...on 1
January 2012
I, J.
Hardspear de la Azotea wish to tell you the story of Honeybee.
I am nearly
39, but I remember… I remember very well… I was 5 years old.
Melissa was
born on 3 March 1978. Shortly after her
birth my parents realized something was wrong.
They took her to the family GP who detected a heart murmur. I was 5 and our middle sister Flower was two
and a half.
Soon Melissa
became gravely ill. In the small town of
Heidelberg in the old Transvaal province there was a small but well run
hospital with old fashioned doctors who still cared, did house calls and were
gods. None of them were specialists
however. Several hasty trips had to be
made to Johannesburg.
My parents
were advised to take Melissa to Cape Town to see world renowned heart
specialist, Dr Chris Barnard.
As my
parents threw clothes into suitcases my mother’s heart was torn into two as she
phoned my grandparents in Standerton which was an hour’s drive away to come and
pick up little Hardspear and Flower. She
also phoned a friend living one street away to come and watch us till my
grandparents arrive. My parents left
even before Tannie Kokkie came running to our house minutes later. My mother stared at the two little figures as
the car pulled away. I was 5 years old,
but I still remember… I remember VERY
well. I remember the look on my mother’s
face.
A nightmare
flight to Cape Town ensued. Our GP
accompanied my parents on the trip and he aged several years during the
flight. Soon after take-off life started
ebbing out of Melissa’s tiny body. The
doctor invested in all his training, experience, compassion and whatever
resources he had to keep her resuscitated.
All the while, he kept a dedicated open channel to God, for what else
was there to draw upon. Time stood still
for a moment as the whole plane was gripped in a vice of terror and dread. Passengers were traumatised, hostesses ran up
and down the aisle. My parents stood crying. Melissa went in to cardiac failure. The pilots decided to do an emergency landing
in Kimberley. The doctor managed to
bring the little babe-in-arms around again.
Soon after landing
in Kimberley, Melissa seemed more stable and the pilots took off for Cape Town
again. Before long she started going into
cardiac arrest once more. Again the
doctor, I can’t remember his name, put his very being into the act of trying to
revive Melissa. Eventually he stood
back. “Dit is verby…” (It is over) he
told my parents. By that time everyone
on the plane was sobbing, some silently some not.
My mother
shoved the doctor out of the way. Never
in her life did my mother have any first aid training, but what is greater than
a mother’s love? My mother started alternating
pumping Melissa’s legs and doing mouth-to-mouth. Without consulting each other, both my mother
and my father silently screamed the primal prayer which raise from the souls of
every parent whose child is about to die.
That prayer which has been prayed since time immemorial. “God save my child and I shall dedicate my
LIFE to You!” The tiny infant Melissa
gasped as her heart kicked in.
At D.F.
Malan Airport, Cape Town International now, all the passengers remained seated
as my mother and the doctor ran out of the plane and into the waiting St. Johns
Ambulance. The St. Johns medic defied
all physical laws during a hair raising race car trip which took a mere 7
minutes from the airport to the Groote Schuur Hospital. My mother gripped the doctor by the belt of
his trousers to keep him from tumbling around in the near out of control
ambulance as he dealt with oxygen masks, IVs and monitoring equipment ancient
by today’s standards. Both my mother and
the doctor started laughing hysterically as they were tossed around in the
flying vehicle. My father followed in a
taxi, which arrived much later.
Flower and I
stayed with our maternal grandparents for 5 long weeks. As much as we loved Ouma Rosie and Oupa Piet,
5 weeks are very long for a 5 year old and a 2 and a half year old. Some nights I cried for my mother. The strict routine of old people’s lives are
a great comfort to children, I now realise.
During those 5 weeks we never had to worry about what was going to
happen next. My grandparents slept in
the same room, but in separate beds.
Sturdy wooden beds on high legs which was made by Italian Prisoners of
War who were sent to POW camps in South Africa during the Second World War. Every morning I would jump into my
grandmother’s bed with her and Flower into my grandfather’s bed with him. Soon after Alinah, the maid, would open the
back door and there was a rush of tiny paws on carpeted hardwood floors as
Vlooi and Miekie the fat Chihuahua and scrawny miniature Doberman came running
in. Vlooi joined my grandmother and me
in bed and Miekie jumped in with my grandfather and Flower.
Alinah would
bring us all a cup of coffee in bed, first discussing the day ahead with my
grandmother in Afrikaans and then would have a long conversation with my grandfather
in Zulu. My grandfather spoke Zulu as if
it was his native tongue.
My
grandfather would dress and go off to work.
He always brushed my cheek with the clean foam on his shaving brush
whilst he shaved, slapped Old Spice on his cheeks then mine and flattened both
his and my hair with Brylcreem.
For some
reason unbeknownst, my grandmother had to go to OK Bazaars in town every single
day. In the afternoons we drove to any
of my grandfather’s farms in the district (I only realised later that my
grandparents were filthy stinking rich).
Sometimes we drove in his large Ford Granada and sometimes in the Fiat
or Isuzu bakkie. The brand spanking new
beige Mercedes 250E was reserved for going to church on Sundays. My grandfather seemed to have countless
cars. My favourite was the two door
yellow Chev SS muscle car with two black stripes over the boot, roof and
bonnet. My grandmother drove a boxy baby
blue Datsun S with a tape player. The
Springbok Radio tapes were as large as Betamax video tapes. We listened to Kentucky Blues and Simple
Yellow Ribbon and Women, Beautiful Women at top volume as my grandmother raced
about town. Both my grandparents drove
very fast.
One morning
we woke early and were carried half asleep into the Mercedes which was packed
and ready to go. We were on our way to
Durban. Five kilometres out of town my
grandmother started worrying whether she’d switched off the stove and the
iron. Grumpily my grandfather turned
around and raced back to their house at full speed. As always the stove and iron were indeed
switched off, but my grandmother now had peace and we set off again.
We stayed in
the Malibu hotel and after each dinner, my grandmother would put cheese and
biscuits into a serviette, which she then would slip surreptitiously into her
handbag. We would snack on that later in
the room. My pee burned me and I had to
swallow a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda every day. It made me gag. We went to the beach every day, save for one
day which was reserved for the fun park.
This I remember as if it was yesterday.
My grandmother exclaimed at some stage, “look at that cute little
train!” My grandfather bought tickets
and we got onto the “cute little train”.
The little train turned out to be a roller coaster and it was the most
exhilarating ride I have ever had. Even
up to this day. My grandmother realised
something was wrong when the Indian man operating the “cute little train” told
her to hold tight onto me. By the end of
the ride my grandmother had lost all ability to move. My grandfather, born out of hardy Boere stock
during the Great Depression was not as strong as an ox, he was stronger. He literally could wrestle a wayward bull to
the ground. My grandmother was a big
auntie, but he effortlessly picked her straight out of the cart and set her
down onto the platform on shaky legs. We
had to go back to the hotel where my grandmother took a tranquiliser.
I can fill a
book on all the detail I remember of those five weeks. I was 5 years old, yet I remember every
single thing.
Fast Forward.
The
venerable Dr. Chris Barnard and company told my parents that there is nothing
to be done and that Melissa will be lucky to survive past early childhood. She has a congenital heart defect called
Tetralogy of Fallot. My parents learned
of a Paediatric Heart Specialist team, Dr. (Prof) Robin Kinsley and Dr. (Prof) Solly Levin in Johannesburg and returned
home. Today Drs Kinsley and Levin is attached to the Walter Sisulu Paediatric Cardiac Clinic in Africa at the Sunninghill Hospital in Johannesburg.
My dad came
to pick us up in Standerton. His wavy
red hair had grown long since I have last seen him and my heart felt big and
warm as I ran into his arms.
Dr. Kinsley (cardio-thoracic surgeon), dr Levin (paediatric cardiologist)
and team did a ground-breaking, written up in textbooks and case studies
operation and Melissa became one of the first persons ever with Tetralogy of
Fallot surviving way past infancy.
You
were a child
Crawling on your knees toward it
Making momma so proud,
But your voice is too loud
Crawling on your knees toward it
Making momma so proud,
But your voice is too loud
Melissa
spent the first year of her life in the newly built Johannesburg General
Hospital. It was large, it was modern,
it was cutting edge. What a shame to
think of what Joburg Gen has become since.
Melissa was
such a happy child. Dreamy, imaginative
and sometimes lost in a world of her own.
People took to her very easily.
As a teenager she rebelled at being called a miracle child, wanting to
be like everyone else instead. Melissa
trained as a chef, but after her studies and practical placements she must have
realised she cannot work in such a physical demanding environment. After a few years she found her balance and
became deeply religious. Never pious and
although loving God, by all accounts she seriously challenged him sometimes,
yet never wavering in her belief.
We
like to watch you laughing,
You pick the insects off plants
No time to think of consequences
You pick the insects off plants
No time to think of consequences
I remember
my childhood as happy, but different.
Melissa still had the tracheostomy (hole in her throat) for another year
after returning home and we had suction machines like they have in hospitals
for removing phlegm from her lungs. One
was in my parents’ bedroom and one was built in behind the back seat of my
mother’s Volkswagen Beetle. I was 5
turning 6 and when Melissa would start choking in a shop for example, I would
grab the car keys from my mom, run to the car, put it in neutral and start
it. By the time I managed to get a few
good revs in, my mother would arrive with Melissa and Flower. She would dive into the back put a catheter
on the suction machine and clean Melissa’s lungs, with me revving away much
more than was strictly needed to make the suction machine work.
[Chorus:]
Control yourself
Take only what you need from it
A family of trees wanted
To be haunted
Control yourself
Take only what you need from it
A family of trees wanted
To be haunted
Melissa had
to have massive heart operations again at the ages of six and seventeen. She recovered miraculously every time. And now, so much more recent, I cannot
remember if she had another one between 17 years old and the last one when she
was 30. How strange that I remember so
much better of what had happened so far back? Recovery after the last operation was
slow. Melissa suffered pain, fatigue and
arrhythmia. Eventually, after two years
she was ok again in a way, but I could see that her old vitality only surfaced
sometimes. After the last operation Dr.
Kingsley avoided my parents and spoke only very briefly to them, avoiding all
talk of prognosis and the future. The
poor man knew, I think, that time has started running out.
The water is warm
But it’s sending me shivers
A baby is born
Crying out for attention
But it’s sending me shivers
A baby is born
Crying out for attention
Melissa
spent her last three months as she did the first three, fighting for her life
in an intensive care unit of a hospital, attached to monitors and with tubes
running in and out of her and breathing through a hole in her throat.
The memories fade
Like looking through a fogged mirror
Decision to decisions are made
And not bought,
But I thought this wouldn’t hurt a lot.
I guess not
Like looking through a fogged mirror
Decision to decisions are made
And not bought,
But I thought this wouldn’t hurt a lot.
I guess not
I am sad for
Melissa who lived her life, not for herself, but for others. She touched the lives of innumerable people.
I am grateful
for the two nurses at Joburg Gen, who in long shifts relieving the other were
with Melissa every single moment of the first year of her life.
I am angry
at the callous, lazy, Kentucky Fried Chicken munching, heartless fucking
bitches who were supposed to watch over her during the end, but slept through
the night shift. (All the SAffas will know which important descriptive pronouns I have left out in relation to the first and second sets of nurses.)
I am
thankful to God for 34 years.
I feel
guilty for not always giving Melissa the time of day
…….Even so…
It is well with my soul.
When
peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When
sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever
my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is
well, it is well, with my soul.
Refrain:
It is
well, with my soul,
It is
well, it is well, with my soul.
Though
Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let
this blest assurance control,
That
Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And
hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My
sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My
sin, not in part but the whole,
Is
nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise
the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
For
me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If
Jordan above me shall roll,
No
pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou
wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
But,
Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The
sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh,
trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed
hope, blessed rest of my soul!
And
Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The
clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The
trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even
so, it is well with my soul.
Three of the
Gospels tell the story of the Temple Official whose daughter had died. In different ways they recount how Jesus
resurrected the girl. I can tell the
story further. I can tell you that the
miracle does not stop after the act.
Sometimes I am jealous of my parents’ faith, for boy, did they keep
their promise…
Baai Noenoes ek mis jou baie. Met hierdie elegie laat ek jou gaan. Jou boetie Gerrie J. Hardspear de la Azotea
MGMT - Kids
It is well with my soul
