No man is an island

Over the years I have been impressed many times by the calm professionalism of paramedics at serious accidents. They are usually frantically busy attending to the injured and dying, but the quiet cooperation and understanding between them is remarkable and often taken for granted. These are highly committed, superbly trained, often quite young people, doing gruelling, dangerous, and essential work. They are required to follow long established life-saving medical procedures from memory, making instant critical decisions; they are among the unsung heroes in society.

I’m sure many FOCUS readers will have witnessed or managed motor vehicle accidents at some point. For some of us, it was part of the job: we had to get to the site as quickly as possible if one of our own vehicles was involved. We then had to take accurate measurements and vital photographs, creating a full record of all details and diagrams of the scene that could be used in evidence. I have lost count of the number of accidents I have attended, but paramedics attend thousands. The emergency code of ethics lists as requirements moral courage, integrity, honesty, respect, kindness, professionalism, competence, impartiality, and objectivity.

Eight days ago, I watched two teams of paramedics treating multiple patients – including two people I knew who were both severely injured – stretched out in different ambulances, and saw all those ethical codes on display. On the day, in this extraordinary rainbow nation, the medics were mostly Indian, the injured passengers were African, and all races made up the team of senior ranking police officers who controlled the traffic and recovery vehicles, working seamlessly with the paramedics. To complicate matters, a cash-in-transit armoured vehicle had caused the crash, and heavily armed security guards were milling around protecting their vehicle and its contents. This accident involved two fatalities, an airlift, two ambulances, and multiple emergency vehicles.

Sadly, and to Mzansi’s shame, opportunistic, eagle-eyed young men hovered like hyenas, constantly moving around, pretending to assist in recovering people’s luggage and belongings, but instead using the confusion and fading light to rifle through bags and steal cell phones and wallets. Most of the injured lost valuables after the accident.

Let’s set that criminal behaviour aside (if we can) just for a moment. The best of South Africa was on show at this accident. They were brave people doing challenging work, with little recognition. I salute them.

Trauma is always near the surface in South Africa. Most of us have experienced it at some point (more frequently in the transport industry). I hold that many employers fail to realise the emotional impact fatal accidents can have on drivers. South African men, largely, grow up in an environment where displaying emotion is considered a weakness. This cultural trait accompanies them into adulthood and the workplace. 

I remember debriefing a driver who had struck and killed a female pedestrian on the N2, at night, during heavy rain. She was one of those poor deranged souls who walk our highways and byways, clothed in an assortment of old bin liners. She decorated herself with random objects gleaned from the verges, and was draped in necklaces made of cold drink tabs, pieces of rope, plastic bags, broken shoes – all the 20^th century detritus thrown from passing vehicles. She was well known to the drivers.

She had never caused any harm. She’d just appear from between the vegetation growing in the central divider, or be seen wandering aimlessly across the lanes. Some drivers would stop and give her food and cold drinks, out of pity. Nobody knew her name.

The police had picked her up several times and driven her off to some rural inland village, but she always returned, drawn by the sound and lights of the highway.

The driver was his normal self, assuring me that he was fine: “Aah… no problem, Mnumzane (sir).”

There was nothing he could have done; she just appeared in front of his dipped lights, emerging from the coal black darkness on the freeway where she was sheltering under a bridge in the storm. He never even saw her before hearing and feeling the impact, just sensing something dark and shapeless being thrown far forward into the road. Driving a 56-tonne GCM truck and interlink at 80km/h, no-one could have avoided her. 

The next morning, he did not feel guilt, only sorrow. We made him take an enforced break from night shift, but he returned to work a few days later, keen to drive again. About a week later, he asked to see me privately, visibly distressed and with a grey pallor. He was unable to sleep – he kept hearing the sound of the grill hitting her, right in front of him. He was plagued by feelings of responsibility for ending the life of this poor, confused woman and was suffering from recurring images of her twisted body lying broken in the rain. It was affecting his appetite, rest, and every waking thought; he could not concentrate on driving. That strong, silent, African man had been overwhelmed by what we now understand as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Treatment options were limited back then, but we did everything we could for him, including visits to a doctor and some counselling. 

We would do well to realise that we work with sentient men and women, not hired machines made from rock or steel. Emotional traumas like hijacking, accidents, rape, and assault hurt us all, no matter how hard people attempt to hide their feelings.

John Donne’s oft quoted poem, “No man is an island”* is still just as relevant today and, in effect, refers to what we know as “Ubuntu”. Two memorable lines read: 

“Any man’s death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind”

This is true even for a death like that of the homeless woman killed on the N2 all those years ago. For no man is an island.                                                 

*Man in this context means all of humanity.