DOCTOR, DOCTOR

Ndumiso Ngcobo gets his funny bone checked

UNTIL I was 39 years, 11 months and 30 days old, I was the epitome of health. Medical aid was wasted on me. I think I had seen a doctor 10 times in the previous two decades. And most of those visits had been about obtaining bogus medical certificates to explain my no-shows for exams and work.

Some months ago my cousin Sandile, brother-in-law Pat, Mrs N and I found ourselves deep in conversation about the dramatic deterioration in health one experiences almost as soon as one turns 40. All of us are in our mid-40s and we’ve all noticed that there’s been a discernible spike in our visits to the doctor.

Twenty years ago I could consume an extra-hot Nando’s chicken full meal with extra-hot sauce, wash it down with four Bloody Marys, wake up the following morning feeling like a million bucks and complete a 20km jog in 02:45 max. Nowadays it takes me three days and two large bottles of Gaviscon to recover from a Nando’s mild quarter chicken meal and an iced tea.

That conversation got me thinking about all the doctors I have consulted over the years. I am reliably told by my mother that the first GP I visited was none other than the current Eskom board chairman, Dr Ben Ngubane — or, as my mom prefers to call him, Baldwin.

He’s the GP who diagnosed me with juvenile arthritis when I was three months old, at his practice, in Hammarsdale. I only discovered this titbit when I was a 22-year-old living in a Kelvin commune without a bed and I woke up with all my joints locked from passing out in the foetal position on a sofa at subzero temperatures.

When Dr Ngubane vacated the premises, a Dr Gule took over the practice. My first memory of a doctor’s consultation was of Dr Gule pinning my bulbous cranium onto my mother’s lap and scooping out wax from my ear using some kind of metal spatula while chastising my mom for not cleaning my ears regularly. It wasn’t her fault. I was as averse to bathing then as I am now.

And then there was Dr Singh, who ran a practice in one of the rooms in my Umndeni Oyingcwele Catholic parish in Hammarsdale. Best doctor I ever consulted. This may have something to do with the fact that year later it was discovered that he wasn’t actually a qualified doctor.

All I remember is that he was an extremely affable, chatty chap who “cured” many members of the community. The old ladies flocked to his surgery because: “Akarobhani uSingh, unika wonke umuntu umjovo” — Dr Singh doesn’t shortchange his patients; everybody gets an injection.

The last time I went to his rooms was in 1992 and I needed a medical certificate to get out of writing a microbiology test. When he found this out we spent about half an hour discussing the difference between the common cold and the flu; bacteria, viruses and protozoans. For a guy without an actual medical degree, he knew an awful lot about bugs. Emboldened by the knowledge I received from “Dr” Singh, I went ahead and wrote the test. I think I got 47%.

Over the years I have been a guest in a few GP’s rooms. One of my favourites was a middle-aged fellow with a pronounced English accent and a turkey neck at the Pinetown Medicross, circa 2006. Ntobeko, my first-born, had a mysterious rash on his face. Eczema? Allergic reaction? Puberty onset manifesting in acne? We couldn’t figure it out.

After attempting to medicate him ourselves, it became clear that we needed the help of a professional. And boy, did we get a professional! After examining him thoroughly, Turkey Neck paused with a perplexed countenance, placed a vertical index finger over his lips, before going, “Hmm. Most peculiar. Most curious indeed.”

He walked gingerly to his library where he plucked out a book thicker than the King James Version of The Holy Bible entitled Microbiological Pathology. He exclaimed triumphantly, “A-HA! I’ve got the bugger! Young man, what you have is a condition we call pityriasis rosea. The bad news is that the entire world of medical science has no idea what causes it. The good news is that it always disappears on its own.”

And then he winked at us conspiratorially and chuckled until his shoulders were shaking. On the drive back home, Ntobeko stares into space and says to no one in particular, “I wonder if The Scientist is aware of just how ridiculous he sounds”. Since that day, we have referred to him as “The Scientist”.

My mom did everything in her power to make sure I joined that medical conveyor belt of folks who spend their days making other folks go, “Aah!” before asking them to lower their pants. It’s a good thing I resisted because I’m an equal opportunities kind of individual. I probably would have been the kind of doctor who walks around the Noord Street Taxi Rank yelling in my best Oprah voice; “You get a jab! And you get a jab! EVERYBODY gets a jab!” LS E-mail lifestyle@sundaytimes.co.za On Twitter @NdumisoNgcobo

‘Dr Singh doesn’t short-change his patients; everybody gets an injection’ He placed a vertical index finger over his lips: ‘Hmm. Most peculiar’