek
At Kibo Hut, Gugs tells me he has reserved a bed for me, but I need to sign in first, then come and find him. After all the formalities, I find the dormitory. My husband is sitting on his bed, the doctor setting him up on a drip. I’m relieved that he is being taken care of. I have no idea what’s in the drip, but she is the trusted trek doctor – she must know what’s best for my husband. I put down my bags and step out to find the bathroom. On my return, the doctor is done. She tells me she’s given him something to boost his energy and that we’ll monitor him over the next few hours. She then leaves.
Finally the two of us are alone. I sit down next to him. All my anger has dissipated. I am concerned and ask him how he’s feeling.
“I don’t really know, I’m just very tired,” he says.
I encourage him to keep lying down, and take a nap. He agrees, gives me a kiss and reclines back in his bed. But in truth – although I don’t show it – I’m worried about my Gugs. I have never seen him so low.
Soon enough we’re called outside for a final briefing by expedition leader Sibusiso. I grab a jacket and head outside, leaving Gugs to rest and hopefully get some energy from the drip. When we return to the dormitory, I notice Gugs is snoring really weirdly. Snoring is normal for him when he isn’t well, but this is significantly different, loud and alarming. I notice teammates shoot concerned glances at him but no one says a thing. When the doctor returns to our dormitory, I pull her aside.
“What’s this sound he’s making?” She responds that she’s never heard anything like this before, that it’s odd that he’s in such a deep sleep. The drip means that he should be up and about. She then concludes that rest is good for him so we should give him some time. I am not a doctor, I have no expertise in the conditions we are dealing with up here and so I nod. She moves on to check on teammate Thembi who also isn’t feeling great. On her way out, the doctor returns to me, where I’m sitting watching Gugs, and instructs me that in an hour’s time I should give him the blue pain tablet in my tablet box. It will ease his headache. Then she leaves. I follow orders. I pick up my phone and set an alarm to ring in exactly one hour.
By now everyone is eating dinner in our dormitory. I have no appetite, so I start pulling our summit gear from our bags. Realising that Gugs will probably need my help to get ready later, I decide that I should rather put my gear on right now, excluding my summit pants, gloves and jacket. So I pull on my thermal vest, thermal long johns, moisture management top, fleece top, sock liners, hiking socks, summit socks, hiking pants and a buff around my neck. At some point, someone shoves a plate of food in my hands and I sit half-heartedly on my bed and try to get something down. The alarm goes off and I reach for the pillbox to get the blue tablet. I tap Gugs to wake him, but he doesn’t respond. He must be really tired. I shake him gently but he just continues snoring. These loud, gasping snores. It sounds like he’s underwater, like he’s gasping for air. I stroke his face and suddenly his eyes pop open.
“I’m so cold.” I can barely hear his whisper.
Gently I tell him that he needs to take this tablet now. “It’s for the pain,” I say. But I’ve hardly finished my sentence before he falls straight back to sleep.
I try to wake him up a few more times but he doesn’t respond. Finally, I give up, thinking that sleep will help him heal. Tomorrow is going to be a really challenging day, and he’ll need all the rest he can get. So I cover him up because he says he’s so cold and sit on my bunk next to his, staring at him and willing him to get better. I feel so helpless watching the man I love like this. I can feel the eyes of everyone else in the room on us, but I decide not to look up at them. Slowly, the room starts to quieten as, one by one, our teammates get into bed to sleep.
The doctor returns to the room. I tell her Gugs hasn’t woken for his tablet. She says it’s okay because it’s just a pain tablet. He can always have it later. She then asks me what I would say if he doesn’t get any better, if she suggests that he descends the mountain. I am not going to argue with that – of course, it’ll be fine if and when she makes that call, but for now we can wait and see. She tells me she’s heading off to sleep and wants to show me how to remove the drip when it’s finished. She begins to demonstrate how I should do this, but I shake my head in confusion. I have no experience with drips. I’m terrified I’ll get it wrong. She picks up my hesitancy and shows me how to rather shut off the flow, where to slide it shut without having to remove it. And with that she leaves. Most of the others have drifted off by now, but sleep is so far from my mind. So I sit there watching my husband, his gasping snoring the only sound in the quiet night.
Sibusiso enters the dorm, and in a whisper, like the doctor, he asks me what I would do if Gugs has to be sent down the mountain. “I’ll go with him,” is my immediate response. He tells me I should think about it and proceeds to tell me a story from the previous year when another couple climbed and were separated. “Mr Singh was sent down the mountain, but Mrs Singh continued to summit and saw him later.”
“But I’m not Mrs Singh. If Gugs has to go down, I’m going with him.”
He nods, realising he is not going to convince me otherwise. As he leaves he says, “I wish him all the best.”
Fulufhelo is in the bunk above Gugs. “How’s Gugs?” she whispers.
I shake my head. “Not great.”
By now tears have started streaming down my face as the reality of my husband’s condition hits me. She pulls me closer. We quietly say a prayer and hug each other goodnight. As I sit on my bed, watching over Gugs, Richard steps into the room and approaches me.
By this time the lights are out, and most people have fallen asleep. He tells me he won’t be sleeping. “Me too,” I say. I’m grateful that I am not totally alone in this. Richard suggests we take a walk outside. It’s freezing in the cold night air, so we sit in the dining area. Even though we are still in the same hut, after chatting for a short time, I’m not comfortable being away from Gugs, so I suggest that I rather return to my husband, in case he needs something. Richard walks me back to the dormitory door. The lights are off by now, and the hut is in total darkness, so I use my torch to find my way back to the bunk. I instantly realise that the loud, awkward snore from Gugs is now muffled, so I shine the torch on his face. I am shocked to see something white and frothy coming out of his mouth. I reach out to touch the whiteness with one finger and realise its foam. There’s foam coming out of Gugs’s mouth! I dash out to call the doctor, whose room is next door. As I rush in, she’s sitting upright in her bed pulling on a warm top. I am aware of the need not to wake the others.
“Doctor,” I whisper, “please help – Gugs is foaming at the mouth.” My voice is filled with panic. She responds by instructing me to simply “turn him on his side, into the recovery position”. I freeze. I am so shocked I don’t even argue. In a daze, I run back into the room, to Gugs in the dark and begin trying to turn my tall, 95-kilogram husband on his side. I am all of 1,63 metres and weigh 48 kilograms. With all my might, I try pulling him onto his side. I don’t have much success, so I run to the other side of the bed and try to roll him over. The snoring stops immediately. Now I lean in to listen to him breathing. Nothing. I can’t hear his breath! I turn my head to listen with my other ear. Nothing. Gugs