Who am I
when you are not you?
Who are you
when I am not me?
Who are we?
Death visited us at dinnertime. It came with the fall of a knife from a limp hand, and it covered us with the black blanket of fear. When it left, it took a part of him, and left us with only pieces to patch into the portrait of a person: a mosaic of the man.
Pieter had always been a strong, dynamic person, a real gentleman. He was an excellent, persuasive speaker and a diplomat. A natural leader and problem solver, he would easily take responsibility and resolve even the most sensitive situation. He would easily jeopardize himself to help others. He often compromised his own promotion to the advantage of one of his workers. He even risked his life to safe a man from drowning when we were on honeymoon. Being an avid reader, he had a keen interest in a wide variety of subjects. He was a handyman and could fix anything! He made beautiful furniture and found so much joy in the smell of raw wood and the creation of something beautiful.
As a husband and father he was loving, caring and considerate. We had so much fun, and I can still see the twinkle in his eye when he teased our children and me. We delighted in his witticism and his stories about his childhood experiences. Barbecue on Saturday was the highlight of his week and the prime family time. We enjoyed carefree, blissful evenings with him being at the heart of the conversation.
Above all he was a man of God. Faith, trust and obedience were the pillars upon which he built his relationship with God. This was also the foundation of our marriage. We secured our identities in our relationship with God but, after 44 years, also in the invincible bond between us. That night, in one moment, everything changed.
It was a quiet Saturday evening and we were having our usual barbecue. Suddenly his knife clattered on to his plate. I immediately sensed that this was serious. Although Pieter tried, he could not walk and I had to call a friend to get him to our bed. All Pieter repeated was “What is happening to me?” He was extremely agitated, but did not want to go to hospital. The doctor gave him an injection to calm him down, and referred us to a neurologist. Pieter was very tired and slept through most of the Sunday. He seemed calm and more at ease, but he did not talk much. I became aware of a scary, dark monster creeping into my heart.
Monday at the hospital was a nightmare. That was when we realized that Pieter could not speak. Everything he tried to say came out wrong, and in the end he could only repeat his name over and over again, as if he was trying to hold on to himself. I could sense his fear and confusion. My own fear was fed by the fact that I did not have the information the hospital wanted. Pieter had always been the one to handle these situations, and had all the numbers and other information memorized. Now he was unable to get it out, and I was stuck. The monster grew. I could feel its claws scratching in the fragile recess of my heart. After what felt like hours of struggling, Pieter was finally admitted to hospital, and tests confirmed that he had had a mild stroke. That evening, however, he seemed to be more relaxed and could even speak better. I was exhausted and could not wait to get to bed. Little did we know what was waiting.
It was only after we gratefully went back to our lovely house, that we came to realize the impact of the stroke. Not only could Pieter not speak, but he also could not read or write anymore. Words and letters seemed to jump out of his control, leading to intense anger and frustration. I tried to imagine what it must be like to know exactly what you want to say, but not being able to say what you want. Many times he would repeat “I know! I know!” when he could not find the words he was looking for. He desperately practised to make his signature. How my heart ached when he could not pray for us anymore. He could not even read his beloved bible. He lost himself, and I sometimes wondered if he had also lost God.
After two more seemingly insignificant strokes the speech therapist and occupational therapist were unable to help him. He could barely say anything and would repeat the same words, meaning different things in different situations. I could not understand him. We were left to cope on our own. Even our friends disappeared. He became dependent on me and I had to take over responsibilities I never had before. I was tired, and even making a phone call became a burden. He became more withdrawn, and I became exceptionally busy.
Few can understand the grip of the monster of fear in your heart, when you lose your lover and friend to Death. How many would understand the devastation when you lose that person to Life? I felt like a failure. How was it possible that, after a marriage of 44 years, I could not understand him in the most difficult time of his life? How was it possible that we could grow miles apart? How was it possible that we could become strangers living in the same house, in the same marriage? Bewildered and distraught we went through the days. Could I ever become used to the cloak of sadness that I wore every day?
I kept on searching for my strong, loving, extremely capable husband but I could not find him. I longed for the strength and presence of the man I once knew. Sometimes, when he laughed I could see a shimmer of the old Pieter. However, it did not happen very often. I could see his search for the meaning of it all. I could see him searching for a new self, a new identity, but I could not help him. Never before had I been so overwhelmed with helplessness. I went on, day by day reading the bible to both of us, praying, taking up more responsibilities, trying to build a new life. Not only did I lose my husband, my security, my life, but I also lost myself. I did not know who I was.
Moving to the city was not easy. We were both at a loss and everything felt so odd, so unfamiliar. Visitors soon realized that Pieter could not speak and stayed away. It was just too uncomfortable to visit a new neighbour who could not speak. Desolation became my constant companion. How lonely can a person be, I wondered, when you live with a stranger, in a foreign neighborhood in an alien city? I could not find any answers. Even the bible did not provide any consolation. It was inconceivable that we would ever feel at home. We did however, settle down after a while and grew accustomed to our new environment. At least we were close to the doctors now.
Death casually came again on a Friday afternoon, with a heart attack. This time I was better prepared for Pieter's admission to ICU. Death was forestalled, but the scary monster made itself at home in my heart. It settled down with a heaviness that I almost could not bear.
Three days later Death stood before us in full armour. He was not giving up. His weapon was mighty. It was lung cancer. Tests revealed that the heart attack was the result of a massive tumor in the lung. The cancer had already spread to the breast bone and joints. There was not much they could do, and Pieter had five months to live. Imagine the impact, when you braced yourself fully, expecting a blow from the front, and instead , you get hit from behind. I doubled with the blow. This time I knew that the monster in my heart would stay until death do us part.
We went home. I had no idea what this journey would entail or exactly how it would end, but I was determined to make this five months as joyous as possible. It was all we had. I looked at him with a heart torn to pieces. We still could not talk. How would I ever know what he thought or felt? Would I be able to help him through this? However, slowly, gently we grew closer, understood better. At times he would comfort me when we cried together, and I could see the love and concern in his eyes. I talked to him about death and about God, and I knew that he was longing to embrace his heavenly father. Too soon time passed and he grew weaker and weaker. He found it harder to shower, to dress himself. He could not bring himself to eat much. He was always short of breath. And then there was the pain. He was such a brave person. I could see his suffering but he never complained. One afternoon, after another stroke, he had to be admitted to hospital once again.
After three days the doctor called us in to say that Pieter had pneumonia and that he was dying. He was in constant pain and found it increasingly hard to breathe. He was feverish and exceedingly agitated. By this time he was so thin that he resembled a skeleton. He was so fragile, so weak. He struggled and tossed and turned, and every time he woke up he seemed to be surprised and disappointed to realize that he was still alive. His fight was not with death, but with life. I stayed next to his bed, witnessing his distress, trying to keep him as comfortable as possible. It took him eighteen days to die. I slowly died with him. At last, when he blew out his last breath, everything became still.
When I came back into his room it was quiet, tranquil. He seemed peaceful and serene. Can words describe the sorrow of a lost life? Can the emptiness of the loving heart be contemplated? Can you ever be prepared for death? I sat with him for a long time, and then I went home.
There were many things to do, and I did it all. I had lunch, I phoned our family, I had tea, I phoned our friends, I had dinner, I spoke to visitors, I had tea again, and again.
I tried to think of me instead of us.
I tried to think of I instead of we.
I tried to think of my instead of our.
I could not grasp the immensity of it all.
And then I was alone. I sat in my chair, looking at the candle I was burning in remembrance of my best friend and lover, feeling the anguish, the overwhelming desolation, the sadness. I longed to feel some comfort, some safety. I stared at the flicker of the candle. Then, slowly it stretched higher and higher, reaching out to heaven, until it was the whole length of my hand. It burnt like that for a long time, and then slowly it shrunk back to it's normal size. I knew then, that God had been there all the time, and that He was here now. I felt the peace and the quiet. I felt his comfort. I could feel the monster loosing its grip.
Mourning is a lonesome journey, but I found that it is best done in the gentle, tender arms of our loving God.
In South Africa today security plays a vital part in any business or private home. This book and the volumes to follow, will guide you step by step through the essential precautionary measures to be taken in protecting your family and valuables. From employing security guards, evacuation of your site and security measures to burglar bars and alarms in your private home.
a Book compiled by me from experience gained after 10 years in the security industry as Industrial relations officer with Nosa qualifications, 1st Aid, fire protection and also S.O.B. grade A.
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