Koro was a funny man. Every consultation ended with a joke , jokes that were never offensive, sexist or racist, often stupid, and sometimes overlong but all the same, it was his gift to me after the consultation. Except that consultation. The “bad news” consultation. I told him, and his wife and son, he was dying, and with the rapid changes probably was dying quite quickly. There was no joke. Just tears. 

Over the next two weeks, when I visited him at home he took to his bed, and gradually the house filled up with relatives from all over the country, from far flung parts of the world. We live in New Zealand, so everywhere else is far flung. 

First one tent, then two, then a caravan, and finally a marquee was set up in the garden to house the gathering whanau, here to farewell Koro. Every time I visited there were more people. People singing, dancing, laughing, lots and lots of laughing, and Koro, there in the centre of it all began to worry me. He had colour in his cheeks, he was tired and not eating, but he looked better than he’d done for years. I even thought I’d got the diagnosis wrong, but a blood test assured me I had not. 

The night before he died he asked if he could be left alone with me. and after the family had gone he held my hand and cried. This time tears of joy. 

“Thank you for telling me” he said, “this has been the best time of my life.” 

Every day can be a good day in General Practice if we remember why we do it. 

In New Zealand we answer the question “What is the most important thing in life?” By saying “he Tangata, he Tangata he Tangata” – It’s “the people, the people, the people.” 

Dr Jo Scott-Jones @opotikigp