Gunship Over Angola

The previous evening, as she and my dad were driving my grandmother back into Pretoria, without any warning Mom had collapsed in the front passenger seat of the car. They were close to the Pretoria General Hospital and my dad had driven straight to the casualty section. Consequently, Mom had received treatment within minutes for the blood clot lodging in her brain.

For now, that was all she knew. I told my sister that I’d be at the hospital around 07h30.

I don’t think that the rotor blades of the Alo had even stopped before I leapt out and rushed off to my car. Peak-hour traffic notwithstanding, I reached the hospital 20 minutes later and sprinted all the way to the ward where my dad and sister were waiting.

All night long, tossing and turning in my bed at Schmidtsdrift and during the flight home, I had tried to picture what I’d see when I finally got to my mother’s bedside. At the tender age of 21, I had become accustomed to, and had no great fear or dread of seeing blood and guts, severed body parts or gaping violent injuries to the bodies of human beings. I rationalised that they were part and parcel of the work I’d chosen to do, and the price I needed to pay for a career in the aviation industry.

I thought, irrationally, that this was the worst I was likely to encounter when I got to Mom’s bedside. But nothing and no one could have prepared me for what I saw. I was only vaguely aware of the presence of other people, and all I heard was the subdued hum of machines. Sunlight streamed in through a window.

Mom was lying on her back under clean white sheets and a hospital blanket was drawn up to her neck, with just her head, shoulders and arms visible. There was a drip inserted into her right hand and someone was holding her left, which they relinquished to me. Her hand was clammy and cool, if not cold, to the touch.

For some reason, the first thing that profoundly disturbed me was the sight of two transparent plastic pipes running from under the sheets and into her nose. Then I saw that her lips were slightly parted and that the plastic tube from a ventilator leading into her mouth was distorting the left side of her face. I could also hear a faint bubbling sound, but I couldn’t work out where it was coming from.

But the thing that shattered any hope I may have harboured for her return to vitality was Mom’s half-opened eyes.

They gave forth nothing.

They were glazed and blank, and I knew then that her soul was already elsewhere. Slowly, like being pulled into a dark cave, the dullness in those eyes began to draw me in until it held my complete attention.

I stood there, unable to resist being consumed by the nameless thing that had invaded the shell of the exquisitely beautiful woman who’d given me life, who’d always known instinctively when I needed her and into whose loving embrace I’d been so utterly sure I could escape whenever things got too tough.

I found myself fighting a black, looming wave that grew so rapidly that it blocked out everything and everyone in the room. I felt myself struggling not to scream, to rant, to rage. I wanted to thrash the doctors who’d failed to fix her when she’d needed them most, and to rail at my dad, who couldn’t stop this cowardly faceless thing from stealing her from me.

I wanted to obliterate anyone I could blame for causing the agony that was tearing me apart.

At the height of my fury, I found myself suddenly standing a short distance away, observing the unfolding scene. Then, in a moment of great light and clarity, it suddenly struck me that my furious need to hold the whole world culpable for this terrible, terrible loss should rather be directed inwards.

I wasn’t ready to do that.

So I turned and ran away.

*

In the days that followed, surgeons told the family that the stroke had impacted the motor centre of Mom’s brain, and that her prognosis was extremely poor. There was no hope of her ever again regaining consciousness. She would be comatose for the rest of her days.

I found it difficult to visit when other people were with her, and so I started going alone and late at night. I’d hold her hand and talk to her, hoping against hope that she was listening. I’d stare intently into her eyes or just wish vainly for some flicker of reaction, some recognition, some sign of life.

But there was none.

At just after 05h00 on the fourth day after our world had stopped turning, I woke up after another restless night. I immediately became aware of a sense of foreboding

Mildly perturbed, I nevertheless decided to start the day a little earlier than normal. I showered, shaved and dressed before making a cup of coffee and sitting down at the little desk that served as my dining table.

At just before 06h00 I heard Desiree’s car pull into the driveway.

I heard her get out and the car door close.

Then I heard a subdued conversation between her and Mrs Bradley, who’d gone out to meet her.

I heard them walk up to my front door and rap softly.