Читать книгу I Choose to Live - Letshego Zulu - Страница 7

My footsteps thud as they hit the ground. I’m trying to pace my breathing; slow, quick breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth. The terrain zips past me, obscured by the shadowy darkness as we make our descent of Kilimanjaro from Kibo Hut. Gugs is lying unconscious on a single-wheel bicycle stretcher carried by four guides. I look down to check my watch – only 15 minutes since we left Kibo. Suddenly my foot strikes a rock and I’m flung forward, unable to stop myself. I tuck in and somehow manage a soft landing on the rough gravel path. Luckily, I’m wearing my summit-night gear, which is well padded. Richard, the founder of Imbumba Foundation, stops and gives me a hand. As he hoists me up, he reaches for my shoulders and removes my backpack. He wears it on his chest and, now carrying two backpacks, instructs me to continue running. I quickly dust myself off but, as I look up, I realise that the team carrying Gugs a short distance ahead has also stopped. Panicked, I rush up to ask what’s wrong. The leading guide, Frank, says, “The drip’s not flowing.” My first thought is that there’s a blockage, but the problem is I don’t know how to fix it. In the dark, with the help of my head torch, I peer through the drip window and I realise it’s filled with the liquid. I don’t know anything about drips! Desperate for a miracle, I stare into the four faces. Nothing. “It looks blocked,” I blurt out. “What should we do?” The guide who’s been trying to hold up the drip while running, responds: “Well, if it’s not working, then I think I should stop carrying it. I’ll put it next to him so I can run properly.” No one responds so he does exactly that, securing the drip neatly between Gugs and the stretcher.

Frank and I exchange a worried glance. He places a hand on Gugs’s neck to check his pulse. He looks back up at me. I read concern on his face so, shakily, I place two fingers just below Gugs’s chin. Nothing. Terrified, I pull my hand away almost immediately. I decide to check his wrist pulse and, as my fingers search for a beat, I’m hit with an Aha! moment. “Fitbit!” I find myself shouting. Gugs has two different Fitbit heart-rate monitors, one on each wrist. I had given one to him for his birthday two months earlier and the other he received as a gift from the Fitbit team two weeks ago, before we set off on our adventure. I click the one on his left wrist – it gives me a heart-rate reading of 185bpm.

“Jeez!” I scream.

My husband is clearly in deep trouble … My only consolation is that his heart is still beating. I show Frank how to check the heart rate and he nods. Our brief rest period has come to an end. We have roughly 28 kilometres to cover before we get to the bottom of the mountain, to an ambulance, which I pray will be waiting for us at KINAPA headquarters, the main gate to the Marangu Route.

Before we start off again I realise that the guides have only one headlamp between them to steer them through the pitch-black night. Without hesitation, Richard hands his headlamp to one of them. This leaves the two of us running behind, with only the dim light from the one on my head.

As we start the descent, my brain is in solution mode: I am heading up Project Save Gugu Zulu. We are going to get him help; everything’s going to be okay. We’ve been running for about an hour and now my phone beeps as it catches network. Cellphone coverage is almost non-existent on the mountain, so when your phone beeps, you stop in your tracks and check your messages. But this time I immediately dial my mom’s number. She answers almost straight away and, without any greeting, my words tumble out: “Gomie, Gugs is not well. We’re taking him down the mountain right now. Please tell his parents.” I almost burst into tears as the reality of the situation finally hits me. Richard indicates that I need to hang up – we have to keep going.

Now we’re running again to catch up with the guides and Gugs ahead. Soon we’re right behind them, the only sound the thud of our footsteps as we continue our descent in the silence of the black Tanzanian night. After what feels like another hour of feet thudding on the gravel path, the guides stop to catch their breath. Weighing in at a solid 95 kilograms, Gugs is not the lightest of guys. Richard and I stop a few metres behind. I ask Frank to check his heart rate again. “172!” shouts Frank. It’s a small consolation that he seems to be improving even though we’re still at pretty high altitude. I know enough about heart rates to understand, though, that his stats are equivalent to someone running a marathon, so it’s clear my husband is far from well. Our break soon ends and we’re on our way again.

After nine kilometres on the run, we eventually reach Horombo Hut. My mind flashes to Gugs, so happy here just the day before. He kept saying: “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! We’re above the clouds!” Right now there is nothing scenic about this dark and desperate place.

We arrive to a deathly still camp. It’s clear that everyone is fast asleep. The guides park Gugs on the stretcher in front of the reception window where we all signed in just two days ago. Richard and the guides dash off to find help, leaving me alone with Gugs. I’m too afraid to say anything to him, so I sit quietly on the bench by his side. I have never experienced such quiet. Finally, one of the guides returns. He tells me Richard and Frank are waking the other guides who need to continue the journey down with us. I ask about the ones who came down with us from Kibo Hut and he tells me they need to return to Kibo in case there is another emergency. It makes complete sense, but I can’t help worrying about the time we’re losing in getting Gugs down to safety. After what feels like forever, Richard and Frank emerge with a new group of guides. Frank has decided to continue with us until we reach the hospital about 19 kilometres away. I whisper, “Thank you.”

As we hit the road again, there are now seven of us.

Left, right, left, right, left, right. I switch my focus to my footsteps to avoid thinking of the desperation of the situation. The new team of guides has fresh legs and are thankfully moving at a rapid pace. Momentarily, I lose my focus and slip again, falling sharply on my buttocks. Within seconds, I’m back on my feet … left, right, left, right. Project Save Gugu Zulu is all that counts. My vision has adjusted to the dark, but I have to be careful not to trip. My phone starts beeping again. I stop immediately to check messages. It’s clear my mom has told the Zulus and our family WhatsApp group is buzzing with questions. “Letshego, what’s going on?” “Is Gugs okay?” “Where are you now?” “How’s he feeling?” “When did he start getting sick?”

I cannot waste time answering the many questions so I fire off: “We’re heading down the mountain. Doctor says he’ll get better the further down we go. Will keep you updated.” I slip my phone back into my side pocket and start running again, trying to ignore the flurry of beeps that is now coming in thick and fast. I stop once more and hurriedly type: “I can’t chat right now otherwise I’ll fall and hurt myself. I’ll update you soon. Please pray for Gugs.” I slip the phone back into my pocket and continue down the mountain.

As we hurtle on our desperate descent, the guides stop a number of times along the way to catch their breath and check Gugs’s heart rate. It seems to be decreasing, although very slowly. It feels like only a very short time has passed when we arrive at Mandara Hut about 11 kilometres further. This leg of the trek has flashed by much quicker than the stretch from Kibo to Horombo. Yet again the blackened camp site is eerily quiet. Not a single soul is awake. Where is everyone? Frank and the guides run off to wake them. It’s disturbingly clear to me that no one seems to be communicating our emergency to the camps in order to prep them ahead of time. I panic as I wonder if there’s even an emergency vehicle waiting for us at the foot of the mountain.

Here at Mandara Hut, Gugs and I are alone once again. I sit on the bench next to him and slip my hands into my pockets. Surprised, I feel some warmth and realise that earlier, as we left Kibo with Gugs on the stretcher, I had grabbed my pocket hand warmers. Gugs’s hands must be freezing. I am terrified to touch him, to look at him, but gather up the courage to stand and check. All the way down, I’d been so scared to look at him, because Gugs being like this is so foreign to me. He’s been “sleeping” the entire time, a pipe down his throat to help him breathe. I am frozen in terror. Nonetheless, I unzip the sleeping bag to expose his hands, which are lying across his chest. I reach for his left hand first. I almost recoil. He’s freezing. Then I see that his ring finger is bent. I try to straighten it. It remains crooked. Panic floods me. He’s either refusing to straighten it to protect his ring or … I freak out, but almost immediately I try to banish the crazy notion of rigor mortis. No, it’s impossible! My husband is alive. Gugu is the strongest man I know – everything is going to be okay. I shake the terror-filled thoughts away. Quickly slipping both my hand warmers under each of his icy hands, I zip him up again and sit back on the bench. I am cloaked in silence, and force myself not to think of anything at all.

Finally, Frank reappears with the new team. To ease my mind, I ask him to check Gugs’s heart rate. I can’t hear properly but he says 90-something. Good! I think to myself. I’m back in positive mode. The decrease in altitude is helping him to normalise at last. Everything’s going to be just fine. Soon we’ll be in an ambulance, we’ll be at the hospital, the doctors will stabilise him and this nightmare night will finally be over.

The last leg of the trek is finally upon us. We’ve been running for almost seven hours. I’m grateful for my level of fitness. Exactly a month ago I managed to compete in the Ironman 70.3 Durban event so at this point I’m as fit as a fiddle. In fact, I’ve never felt stronger. Swimming, cycling and running really condition one’s body. Now we enter the rainforest and head towards the park gate. It will still take some time to get there. I check my watch: it’s 4am on Monday, 18 July. Nelson Mandela Day. The initial plan was that right now we would be heading towards Uhuru, the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. Gugs and I had been so excited to be part of the Trek for Mandela expedition, but sometimes plans don’t work out. Right now Gugs has essentially been sleeping for seven hours.

We left Kibo Hut at around 21h00 last night. Fatigue is now starting to set in. My eyelids are so heavy and I’m literally sleep-running, but thankfully the tricky terrain is keeping me awake. The new guides from Mandara Hut are fresh and wide awake, which is something of a consolation. They’re functioning like a speed train while Richard and I, deeply fatigued, have fallen slightly behind. We hustle a bit and finally catch up. Now that we are in the rainforest, it starts to drizzle. I ask the team to stop so we can make sure Gugs is covered properly. His face is partly exposed, covered only by his Cossack-style hat, the type with flaps that cover the ears. One of the guides pulls out a T-shirt from his bag to form a shield over Gugs’s head. We continue down the mountain. Left, right, left, right. Suddenly, we detour onto different terrain, a landscape I don’t remember from a few days ago. I have a fairly good photographic memory, so now I’m panicking.

“I don’t remember this road.”

“It’s a short cut,” Richard tries to reassure me.

At 05h00 we reach a white emergency vehicle with red crosses on the two front doors. My spirit soars. Finally, we’ve reached the ambulance. I’m hugely comforted by the sight of those red crosses. The driver steps out to open the back doors. My heart plummets. It’s basically an empty car with only a thin bench on each side. No emergency equipment, no emergency personnel, no stretcher bed. Nothing. Noooo! I’m crudely reminded that we’re in a country very different from South Africa. I’m gutted. A dark panic sets in.

The guides work together to lift Gugs off the bicycle stretcher and slip him between the two benches on the bare, hard floor of the van. My heart wrenches. This is going to be unbelievably uncomfortable for him. They leave the stretcher on the side of the road and all squash into the back, on the benches on either side of Gugs. Richard beckons me to the front seat. I sit between him and the driver. As the driver starts the ignition, the old van lurches and hurtles off, and it becomes clear how bumpy the road is. This has to be so painful for Gugs. I can hardly bear to think of him, so desperately ill, jolting up and down on the cold metal floor. I sit in my seat, shaking my head, still in disbelief that there is no professional emergency team in the back working on stabilising him. I turn to ask the guides to check his heart rate once more. I hear the number 65. I am clutching onto hope with all my might. Great, his heart rate has returned to normal. Everything’s going to be okay.

Somehow I find renewed energy to continue with Project Save Gugu Zulu. I send a text to the family. “We’re in the emergency vehicle now, heading to the hospital.” Without missing a beat, ever the practical one, I then check my emails and immediately call our travel insurance, informing them of the situation, requesting them to be on standby because I don’t yet know how much assistance we will need. After logging off, I realise that the drive is longer than I expected so I close my eyes, lean against Richard’s shoulder and drift off to sleep. I’ve essentially been awake for 23 hours.

I wake up an hour later. It’s 06h00 as we pull into the hospital in Moshi town and are met by Honest Minja, the owner of the tour company we used for the trek. He summons paramedics who come running with a stretcher. Gugs is loaded onto it and rushed through the emergency entrance, all of us hot on their heels. He is whisked into the emergency room. Richard and I are immediately instructed to leave. The guides and Honest are allowed to stay. I’m thrown – I want to be with Gugs, but I know they are doing what they need to do. I’m way too close to this emergency and I know from all the movies I’ve seen that telling the wife to wait outside is pretty standard protocol. Stumbling backwards, away from the door, I find the nearest wall, lean against it, slide down to the floor and wait to be called in. I am numb. But there is also a sense of relief that runs through my body. Finally, Gugs is being taken care of. I take a deep breath and for a brief moment allow myself a feeling of calm. I then pull out my phone to text the family. “Safely at the hospital. The doctors are attending to Gugs. I’ll keep you updated.”

After what feels like forever, the emergency door swings open and I leap to my feet. Richard is called in. I follow him but I’m told almost immediately, “Only Richard.” Numbed, I stumble back to my wall and slide down onto the floor again. After what feels like hours, Richard steps out. Once again I’m back on my feet. “Lets, the doctors need more time to work on him. They might have to transfer him to a better-equipped hospital in Dar es Salaam. Let’s go to the hotel, take a shower, maybe have a quick nap and we’ll come back in an hour or so,” he says.

“Can I see him quickly?” I plead.

“No, 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 ever again. And almost immediately, I accept that he is gone.