It’s a little after 6 on the morning, a mere 4 days away from our return to France. Nearing the end of winter here, I can hear hadeda’s yacking to each other across the neighbours lawn, and the nip in the air is reminiscent of autumn in October back home.
My head is restless, part of the reason I’m awake early. The other reason I’m awake early is because we go to sleep early, although I did toss and turn last night: the niggling discomfit I’m feeling has to do with our return flight.
As I’m certain you saw on my social pages, our flight to South Africa was smooth and free of hassle because despite trying to arrange a wheelchair assistance service prior to our departure, the administration team had not acknowledged my mail, and it was the kind check-in lady who smoothed our passage. It’s 7 and a half weeks on now; and their medical assist team HAS responded to my email, but with a small mountain of paperwork needed for the service.
“Fill in the online form” please, “part 1 by yourself, part 2 by your doctor”. I did that on Monday. Yeah!- felt accomplished and on top of my sh**.
Nope.
That was followed a half day later by a request for a medical report in English.
F****.
I have a medical report dated June 22nd. In French. Did I send that? Yes I did. Was it the end? Nope. No, a day later they set a request for haemogloblin levels, a report with vital signs and oxygen levels, all dated less than 30 days before departure.
Can I admit how annoyed I was? I don’t think it helped that dear hubby’s reaction was a little too blasé for my liking. He seemed more inclined to ignore me than make a phone call to our South African doctor to arrange what we needed to. A follow up email a day (this morning) later rendered me even more anxious, which is where I am now: it really is all on me to arrange what we need.
I woke up this morning, alert enough to want to write my monthly newsletter but now I am scribbling me emotions frantically, praying I’ll find a solution before hubby wakes up. Ultimately we will have to do a follow up blood count, and make an appointment to see the doctor for those signs of life.
I woke up this morning with a poignant entry line into this newsletter, and I’ve word-vomited these admin hassles out as if it helps me.
Instead I was going to lead into this newsletter taking me back to my previous update: where I had sat blissfully happy in my Dads front room soaking up the sunlight, the views, the sounds of cows mooing in the background, new born calves suckling and tractors moving around with winter food.
We had started on Anton’s next chemo round, and if you remember it was another oral session, but the dose was double what he had taken during the radiation sessions. We were taking our time to relax at my Dads, no pressure to go anywhere or do anything while Anton took his meds. As predicted by the oncologist Anton was feeling the effects by Day 3. His hemiplegia became more pronounced: where he had been able to shuffle around without a cane for short periods, he now couldn’t go anywhere without assistance during the chemo week. He took long afternoon naps under the very thick down-feather duvet, and was in bed fast asleep by 8pm. Still, he hasn’t endured nausea or poor appetite, and he did ask for all the methods we offered to maintain ‘colonic rhythms’ (namely chia seeds, psyllium husk, aaaallll the veggies and the powdered laxative offered at hospital). By the end of the week we were able to take him for a steak and beer at the country club, and we enjoyed the Howick Choristers performance the next day. A steady stream of visits and visitors kept us in cake and coffee dates. All done and dusted, Anton dealt with the round of chemotherapy without consequences, for which we were all very grateful.
As for the hemiplegia, the ensuing weeks have tested his levels to the n-th degree. They included a round of putt-putt, climbing into a land rover for a game drive, taking some small steps without a handrail or guard, more (longer) flights of stairs without a rail, and he’s dealt with all of these like a pro. Yes, we huff and puff up the steps, and it’s really only me who he’ll have at his side. Yes, we’ve walked the long alleys of South African shopping centres and he had to watch his own young teens nipping in and out of the shops with his credit card clutched in their grips. Quel dommage. Yes, I’ve had to relinquish my afternoon nap time because he wants to go for a walk down the road with the walking frame.
There have been days where I left Anton with his feet up watching Afrikaans tv while I’ve treated myself to a spa day with my Ride-or-Die girls Moz and Sam, and I’ve taken myself and Alex and Beth to spend a weekend with their Aunty Annie and Charlotte and Jack. Joburg is lovely if you’re in the right places (namely Rosebank 🙃).
And there’s been other moments: the broken down Pajero en route to the Kruger National Park? There’s definitely a reflection to be taken when you’re standing in front a 4×4 vehicle with black smoke pouring out of the engine, and a kind traveller stops to help tow you to a fuel station. (When he asks you if it’s your vehicle with a level of sad despair in his eyes. When he says “I’m sorry, but the motor is done” to you and every single atom of your feminine body feels like a sad single mother)
There’s the Hiring A Car process when your bank cards daily limits are set deliberately low because you never imagined hiring a car and needing the longer credit line. (Never mind frantically trying to reset those limits from the webpage on your iPhone with limited data). And when that hire car proffers a flat, laden to the hilt with suitcases and food: turns out the teens jump quicker than myself to try change it, proving to me once again how amazing they really are. But it’s the ability to pay someone to fix the problem that tears me in 2: this time it was my Dad who flexed his credit card behind my back, but he’s not a safety net and there’s will be a time when it’s all on me.
There’s the blissful house in the Lowveld that you’ve borrowed for the week, with never ending views, where once-upon-a-long-ago was bushveld scrub and klein koppies, is now a mini-bushveld metropolis of tiny lights and fiery smog. Tea-time and gin-hour sunsets while watching our children crochet and discuss social media trends and Taylor Swift. And take photos to forever hold on to those moments.
Everyone who I’ve spent time with on this holiday has asked if we’ve had a good time. My answer is complicated: it was always about Anton, bringing him home to soak up family time, but I wanted us to make memories, I wanted Alex and Beth to see their cousins, and I wanted to be a tourist in my homeland. I guess we ticked the boxes, but the truth is, I’m a little disappointed. (Didn’t see Table Mountain/ didn’t eat lobster on the west coast watching the sun set/didn’t 4×4 up a Drakensberg pass in the Pajero/didn’t observe any Big Cats in the wild/didn’t watch the sun rise with a koffie en beskuit in hand in The Kruger National Park). The other truth is that that line <<I’m a little disappointed>> reeks of ungratefulness, so we simply add it onto a list of goals to achieve at another point. Because we will still have that. Somehow. Somewhere.
It’s almost time for me to check in online again. It’s almost time to fly. We have managed to fulfil the request from the airline for wheelchair assist and I’m going to start counting the hours until we get to see Thandi the Bandit again, cook in my own kitchen, and dare I even admit it- ride my bicycle again?
Anton has a check-up with his onco later next week, and within the next 3 weeks he has an MRI scheduled. Will I decide what to do with my life after that? I’ve put my own life on a temporary hold until we know what the state of the tumour is. The girls return to school and for everyone else, life must go on. Yet, for me, my mantra remains: I take it one day at a time. For now.
Thank you to everyone who has made time for us. We are honoured to have you in our lives. To the friends who I’ve not yet seen, I’m sorry how it has played out: life and school and work does continue for everyone and that’s also fine. We might be leaving again, but I remain on the other end of a phone. I do hope that we can profit from occasional calls.
Love and wishes,
Me.
Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals 