We knoweth not when the hour cometh

Nov 14, 2010 Features / Columnists, My Column

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By Adam Harris

These past few days once more made me realise how tenuous life is. They also exposed me to the shortcomings of the local medical institution. Further, they made me realize just how small the professional circle is.
Winston Murray was going home after a sitting of the National Assembly, where he made one of his many useful contributions, when he collapsed. At the time of writing he is clinging to life on life support in the Accident and Emergency Unit of the Georgetown Public Hospital, having been rushed there late Thursday night.
This is a man I have known for a very long time, ever since he lived in Prashad Nagar. I remember when Desmond Hoyte collapsed and had to be medivacced to the United States where he underwent a triple bypass surgery.
It was a Saturday and I was sitting in a room in Congress Place where I edited New Nation. We had just printed an edition and I was assessing the contents and preparing for the next week. I remember calling Winston Murray to enquire about Mr Hoyte’s status. That was the first and only time I heard the big man cry. He loved Hoyte and perhaps at that time he could not picture the party he loved without Mr Hoyte.
Mr Hoyte did return to continue leading the party and he appreciated the undying support that Murray offered. I remember during an election campaign in Black Bush, a farmer asking Mr Hoyte about the person whom he would select as his deputy and he said, Winston Murray.
Murray is as unconscious now as Hoyte was back then, more than a decade ago. He suffered a burst vessel in his brain. There must have been signs that something was wrong, perhaps some headaches or some dizzy spells. I may never know, because if Mr Murray survives he would certainly not remember the minutes leading up to his collapse.
Then there is the question of the level of sophisticated medical care. Apparently we simply do not have a neurosurgeon. We had to pull out the stops to get one of the best in the region, a young man named Ivor Crandon.
I first met Dr Crandon in 1976 when we were both at the University of the West Indies, Mona, Jamaica. As is now known, he was studying medicine. Dr Dale Bisnauth was there at the same time and we all formed a cricket team that challenged many others both on campus and in Kingston, Jamaica. Ivor was our fast bowler.
That he has to be recruited from Jamaica to operate on Dr Murray is most interesting. If my memory serves me correctly, his father, the late Assistant Commissioner of Police Ivan Crandon paid his tuition. Then he won a scholarship from the Jamaicans. The result is that they got him.
However, being a Guyanese, Dr Crandon has been coming home very often and offering his services to the Georgetown Public Hospital. I heard at one time that we were not too keen to use him even to train those in our ranks. This must be the silliest thing that a growing medical institution could do.
We need consultants and we need good surgeons. The few that we have are said to be experimental agents. They experiment on people and because there is no murder charge under such conditions, people die and families are left to mourn with no recourse.
However, as fate would have it, the man coming to attempt to save my friend’s life is also my friend. That we lost him to Jamaica is another matter. His is not the first skill to be lost to this country and it exposes a weakness in our governments. Dr Crandon’s loss occurred during the tenure of the People’s National Congress.
And so we come to the tenuous nature of life. A few months ago when I was in the United States, my ex-wife’s stepbrother died of a heart attack. He was 62. When I got the message I wondered how this could be. He was just about my age and I certainly do not feel like dying nor do I have any inclination to die anytime soon.
I then learnt that he was having chest pains for a few days and he concluded that he was suffering from gas pains. So there he was driving to Connecticut when the heart attack hit him. He had the presence of mind to pull into the corner and then he died.
There was the Guyana Defence Force officer who was heading home after an event at Camp Ayanganna. He lived at Uitvlugt, West Coast Demerara. When the heart attack struck he was at Eccles. He had the presence of mind to stop his car. He too died despite the efforts of public spirited citizens to save him.
Last night while chatting with some colleagues I started to joke about ‘going home’. I feel good but all night my imagination ran riot, not that I am afraid to die but just how sudden it could come. I now make an even firmer conviction to enjoy every moment as though it would be my last. And I wish everyone would, because as the Scriptures say, “We knoweth not the hour.”

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