Thoko Means “Thank You”

Today’s the day. The white blood cell count has come down, and it’s time to go home. My phone starts ringing in the early afternoon. The doctor, a nurse, and case worker reach out to coordinate all the moving pieces, which include prescriptions, ambulance, and clothing. Hearing aid’s gone missing. I last saw it in the ER, or maybe a day later when they moved my dad into a hospital room. The call goes up the chain of command to try and find the hearing aid, and since it is not found, witnesses attest to it never having been there. I’m not going to press it, hopefully we can coax the hearing aid people into sending out another one.

Nurse Thoko wants to know what to do about people who aren’t photogenic. “Do you know someone who’s not photogenic?” I ask. “Me.” She wants to do family photos with her four kids, ages 4-7. The one photographer she reached out to has since moved to Texas. I explain how anyone can be photogenic when they’re enjoying themselves. We exchange contact info, and I ask about her name. “It means ‘thank you’ in Swahili,” she explains. Nurse Thoko is from Tanzania. Her accent sounds like singing. Do hospitals specifically hire nurses who sound like singing? Maybe they should.

Nurse Thoko prepares my dad for the journey home. Eventually, the ambulance crew arrives and introduces themselves. There are three of them, and their ages combined are still less than my dad’s 98 years. Caterina asks my dad questions. Without his hearing aid, the questions are nearly impossible. We use our phones to write notes.

“What’s your name?”

“Moses.”

No idea what year it is. “Who’s the President?”

He strains to remember, then says “Biden,” only he pronounces it “Bidden.”

He tells Caterina he was born in Tokyo, Japan, then lets her know he’s joking. “I was born in Shanghai, China.” I confirm he’s telling the truth. “My wife was also born in Shanghai, China. We lived on the same street.” I write him a note to tell Caterina about the cuckoo. “The cuckoo in the cuckoo clock says ‘cuckoo’ to YOU!”

After loading my dad onto the gurney, they ask if I’d like to come down to the ambulance with them. Absolutely! My dad’s already asleep again. We walk and talk, the crew transfers him into the ambulance, and we go our separate ways. Thank you, ambulance crew. Thank you, doctors. Thank you, nurses. Thank you, Thoko. Thank you.