Mfundi Vundla | My journey to death. . . and back | The renowned producer tells of his extraordinary battle, and ultimate victory, with cancer
I knocked on death’s door three times. Believe me, it was not a pretty sight. I’m 76 years old and people in my age group or older are felled by heart attacks, strokes, diabetes and buckets of other chronic ailments.This after I complained to my cardiologist about chest pains – a series of them – especially when I was eating. My heart doctor dismissed my complaints, insisting I was chasing shadows. Making things up.
Dr M informs me and my wife, Karen, that my cancer is common among African males from the Eastern Cape. Big deal, I tell myself. Cancer is cancer, no matter what neighbourhood or postal code it originates from. He goes on to assure me that cancer is not a death sentence. It can be cured. Am I relieved? No.Dr M refers me to a clinic in Parktown where I will receive “world-class” treatment. Yeah right.
Dr W goes on to explain that the goal of chemotherapy and radiation therapy is the complete eradication of the cancer. In the event it is not eliminated, palliative treatment will kick in. This is medication to ameliorate pain while waiting for the appointment with death. Am I a dead man walking? Her breast has been removed. We nod silent greetings of solidarity. A friendly nurse pierces a vein in my left arm and the chemotherapy treatment begins.
The radiologist instructs me to take a series of deep breaths. These must be held for 10 or more seconds while the radiation works its mojo. Not an easy task it seems. My lungs are not that great due to a nicotine habit I had in the past and years of enjoying the holy herb. I turn around. Get dizzy and I fall, with my neck landing on the solid oak headboard. I struggle to lift myself up. I’ve added another problem with the fall. I’ve injured a nerve in my neck. The result is I’m unable to raise my right hand.
You have no idea how elated I was, chommie. To be honest, when I lost control of my right arm, I briefly forgot about the cancer. I wondered: will I ever swing a golf club again? Will I ever walk the fairways with my buddies, Dikgang and Vincent, and my brother, Peter? I’m urgently whisked to the intensive care unit . Seems to me I am now becoming a regular tenant of the room for people walking in the margins of death. The head of the ICU, Dr T, a tall man with the physique of a rugby player, examines me and puts me on a course of blood thinners. This in an effort to eliminate the blood clots. The cancer in my body is issuing blood gooey in texture. This is the source of the clots, he explains.
My immune system is in a perilous state. My grandson infects me with a virus. Its source? The playground at school. I develop breathing problems once again. Waiting for me at the Parktown clinic are Karen and Charlie. I’m rushed to the ICU and a team of three nurses and an emergency doctor attend to me. I am extremely unruly in my fight with death. Nurses struggle to keep me in bed as I continually slide off.
My eyes catch sight of an established film producer waiting in line for treatment. It crosses my mind to say hello to her. I decide not to as I am averse to invading her privacy. In no time, I am in a theatre where two African surgeons wait to examine me. Their mission is to establish the efficacy of the treatment I’ve received. Has the cancer been eliminated or has it spread throughout the body? My anxiety level is sky high.
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