Arty farty

Every year this time, an event called “Art in the Park” is hosted here in our lovely city of Pietermaritzburg. And when I say that our city is lovely, I’m not even being the tiniest bit sarcastic.

Nestled between mountains with the Mzunduzi river flowing through it and with a rich heritage made up of four distinct cultures namely Boer, Zulu, Indian and British, this city never ceases to amaze me. At various times in history some of these groups have been at war with each other. But currently their decendants live side by side. (Mostly) in peace.

The architecture is Victorian mixed with the odd mosque, old stone Voortrekker dwellings rubbing shoulders with ultra-modern architecture.

Alexandra Park is at the lowest point of the city right next to the Duzi river. It must have been there from Victorian times, because the cricket pavilion is distinctly Victorian. The park has the most beautiful old plane trees. I would have loved to see it in Victorian times with refined ladies in beautiful dresses strolling along the banks of the Duzi. Now it is not even remotely safe unless there are lots of people around – even during the day. But it is still used to host amazing events. Such as Art in the Park.

Sometime towards the end of each May a sturdy hessian covered structure is erected. Then a floor covering of autumn leaves is added. If the plane trees shed their leaves too late or too early, leaves are brought in from elsewhere. And then, one by one, the artists start to arrive. They unpack their wares and some bring their easels and paint and wait for the thousands of people attending this event to arrive. At night huge fires are made in the centre of the structure. Add some sherry and wine and comfort food and lovely music (anyone care to hear the Hairy-legged lentil eaters? I promise, they are worth it!) and you have a recipe for success.

Tickets are a steal and although I know that some people look down on art bought at an event such as this, I can promise you that we’ve bought things directly from the artists over years that we enjoy more and more and that have increased in value. I always find it ironic that Art in the Park usually takes place at a time of the month when neither Dirk nor I have much money left, but although being able to buy something is nice, I’m usually happy to just look and enjoy the variations in style, the colours and the wonderful people. I must say that these artists are some of the most warm-hearted people I’ve ever met.

Last night – with the event opening yesterday morning – we went straight after work after picking Marco up from home. We didn’t plan on staying long, but we wanted to see the art before a lot of it is sold. We parked the car at the other side of the river and walked over the newly renovated bridge. I am afraid of heights and Marco seems to have inherited this phobia. But he refused to be picked up and made his own way across the bridge slowly– step by step. When he arrived at the other side, he was praised lavishly. Huge achievement.

As it turned out, I didn’t get to see much of the art. Marco declared himself very hungry, walked straight to the food tent and stood in front of the menu studying it with a great deal of concentration. (No, he can’t read yet. But I’m sure he fooled a few people.)

He is currently eating so badly that I’d gladly exchange my two front teeth if he’d only eat one decent meal.

After buying pancakes and “vetkoek” with mince, hot chocolate and a Coke, he would only drink a few sips of Coke (which makes his legs ache) and promptly ran away with poor Dirk chasing after him.

So, I offered to look after him while Dirk took a good look at the art. Marco and I worked our way through the fires – feeding each of them with wood until the flames nearly reached the plane trees. Except for a few alarmed looks at the height of the flames, everybody was quite happy that they could hand over the job of keeping them warm to a three-year-old. Maybe my presence reassured them a bit. Big mistake, of course. And then Marco carefully raked the leaves in small heaps with a stick. Which is not really the intended idea, but never mind. He was full of dust and leaves and snot and utterly happy. My only tasks were to keep his nose wiped – he has a slight cold – keep him from spearing someone else or himself with a stick and seeing that he does not disappear into the crowds.

After Dirk joined us again, Marco made us buy him a hot dog which he partially ate and later after we started talking to one of the artists, who has also become a friend over the years, he made us go back and buy him soup and bread. Of course, he only ate the bread. But it is something, at least.

I guess I’ll have to go back sometime during the day if I want to see the art…

Simple

Marco has had ample opportunity to socialize and have fun this weekend. I just realized anew that it is the simple things that are the most effective.

On Saturday we took him for his second-to-last swimming lesson. I’ll be glad when the swimming season finishes. None of our pools are indoors and even though they are heated, getting in an out of the pool and getting dressed is becoming a bit of an ordeal.

We have been making plans to heat our own pool for Loren and I think we will probably go ahead and do it anyway. It would extend its use for another three months of the year at least and I would love to be able to make it available to other kids with disabilities.

After swimming and after Dirk had finished some work commitments, we simply got into the car and spent the rest of the afternoon outside of the city. We visited the nursery where we usually took the kids on Sunday afternoons and Marco made full use of their slides and swings. We had a milkshake and then Dirk developed a craving for German sausages. So we drove a little further out to a place selling German food.

By that time Marco had fallen asleep in his carseat, the Bierfassl was full and we decided to drive on. We were drawn to a little café in a small village called Nottingham Road and we decided to have an early supper there. It was still light and we left Marco in the car and parked the car in full view of where we were sitting. We had some homemade pie, chips and salad and we had a chococcino and hot chocolate. Marco woke up rather cranky and disoriented and since the café was closing anyway, we drove back. Marco wanted a sausage and Dirk stopped at the Bierfassl – which had emptied magically after the rugby game finished – to get him one.

Sunday morning we went to church where Marco attendee the children’s ministry. I went along, but regretted taking him almost as soon as they started the program for the day. He was plain naughty and it took all of my parenting skills – of which I apparently don’t have nearly enough – to control him. He stood when everybody else where sitting, he twirled when everybody else was lying down and he jumped like a little Jack-in-the-box, not even listening to the teacher. I suspect that the material and the working methods are geared towards older toddlers, so I know that I cannot be too hard on him but I’d love to get him used to this type of discipline.

You see, this is where I cannot complain, because there are only so many people prepared to help with the children’s ministry. I’m sure that if I offered my help and was able to get one more person involved, we could actually split into two groups. But at this stage I know that God willing I’ll have a very small baby in a few weeks and I just don’t know if I’d be able to stay involved consistently.

Afterwards we went to Loren’s grave and to a shop for nappies for Marco and then home for lunch.

The Royal Agricultural Show is usually on this time of the year. There is plenty to do and see at this show, but I’m always a bit reluctant to go as huge crowds make me extremely nervous. (I guess this is where my farmgirl roots show!)

We went – me complaining and griping all the way. Marco nearly made our hearts stop by running away from us and disappearing into the crowds a couple of times. Dirk is actually not too bad at sprinting after him (!), but at least once we were saved by other parents seeing our plight and catching him for us…

Eventually we decided to move to the arena where there was a concert due to start. We wanted to buy Marco one toy that he could take with and that would keep him occupied. He was interested in a helicopter, but at the last minute he changed his mind to a ball. I must admit that I thought we were setting ourselves up for trouble. I could just see him constantly accidentally hitting other people with the ball. Fortunately Dirk convinced me and we bought the ball.

And that ball kept him occupied for most of the afternoon. His dad took him to the back of the arena where there were almost no people and they kicked the ball for almost the full three hours of the concert. At times various other children – boys and girls and of different ages, races and languages joined in. I am constantly amazed by my country and its diversity. We still have a long way to go, but there is so much hope. We also brought bubble mixture and when he was too tired playing with the ball, he blew bubbles. It was a lovely warm afternoon.

Just as I was missing Loren intensely – wondering what he would have made of the bubbles and the children and the noise, the helicopters and the toys – and seeing in my minds eye the bright eyes light up at all these joys, a little boy, maybe a bit younger than Loren was, and just clad in a nappy and a T-shirt, came to stand by my elbow. He’d seen us blow bubbles and he stood staring at the bubble mixture until I took his hint and opened it again. I blew bubbles for him until I was out of breath and the bubble mixture almost finished. His mom came to fetch him and he disappeared for a while. But as they packed up to leave, he came running back, picked up my magazine and handed it to me, gave me a shy smile and gave my arm the softest of soft hugs.

Sweating the small stuff

Patience has never been my strong suit. Ask my husband. I’ll ask him to help with something and if he doesn’t respond within the minute after being asked I’ll do it myself. Either messing it up royally or really battling and then getting angry.

If I want something, I want it NOW.

Similarly, I‘m not very patient with people: The grown-up variety at least. I do have a lot more patience with animals and kids.

It’s been a while since I’ve really gotten annoyed with a stranger, though. My mantra as of late has been: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” But apparently my period of sainthood is over…

This morning, I arrived at work – late as usual. And on my way in I met another guy coming out. There’s construction work being done on our work buildings and the parking area is booby trapped with scaffolding and red-and-white out of bounds ribbons. There’s only one route to my parking spot and a very narrow lane leading to it – which I had already negotiated. There is no way that any sane person would try to reverse that distance. The guy coming out, on the other hand, was in a more maneuverable position. He had a wide area that he could reverse into and he needed to reverse no more than 50cm to allow me enough room to get through. So I stopped and waited for him to do so. He gave me the most arrogant stare I have encountered for a long time and remained just where he was. Eventually I squeezed past him, but I had to half-mount the pavement with my sedan – quite likely putting its wheel alignment out again. I was hopping mad.

Later, a student arrived. Now, the library I work at is a library strictly meant for the people who work for this Department and any consultants employed by the Department. I don’t mind helping students, but usually the students I’ve been able to help were post-grad students with a very specific research project pertaining to a particular building. We don’t really do general information.

This man mumbled something about “spatial information” and I initially thought he was talking about spatial specifications. But then he handed me his project brief. It says in his introductory letter that he means to go to Rwanda to do some research. (I really hope he manages to find out WHAT he needs to go and do there before going. Because at the moment he clearly has no idea.) From the brief I managed to gather that he needs information about cadastral maps , GIS and so forth. To me his subject field seems related to town planning. And that is definitely not the type of information we keep in this library. I said to him that I don’t think I’ll be able to help and I gave him the address of a place where he might be able to find help.

He blinked at me. “I need maps” he said.

‘We don’t keep maps. We keep building plans” I said.

He pointed to a map against the wall showing the location of some of our clinics.

“That’s a map” he said.

Arrrgh!

I explained as patiently as I could that yes, that is a map – one of exactly…er… three we have. It is not a cadastral map, though. Cadastral maps generally have the boundaries of properties on them or show ownership of land. Which is not the business we’re in. We build and maintain government buildings like schools and hospitals and clinics.

He still looked unsure, so I opened one of our cabinets with building plans and showed him the information that we keep. He stared at it.
“It is a plan of a building” I explained helpfully.
He shook his head slowly
“No, this is not what I need.”

I started feeling optimistic that I was managing to get through to him.

“But if you can give me this BIGGER ….”

For the love of a lady

There are many relationships that define us. In many ways, we see ourselves in the mirror that others hold in front of us and that becomes our belief of who we are. With people, these relationships and resulting images are fraught with pitfalls. For many years I believed that I was supremely ugly while my sister believed she was supremely stupid. All because I was labeled the “clever one” and she was labeled “the pretty one”.

That is why I’ve always liked animals and small children. With them, what you see is what you get. They tend to focus on the core.

I’ve had many animals over the years. Despite my father’s cat allergies, I’ve managed to smuggle cats into the house from an early age. And I can remember each and every one of them. I also like dogs, but my personality gels better with cats. My first dog was Oubaas, a German Shepherd. I tended to fall asleep on his back and he would stay still patiently. Until watchdog mode would take over and he would forget all about me – jumping up and letting me fly..

It has been important to me that my children grow up with animals around them. And both Marco and Loren loved interacting with our pets from babyhood. The night Loren died our cats sat watch around his body while we tried to come to terms with the shock and while we tried to say goodbye – failing miserably. Both our dogs came into the room at some stage or another to see what was going on – even though that part of the house is normally out of bounds to them. I still wonder what they thought. But it is undeniable that their presence helped ease that particularly difficult period.

Animals teach us so much. They show unconditional love, loyalty, pure joy and appreciation of the simple pleasures. And they teach us about loss….

My friend Patricia has just lost her companion and friend of many years, a ginger tabby called Lady. Lady came to live with Patricia as a kitten while Patricia was still a student.

Lady was beautiful and she was very conscious of her own beauty. She considered Patricia to be her personal slave, but I think very few slaves are loved the way Patricia was. Lady was also cranky and manipulative at times and a severe critic of Patricia’s boyfriends. She did not tolerate any other cat living with her. The only notable exception was Shard. He was a Siamese and uncharacteristically timid. He belonged to a guy Patricia had a serious relationship with a few years ago. Lady liked Shard because Shard simply adored her. When the relationship broke up and Shard had to leave I imagine that Shard must have been heartbroken. Lady didn’t comment, but maybe she also missed Shard a little.

I’ll never forget how soft Lady’s fur was and her slight weight on my lap. Somehow cats with long hair always seem heavier than they are.

Although Lady was getting older, she seemed healthy and full of vitality. After a series of strokes the previous night and yesterday, she died suddenly. I can barely imagine life without Lady. So, I know that Patricia must be devastated.

A relationship with a pet is multi-faceted. Animals can be companions, friends and children all rolled into one. So, the loss of an animal is also losing a friend, a companion and a child. The worst of this is that other people, who have not been blessed with a close relationship with an animal, can never understand this loss. And therefore they tend to simplify it. It is just a cat, they say. You can always get another one.

Not true. You can get another cat or dog, but like a person, someone you loved cannot be replaced. And so you walk through this period of grieving with your grief unacknowledged. And that is hard.

I cannot console my friend. But I can use words to pay tribute to Lady and her love for Patricia. I can tell Patricia that I believe animals come back from time to time to see how we are. And I know that Lady will be around to see that her friend is okay. Because that is what friends do.

Easter bunny? What Easter bunny?

A friend and I were talking about the relative merits of letting children believe in Santa Claus, the Easter bunny and the tooth fairy etc.

I think my parents didn’t let us believe that the gifts came from Santa, but I do remember getting money from the tooth fairy. The Easter bunny draws a complete blank. Somehow I don’t recall ever getting Easter eggs – delivered by a bunny or not. But maybe it is just my memory failing me. So, they were a bit haphazard about the whole thing.

Personally I don’t see any harm in it either way. Marco knows that the Christmas gifts come from us and Loren was still a bit too small for the whole concept. This past Easter I hid two chocolate bunnies that came from my mom for the two boys and I didn’t even mention the Easter bunny. Marco had to hunt for them with Loren watching, promptly ate his own and Loren got a taste on his tongue and thoroughly approved. (The photo is also the last we have of him.)The tooth fairy is hopefully still some way into the future. I guess we’ll decide then. There are plenty of ways to create family rituals and make occasions out of special days. And children have great imaginations anyway.

But it reminded me about my friend Elzabe’s eldest son Migael who did believe in Santa until he was about nine years old and until a friend at school told him the truth. That afternoon he came home depressed and demanded to know if it was true that there’s no Santa. His mom confessed.

“Mama.” He said. “ You should be very very glad that you told me the truth today. Just think. One day I could have had a wife and kids and we would have waited and waited for our gifts. And I wouldn’t have known that I had to go and buy them.”

I guess there you have it…

The frog who would a wooing go

We’ve planted some spring bulbs (Dutch irises and an indigenous bulb of which the name escapes me at the moment)on Loren’s grave. They should start flowering around the time of his birthday in November. Since our late autumn has officially started and it is also our dry season, we’ll have to take care to water them regularly.

Last night we could only get to the grave after sundown. Dirk left the lights of the car on and when we removed the flowers that are still on the grave to water the bulbs underneath, I saw to my surprise and delight a frog that had taken refuge in the damp patch under the flowers. He sat blinking in the sudden light but stayed where he was – obviously hoping we could not see him.

Marco giggled and watched the frog in amazement. But when we started watering the bulbs, the frog jumped off and disappeared into a patch of grass. Marco promptly abandoned the watering and followed the frog, calling out to him. He said he wanted to stroke the frog. I tried to explain that the frog was scared of him. The frog managed to shake off his overeager pursuer in the dark by just staying quiet.

Marco was not in the least charmed when we said we needed to go. By then, he’d taken off his shoes and flung them into the dark and it was sheer luck that we were able to trace both. But it was getting cold and his dad finally carried him, kicking and protesting loudly and eventually dissolving into giggles to the car.

I have always disliked winter as I hate being cold. Those of you living in colder climates will call me a ninny. But when it is less than 18 degrees Celsius out, my brain starts malfunctioning. Summer is hot and humid and though I prefer it to winter, it is still not my favourite. I’ve always liked autumn and spring.

Ironic that the two most life-changing events of my life would have taken place in spring and autumn: Loren’s birth and his death.

I must confess that I cannot hear the call of a Piet-my-vrou (a bird whose mating call in spring sounds exactly like its name) without feeling nausea push up in my throat. I’ll always remember those mornings I woke up after sleeping dark and dreamless, hearing the Piet-my-vrou calling incessantly and realizing that something is dreadfully wrong: My baby is in hospital, battling for his life.

Yet now it is strangely comforting to see a frog’s defiance of a grave and death. Just like we are choosing to defy it. I am grateful for the beauty around me. The leaves are turning a bright orange and the colours of the grass are mellowing. Here it does not get completely dry as we do get some rain in winter and as we seldom battle with frost.

I hope that I can eventually celebrate spring, remembering the joy rather than the pain and that autumn will become a time of the beauty of a fulfilled life and a rebirth into a new body.

Toffee

Marco is rebelling against being looked after by either Anna or Jenny. This morning he saw Jenny arrive from the lounge window. He blew a most rude raspberry – no I did NOT teach him that – and ran back to his chair:

I don’t want to look after Jenny.

Poor Jenny. Imagine being looked after by a three-year-old…

But at the same time, I think he is trying to look after us. He has suddenly started calling us by our names. And I dare not cry in front of him. He takes my face in his hands and says in an exasperated tone of voice:

Nelba, stop crying like that!

He misses his brother, of course. But who knows what else is going on in his mind?

He is like a particularly delicious toffee with a filling. My little toughie with the soft heart.

For Linda

Imagine that you are a highly successful professional woman in a medical field. You have everything you might want: A wonderful family, consisting of a husband and two children, a nice house and work satisfaction.

You have an older son and a younger daughter. You love your son, but, oh, your daughter…You waited long for your daughter and when you finally fell pregnant with her, you enjoyed every moment of the pregnancy. You cradled your bump, you sang songs to her and you treasured every movement she made. Then she was born and she was everything you wanted. She was lively, loving, intelligent and had the most beautiful blue eyes.

Something did worry you, though. She had one little imperfection: Her ears stood away from her head. You were scared that the kids would tease her about it. When she was seven years old, you wanted it fixed surgically. Your husband opposed you. He was happy with her ears. You insisted. He relented.

You found the most competent team you could: the surgeon and the anesthetist were the best you could find. But despite everybody’s best intentions, something went wrong. An oxygen pipe turned and nobody noticed. Your beautiful child was deprived of oxygen and she was brain damaged badly.

Your whole life changed. She had to be cared for 24 hours per day. Most of her body functions were affected. The child you knew, was gone. In her place was a human being who could not communicate and who made a high incessant noise for a large part of the day.

You took the whole brunt of her care on you. Your husband was initially hopeful that she would recover, but later on he wanted nothing to do with either of you. Your son was too embarrassed to bring friends home. And she was sick. Constantly in and out of hospital. You were tired. So very tired.

One night, you sat with her. She only calmed down when she was in water and you had just bathed her. Your body was aching. Even though you are not religious, you prayed: God, I cannot do this any longer. Help me.

Suddenly you felt a warmth spread throughout your body. Panicky you thought, I’m getting sick too. Oh no. But then the tiredness disappeared and it never returned.

For six months you cared for her. She was hospitalized again and you decided that it was enough. You signed a statement that you refuse further medical care to save her life. You sat with her in your arms and saw her life slip away. And it felt as if you were dying too.

You buried her and the first rains made you weep for she was cold and alone in her grave. You could not switch off being a mother.

One morning, you woke up and saw that the sun was rising and you realized that you had to carry on. At first you overprotected your son, until you let go of that too.

A number of years later, you arrived home from a business trip out of town. Your husband was reading the paper and he greeted you with such a lack of love and enthuisiasm, that you asked on the spur of the moment: “Shouldn’t we rather get divorced?” He shrugged his shoulders and answered: “If you want.” And returned to reading his paper. So, you were divorced.

About twelve year later you sat in front of a woman whose baby was brain damaged after something went wrong at his unassisted birth. A birth she chose. You told your story to her even though she was a stranger because you knew that she needed to hear that. You warned her about the mistakes she could make. You pointed out the pitfalls. But it was clear to her that your pain was just as real as twelve years ago.

You said to her:

“Now, I’m not afraid of dying any more. I’ll be with her. “

Also:

“In a sense her death freed me from worrying about her. Worrying whether she would be happy, find a job, marry the right guy and all those little things that mothers worry about. I know that she is safe.”

Somehow there IS freedom in finally facing what you feared the most in all the world: Losing your child.

Finally you asked her, because you knew that she needed to think about the answer in relation to her own situation: “Do you think I was a bad mother?” But you asked it as if you really wanted to know what she thought and as though you were still doubting the answer.

As if there could be any other answer but:

“Of course not. You were the best mother in the world to her.”

Ready, steady…

Today has been hard from the word go.

When things would be particularly bad while we had Loren with us, I could normally appease myself with: You had a bad night. You are tired. Tomorrow will be better.

It is true that I’m once again tired. I don’t sleep well at night. Our bed is too firm and I just cannot get comfortable. But I have had to face that it is not just the pregnancy keeping me awake. I have been in fighter mode from shortly after Loren was born. And it is hard to snap out of it. A good night is not going to cure that.

This whole thing is hard. Period. Thanks to all of you for accepting that without question. There are so many people who just don’t get it.. I think every parent – and particularly parents with frail children – can imagine what we are going through. I have tried to think myself into this situation before and the way I thought I would feel is pretty much what I have been feeling. Except that it is real now. There is no going back.

The Comrades Marathon is a well-known ultra-marathon – both in South Africa and in the world. It is broadcasted on national TV and draws participants from all over. It is an annual event and normally takes place around the 16th of June which is a public holiday called Youth Day in South Africa.

The Comrades stretches over a distance of about 90km and athletes have 11 hours to complete it. The race is alternatively run from Pietermaritzburg to sunny-Durban-by-the-seaside(downhill, which is surprisingly enough to a non-athlete like myself considered the more difficult race)or uphill from Durban to Pietermaritzburg. The route is beautiful – winding through sugar plantations and the Valley of a Thousand Hills.

As I said, I’m no athlete. I have no ball-sense and collapse in a heap if I have to run more than 100m. I’m so bad, in fact, that when we were forced at school to take part in a 400m race, I was congratulated by people who didn’t really look what was going on on winning when actually I was last and only finishing the first lap a short distance in front of the main bunch of kids busy finishing the second lap. At the javelin try-outs I nearly killed our headmaster. Still wonder what he was doing standing right behind me…Stupid man. He should have figured that that was the one place he wouldn’t be safe. So, to me running the Comrades always seemed the territory of the distinctly mad.

One year, a Christian group to which I belonged decided to help at one of the water tables. Our water table was situated 30km from the start of the race – about a third of the way. Here we did not only distribute water and high-sugared drinks but also support and prayers for those who needed it. And there were many who did. There was the woman whose husband died a week before the race after they agreed that they would finish the race together. And she decided to finish the race in his honour. Alone. But the spiritual battle she faced, was far worse than the grueling physical challenge. I’ll never forget how she clung to the young man running a few meters with her, praying for her. There was the guy who got hurt about a kilometer from the start. He was limping along valiantly, but it was clear to all of us that he wasn’t going to make it. Even though one of his teammates was helping him along – jeopardizing his own chances of finishing. By the end of the day I had cried and cried some more. About human courage, about spirit, about heartbreaking stories and about the unselfishness of strangers picking up other strangers and carrying them to the finishing line even though it means they miss the cut-off with seconds.

So, when the opportunity came to participate in a walkers’ race that does the full Comrades route – with more time to finish obviously – as well as a 50km race which does only part of the route, I signed up for the 50km race and felt confident that I would be able to finish it. Dirk is an excellent race-walker. And he promised to slow down enough to walk with me.

With very little preparation, we started. Dirk is naturally fit, I’m anything but. But looking around me I saw people who were in far worse shape. About a kilometer from the start I knew that I was in trouble. About two weeks before the race I had gone to see the General Practitioner about wanting to fall pregnant. She tested me for Rubella and found that I was not immune. So, I had an inoculation. And, unbeknownst to me I had contracted German measles. Walking that race was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do physically. The joint pains were excruciating and I was nauseas and off-balance. Dirk had to pull me along all the way. He had to use double his energy as I was trying to slow down as much as he was trying to get me to move forward.

There I learned a valuable lesson. My innate inability to see the point of physical exertion, nearly floored me. I was not motivated to finish the race, I was not serious about it and so I suffered. I whined and complained and if I could bail out of the race, I would have. But the transport buses meant for the injured or sick hung around the laggers-behind and thanks to Dirk we were not amongst those but rather amongst the middle third. Later on I decided that I would probably get this over and done with quicker if I just keep on walking.

We finished in a little more than 8 hours and I collapsed on the grass and fell asleep immediately. Dirk almost had to carry me to our car and the next day when I discovered the typical Rubella rash on my body and went to see the doctor, she nearly had a fit and booked me off for a week.

Victor Frankl concluded in his book: Man’s search for meaning that the human spirit can withstand anything as long as it can find the purpose of it. This is how he managed to survive a concentration camp .

My beautiful son would not have been able to reason about suffering or, for that matter, purpose in life. He was only 17 months old.

I just know that he did not give up. He survived major drawbacks and many crises. There were times when he was deeply happy. There were times when I could see that even in the midst of a bad day he would find joy in a song, in a bird or even in his brother, horsing around. Even though many people may contest it, he had a purpose in life.

Without a doubt the last 18 months were hard. But do I consider that suffering? Weighed against my hope for my son and my love for him, hardship weighed far less. And I remain deeply grateful for the time we got to spend with him. My purpose was loving him and working on a future for him. From shortly after his birth I had to get into fighter mode and I haven’t stopped fighting for one second.

That is why I get so angry when people want to dictate to me how I should feel about his death.

This weekend I once again encountered the “we did not know how you were going to cope and so we prayed that God’s will be done.” Which, coming from this specific person, is just a euphemism for asking that Loren would die. I had to point out that God’s plan to enable us to cope might have been taking Marco or the new baby…which would surely have elicited less bullshit from others, but would have been exactly the same in terms of pain and suffering for us. I think the person I spoke to chose to hear what she wanted to hear. Maybe I have to pity her and just hope that she is never in a situation where people tell her one of her children’s death is “for the better”.

When I say that I accept God’s will it is because there has been no moment of being able to contest it. If I had a say, I would have bargained with all of my might– like I had to bargain many times with medical professionals. But I never got the chance. What happened happened. And now I have to move on. There is no choice about that. The choice lies in accepting the inevitable with good grace or rebelling against it – wasting time and energy. The choice lies in keeping Loren’s memory alive and remembering the good and the positive.

I have Dirk and Marco and I’m still looking forward to the new baby. It is not that I have lost all purpose in life. But my focus has had to shift and it has not happened fully yet. My view is still blurred and I’m off-balance. I need the energy to redirect my purpose and I just don’t have it..

It is clear to me that I still have a lot of thinking to do, but for the moment it is enough to just cradle the people I have.

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Playing catch

Watching my own shape in the full-length mirror this morning after showering I experienced a slight sense of panic. I just cannot fathom getting bigger than this. And yet, I know very well from experience that I’m going to…Hello breathlessness, joint pains and thinking very carefully before bending down to pick something up from the floor whether I really need it!

Remember when I said that I’m going to put my feet up and paint my toenails red and enjoy this pregnancy? Well, I lied.

Not only am I pathologically incapable of relaxing when I have to deal with any size shape or type of doctor, but constant worry over Loren, sleepless nights and everything else that’s been going on, pretty much rendered me oblivious to this pregnancy. Occasionally I’d feel the baby move and think, O. Yeah. I’m pregnant! Then I’d pat my bump guiltily and mumble: “Hello Baby!”

Third child syndrome?

However. A few nights after Loren died I was trying to turn around in bed and to my great surprise I just couldn’t! Now it has progressed to the point of not being able to get comfortable at all and the night before last I spent most of the night on the couch, doing cross-word puzzles. Suddenly I’m SO VERY PREGNANT! How lame. Just shows how much all of this is in the mind.

I fully intend taking the month before my due date off. There is no talk of a replacement. Tusiwe has already left to go to her new job. And I know very well that the chaos created while I’m gone, will just have to be sorted out by one person. Me. But, Marco has been through enough upheaval. I want to spend time alone with him to prepare him for the new baby and to be truthful: I’m tired. So very tired.

Loren couldn’t cry when he came home. (Fortunately he later learned to cry.) And for all intents and purposes he was a very undemanding baby. Master Marco is therefore probably in for a surprise!

This time around he is more capable of understanding about babies and since he has had the experience of a sibling, it makes more sense to him when I show him pictures of ultrasound photos. He kisses my tummy and he has felt the new little one move, giggling joyfully at the sharp poking and funny shapes the baby contorts my tummy into.

Yesterday we realized with a shock that he is under the impression that it is Loren in my tummy and that he expects Loren to be popping out in a few weeks.

On some level, I fervently wish it could be true.

Imagine having Loren back? Getting a second chance. Being able to give him everything he missed out on the first time around. There is probably nothing I want more right now.

But then we are back to trying to separate the condition from the person, from denying the impact he had the way he was and from something that boils down to disloyalty to an amazing person. Also, denying our new baby his own special place.

The other night when we visited Loren’s grave, Marco ran out in front of me, calling: “Catch me, Mama!” I remembered how often I would run with Loren in my arms trying to catch Marco and how excited Loren would be. And I had the distinct impression that Loren was running – freely and with his arms thrown outwards – not far behind Marco, his red curls dancing in the last rays of the run, squealing with delight…

Outrunning me with my heavy body and my heavy heart.