Camino's, cancers and connection.

Well done for reading through last week’s blog that had no juicy gossip, drama or scandals, but was just filled with statistics, facts and quotes. Yes, yawn, I know, but we can agree it was important, right? Sorry to disappoint you again, but just to be upfront, ??there is no “skinder” in this blog either (I know, some family members are convinced we are going to share which celebrities have recovered with us after a nip and tuck, but that is not happening in this read!).

I was invited to participate at the “Campaigning for cancer” breast cancer think tank a while ago. The venue was buzzing with passion, the colour pink and flame-sharp minds. To me, it felt that those four walls contained a microcosm of our society at large. We had the government (yes, the department of health showed up… lots of fake eye lashes and false nails at that table). The corporates came too: medical aids, big pharma and listed hospital groups. These tables sported a lot of multi-tasking, electronics and gorgeous shoes. We had the academics and researches speaking Shakespearean English and wearing, well, not such gorgeous shoes. The NGO’s and charities were there burning with enthusiasm and courage and ready to take up the fight. Then there was a scattering of entrepreneurs like me, trying to colour within the lines for the two days of the event. Finally, there were the people of Africa: all the colours, all the backgrounds, races and social statuses… all, somehow connected by the pink thread of breast cancer.

I will try to succinctly summarize two intensive days of talks and collaborations by sharing what struck me most. Dr Karsihma Singh, medical oncologist at Chris Hani Barangwanth, spoke about how her truth is that when she is asked why a patient cannot be treated, her answer is really (although she would never say this) because you were born poor. Doctors spoke about countless women who are turned away and not treated because they are “too young” to have breast cancer (this despite sometimes having ulcerating breast tumours). Dr Prinitha Pillay, specialist radiation oncologist, tearfully explained how the medical aids hamstring her in terms of ?offering certain treatment regimens to her private patients because of their bottom line. (Money came up a lot.) She cannot serve her patients as they deserve because the business of medicine has to be managed profitably. A patient in a government facility could not afford the transport to go in daily for her treatment, and was admitted for six weeks. In that time, the neighbour who looked after her daughter raped her daily. Another patient’s file was lost so often that instead of actually getting her treatment, she died while waiting for the administration to be sorted out. Another patient, this time wealthy, connected and able to afford not only private health care, but additional treatments not covered by medical aid, had such a harrowing experience of doctors, treatment centres and medical staff not communicating that she is in therapy. (I guess it’s a good thing she has the resources to be able to afford her therapist). To add insult to injury, the spokesperson for the DOH totally ignored the elephant in the room and spoke about incredible services they offer, and then proceeded to demonstrate how one should examine one’s breast! This for the benefit of a group of people who, without a doubt, know more about breast cancer than anyone else would ever like to know. . Financial researchers explained the bigger picture and impact of breast cancer on families and societies. When a gogo, mother or sister is ill and unable to work, or dies, the whole family suffers. Their future, is intricately linked to the women who keep it all together… the same women with no access to a simple mammogram.

This was the bad part, and it is now safe to read on. What was incredible is how people, like typical, glorious South Africans, rose up and showed up, and are trying to change things for the better. You could see it in the commitment of every person that gave up two full days to be present there. While Prof. Benn was speaking, she would often stop, make eye contact with a cancer-survivor and greet her by name, remembering something about her journey, and then carry on. There were stories of how strangers showed up to help navigate this treacherous journey and how people, with the patience of Job, stayed in jobs not because they made money or reaped other rewards but because they knew they were planted there for a purpose.

The whole think tank reminded me that whatever happens in life, it is always the people around us who make the difference. The good stories we heard were always the direct result of an individual or a group of people who decided to join hands and walk a road together. It was never because of a great scheme, or process or system. That helps. And goodness, there is a need for that, but it’s the navigator that meets you at the door at your first chemo appointment, or the neighbour that makes sure your child has a school lunch, or a friend that knits you a fake-boobie to pop in your bra that makes the real difference.

I recently walked the Hermanus Camino with a group of close friends (yes, I know, how lucky I am!) The beauty of the Cape is enough to fill your soul, but to do it with your tribe makes the experience so much richer. On the one day, we went up a bit of a treacherous mountain and then came down a rocky and intimidating-looking foot path. The previous day I had a fall and I was not very sure on my feet. All of a sudden, my foot got snagged and I thundered down onto the stony path. It felt as if my hands and knees exploded when I hit the ground and then my backpack came flying over my head. There was nothing graceful about this and although I cannot recall, I am sure I screamed. It was obviously very sore and my ego was bruised, but thankfully it was just a tumble with no major injuries. I was totally rattled. I felt shaky, weepy and pathetic. I wanted to jump up and pretend it was nothing, but no one would let me get up. (Picture sprawled 52-year-old, face covered in dust and I’m sure some drool somewhere). Instead of making me feel like I was holding up the group or laughing at me, there was nothing but gentle kindness from everyone. My dear friend Candice came to sit tightly next to me with her arm flung around my shoulders and gave me a pep talk. My husband took my pack and our guide walked in front of me, literally, step by step until we got to a river and spread out for lunch. Every person played a role. They were being their authentic selves. Some gently teased, one took my shoulders and squeezed them because he knew I was shaken. One wet her buff and draped it on my bruised knees. It was a million little ways to say, “We’ve got you. We’re in this together.” For the rest of the day, the tiny pretty guide walked with me. She would jump over little streams and stretch out her dainty, strong hand to help me cross, and when the threatening thunder clouds finally delivered their promise of rain, she made sure every step I took was sure-footed. The next day when we started walking, I knew I was going to be slow. Candice fell in step with me. I told her to go ahead because I’d be slow but she just looked at me and said, “Today I am walking with you. Step by step. Nothing else matters.”

And I really think nothing does: just us and our people at the end of the day. Our safe places are not our bank accounts, our status, our high walled homes or the framed degrees on our walls. They are ?the stranger that shows up when you don’t have cash for the parking meter, the sibling that shares your memories, the doctor that believes you are a credible witness to your own body, the spouse who wakes you from a nightmare and the friend who gives you a sip from her camelback. It is the security guard at the government hospital that greets you and helps you to find the oncology department. It is the carer that washes your private parts without making you feel ashamed. It is the colleague that brings you a cup of tea without asking. It is the guide on the Camino who has walked the journey before, who reaches out to you and makes sure you don’t fall.