All is well that ends well

I was travelling from Nairobi to San Antonio in Texas, USA, to attend an international conference on breast cancer.

It is an annual event where the cream of experts on the subject congregate to present their original works and discuss research papers.

As breast cancer has become the commonest cancer among women world-wide, this yearly conference is one no serious worker in breast diseases can afford to miss.

I took a Kenya Airways flight to Amsterdam from where I was to connect to a KLM flight. I had a five-hour stopover at Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, a favourite of mine.

In spite of being a busy European hub, Schiphol is not split into different units and terminals, as other large airports are.

The authorities have done an impressive job turning it into an interesting spot, and like other favourite spots, time at Schiphol flies fast.

While there, I happily watch the multitude of people of various nationalities jostle about, busy looking at TV screens placed at various vantage points.

SHOPPING MALL

The screens provide up-to-date information on arrivals and departures and guide the passengers where to go to catch their connecting flights.

Instead of a few traditional duty free shops selling alcohol, perfumes and tobacco products, there is a whole shopping mall with every conceivable item under the sun on show and for sale.

There are competing outlets for cameras and cosmetics, electronic and electrical gadgets, travel goods and toys, drugs and meals, sun glasses and watches, coins and cards, salmon and herring.

In addition there are large stores which sell designer clothes for men, women and children.

Dazzling diamonds are displayed without any apparent concern for security, their prices ranging from a few hundred Euros to five digit figures, glamorous sales girls busy with calculators converting the prices into the currency of a customer’s choice.

GAMBLING DENS
There is a room with cots for babies and also for older children to play interesting games, so that parents don’t have to exhaust themselves entertaining them. There is a business centre with phone, fax, e-mail and secretarial services.

Naturally there are many restaurants, bars and cafes. There is a large casino, which I visited, not to play but to explore.

There were transit passengers thronging the Roulette and Black Jack tables, with croupiers in white tuxedo asking people to place their bets.

There were also gaming machines and one-armed bandits, encouraging punters to play by periodic jingle of coins dropping at the bottom of the machine when somebody won.

In spite of a facility to insert my debit card and draw out cash to buy chips and play, I was not tempted to squander my hard-earned money!

I walked over to the bookshop where the world’s best sellers were on display at the front window. All the international newspapers and magazine were also on display.

In line with the Dutch inclination towards sensual literature, Playboy and Penthouse magazines lay alongside more explicit pornographic literature.

SELF-CONDUCTED TOUR

After completing the self conducted tour, I thought of going to the lounge, freshen up myself, rest my weary feet and enjoy a cup of hot Kenyan or Colombian coffee.

On my way, a signboard caught my eye. “Place of worship”, it announced. My curiosity was aroused and I followed the signs which took me one floor up and eventually to the room I was looking for.

In the centre of the room there was a striking non-denominational sculpture and next to it was a vase with fresh tulips. On the shelf on one wall were various holy books: the Bible, Koran, Torah and Bhagwad Geeta.

There were only two people in the room, one looking like a tramp, kneeling in one corner, and the other, an African lady, sitting in repose on a chair in the corner, eyes closed and head bowed as if in deep meditation.

I walked silently around the room touching all the religious books in turn, as if to obtain a comprehensive insurance policy to cover the perils of flying.

CAUGHT OFF GUARD

As I reached the door, I heard a male voice: “Excuse me, have you got the time?” It was the tramp. I looked at my watch and replied: “It’s 9.35, Kenyan time.” Hearing this, the lady jerked up and had a good look at me. She caught up with me at the exit. “Haven’t we met before?” she asked.

“Have we?” I replied with some trepidation. Amsterdam is known for a lot of things and I suspected this was one of those!

“Aren’t you a surgeon working in Kenya?” The lady seemed to be in the know. “Guilty as charged,” I said, not without some relief. “My name is Nancy.”

As she saw my puzzled expression, she dropped another clue. “Surely you remember Father Holt?”

That brought the memories flooding back. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Father Holt always prayed before and after a journey, whether it was by foot, train, car or plane,” Nancy explained. “I have just flown in from Nairobi where I went to see my mother and thought I would thank my God before I proceed to Amsterdam, where I live.”

“I am in transit, on my way to San Antonio,” I said. “Why don’t we go into Starbuck’s and order some coffee and croissants?”

“Sure, sure.” Nancy seemed quite excited at meeting me. We found a table, made ourselves comfortable and made our orders.

FATHER HOLT
“Excuse me,” I said. “Let me go and quickly freshen myself. I wasn’t bothered while I strolled alone, but now that I have met a young pretty lady from home, I better make myself presentable.”

So saying, I walked towards the lounge, which was where I was going originally. Besides, I wanted a few moments to refresh my memory about Nancy and Father Holt.

The latter had been admitted under my care as an emergency, with renal colic, causing excruciating pain from a kidney stone which was trying to come out.

Since the rest of the hospital was full, Father Holt was admitted in the maternity ward temporarily. “You are in the right ward because in surgical textbooks the pain of renal colic is described as being similar to labour pain,” I had tried to humour him.

“Thank God,” he had replied in the same vein. “My clerical collar and cross will not allow me to put any woman through that ordeal.”

The renal colic was not successful at pushing the stone out of Father Holt’s urinary system and I had to operate on him to take it out.

PULMONARY EMBOLUS

Five days later, Nancy, the staff nurse on the ward, rang me one night at 3 a.m. “Father Holt is complaining of severe chest pain and is breathless,” she had said and stopped. There was nothing more for her to say.

It was obvious that Father Holt had developed pulmonary embolus, a clot in the lung, a rare but serious and unpredictable complication of any surgical procedure.

I rushed to the hospital and started vigorous treatment on him. For two weeks, Father Holt hovered, as he put it later, between the Here and the Hereafter. “But, like in this hospital, there was no bed available upstairs,” he had added. Nancy looked after him and was largely responsible for his ultimate recovery.

When he saw me after discharge, he was still on about his initial stay in the maternity ward. “Your finance department is hyper efficient,” he said.

“Because when I left I found on my bill, labour ward and baby cot charges!” What he did not tell me was that in the two weeks he was seriously ill with pulmonary embolus, a bond of affection had grown between him and Nancy.

“How is Father Holt?” I asked Nancy when I rejoined her in the restaurant. I was as much interested in Father Holt as in the relationship between him and Nancy.

CLEVER PARENTS
“He was recalled home soon after his hospitalisation and now works at a church in The Hague,” she replied.

She was being cagey so I had to bite the bullet. “Is he still …?” I stuttered.

“Oh yes, he is still tending the flock,” she said and then remarked. “So you were in the know also?”

“I have always maintained that a patient is not an island unto himself. He has family and friends all of whom have a bearing on him,” I replied.

“His parents were very clever,” Nancy explained. “Instead of denying him his right to renounce his vows and marry me, they invited him and me to come and stay with them.

They did that so that I could see first hand how they doted on their only son and more on his priesthood. I could also see how happy he was working with his congregation.

Finally, I realised that it would be a wrench taking him away from his God, his parents and his parish. I asked myself why condemn him to hell when he has made a place for himself in heaven?”

SHORTAGE OF NURSES
“What do you do in Amsterdam?” I asked greatly impressed by her honesty and candour.

“There is a shortage of nurses in Holland, as there is everywhere. I found a job and settled here,” she replied.

“Do you see Father Holt at all now?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, every Sunday my husband and I attend the service at Father Holt’s church.” Looking at my confused face she explained. “You see, I met a German doctor at the hospital and we got married.”

I glanced at the TV monitor and saw that my flight had been announced. “Remember me to Father Holt,” I said as I took my leave.