Its taken me a very long time to confront the writing of the Part II of my “The Tolling of the Death Knell” blog posts.
I have really shied away from it as remembering the losses I have suffered is painful but a combination of events this last week brought me to the point where I feel compelled to face the memories and write this final blog post in this series.
I met a remarkable strong woman this last week who asked me during the course of our time together asked me about my children and after responding to her, I asked her if she had children. She replied that she had had a child but he passed away. She was so pragmatic and courageous in her response; and her ability to tell a total stranger that she had the privilege of being a parent not for very long but she did, it happened and she has no answers to why he died but that is ok and its part of life. That impacted me so much – her stoicism and calm acceptance on losing the life of her precious child was very move incredibly impactful and left an indelible mark on me.
For the past 2 nights I have been watching “From Scratch” on Netflix; the dramatized version of the true story – From Scratch : A Memoir of Love, Sicily, and Finding Home by Tembi Locke. It is so beautiful dealing with so many aspects of life from life, love, family tensions and coping with cancer. It starts off in the beauty of Florence / Firenze and transports the view to Sicily. I was not prepared for the grief, the desperation of the reality of loss and how the series catapulted to my Dad’s hospital beds in the last days of his life.
After reading the insightful moving interview with Anderson Cooper in The New Yorker – Talking about Grief with Anderson Cooper – I recognised all the signs to propel me into writing this blog.
In September 2002, my first ex-husband and Dad to Morgan and Tristan died. We had divorced in April 2001, Morgan, Tristan and I moved to Johannesburg at the end of August 2001 and contact with him had been very sporadic and acrimonious since then. Tristan spoke to him in April 2002 in a phone call and Morgan in July 2002; there had been silence ever since and the phone calls to me declaring "I'm not taking my pills today" before the phone call terminating had ceased; and then the news came that he had died. It was a Monday morning, I was at work and Morgan and Tristan were at school. My boss at the time was in Kenya and I sent a fax to his hotel (the days of receiving your e-mails on your phone were still a fantasy) telling him what had happened and that I would be collecting my sons from school at lunchtime and would spend the afternoon with them after breaking the news to them. The news of his death was for me bittersweet - he was the father to my children and I had been married to him but he had been abusive and our collective memories of him over the last 3 year period were not at all pleasant.
I did not know how Morgan and Tristan would react to the news. We walked into our home and I sat them down with Sylvia, our long-term housekeeper and their second Mom, and told them that their Dad had passed away in his sleep. (There was a history in the family of a heart condition which is why he was meant to be on chronic medication but he smoke, drank alcohol and did not have a healthy diet - after we had left Grahamstown and he was no longer on the medical aid which I had been a member of whilst working at Rhodes University, he would tell my friends and former colleagues if they had the misfortune of encountering them in the street "Barbara is killing me as she took me off her medical aid" - all the time smoking a cigarette - for him it was anathema to him to have to collect his chronic medication from the hospital; there was never any acknowledgment of the privilege he had enjoyed and benefitted from while married to me and a dependent on my medical insurance). Ernie was a number of years older than me so was approximately 62 years old when he passed away.
Morgan, who was 13 year old, upon hearing that his Dad had died commented along the lines of "I feel nothing he was a monster to us" and I said that I did believe he was sitting in judgment of his actions to which Tristan (aged 8 and a half at the time) commented "Yes he must tell the Devil what he did". I had no response to that (the adage of "out of the mouths of babes springs to mind) but did say that he was released from his suffering and hopefully he would be at peace as he had not been during his time on earth when we knew him. My parents were in Jo'burg at the time and they came over to assist with supporting Morgan and Tristan, and simply being together with us. It was at this time that my Dad told his grandsons and me about losing his own father at the age of 5 - a trauma I vehemently believed caused a childhood trauma which he never professionally counselled for so it was left unattended and unresolved. A real tragedy.
In "From Scratch" the hospice social worker encourages the soon-to-be widow to talk honestly with her young daughter about the impending death of her beloved Dad, to acknowledge it and that when he passed to let her view his body which I found very insightful and real advice. Ernie had died in another province (state) and my sons were emphatic that they did not want to attend their funeral. If they had they would have been the carcass for the picking over by gossipy hyenas. At the time of his death he had been living with his first ex-wife and her second husband (the first ex-wife would ultimately marry the sole surviving Price brother - yes you read that correctly, she married a man who had previously been her brother in-law). It was all a bit Jerry Springer and it felt rather incestuous and cringeworthy. I received a letter after Ernie's funeral from the first ex-wife's second husband berating me and relating how every night Ernie would cry for "Morgan and Justin"!!! "Justin!!!???" Who the hell was Justin?!?! If you are going to slag a person off at least get facts and names straight but clearly it was a letter written out of a sense of "moral outrage" I suspected because his wife had tried to get Ernie's estate to pay for the funeral expenses, since he had died intestate there were no funds to pay for the funeral let alone to pay me for any of the maintenance he had been court ordered to pay me but never ever did) I don't need to draw you a picture of my outrage - needless to say at a braai with friends the letter was ceremoniously ripped up and burnt.
Where I was working at the time the building / maintenance manager would daily walk past my desk and say "Where's Mr Price?" thinking he was so funny (at this time my surname was Price just like Morgan's and Tristan's). It was one of the best days when he walked past my desk and uttered those words "Where's Mr Price?" to which I retorted "He's dead" - all the colour drained from his face; he stayed away from me for more than a week and it was a joy to never ever have to hear that silly "Where's Mr Price?" comment ever again in that building.
I really believe in not speaking ill of the dead but the truth is the truth, the painful memories are genuine and internal invisible scars which periodically remind one that they are there, are reminders of a life not happily lived, choices made which resulted in him being estranged from 2 of his sons which was such a loss to the 3 of them as amends could have been made, apologies uttered and efforts made to repair a fractured relationship, and a sense of relief and serenity when life terminated.
During the course of 2003 my Dad was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a type of bone marrow cancer. At the time my Dad was 72 years old - fit, health with a previously clean bill of health apart from a heart attack in November 2001 which he survived from because he timed his heart attack to occur when he and my Mom were visiting their friends, and the husband was a doctor and my Dad's general state of fitness and good health. I was that this type of cancer was terminal but I could not let those words penetrate my consciousness as I would have been an emotional wreck for the rest of his life. I acknowledged the news but did not putting on the brave facade to help Morgan and Tristan cope with the news that their beloved Grandpa had cancer. Not too long after his diagnosis I flew down to Cape Town for the weekend on my own to see my Mom and Dad. It was one of the worst weekends of my life - my Dad was physically there but not there; he was there in body but not in mind or spirit. He made very little conversation and seemed zoned out most of the time - maybe it was the medication and oral chemotherapy he was already on, maybe it was the cancer diagnosis or both? It was dreadful and my emotional cracks did appear when the Hospice social worker came over and we all had a conversation; and it was put on me to decide where my parents would settle (they had returned from the USA in 2002 and housesat in Johannesburg for 8 months before going to Cape Town to again housesit and were living in short-stay rented accommodation). They felt they should be in Jo'burg to support and help me but my Dad hated Jo'burg and it would have been so selfish for me to ask them to settle in Jo'burg - my Dad had an amazing oncology team in place already and his beloved Table Mountain was there to give him some comfort as whilst he had been warned he could no longer indulge in hikes up the mountain as a simple fall could have catastrophe bone fracture results, he would be able to see it.
In time my Dad returned in both body, mind and spirit and eventually his cancer was in remission. It was a time to rejoice but not relax as the reality was that it would return and it eventually did with a vengeance about halfway through 2006. A good friend at the time gifted me with a return flight to Cape Town as a birthday present so I could visit my parents - my Dad had been sick with pneumonia and while recovered was not 100% and was not in a good emotional state. It was a hard visit as I saw my Dad's deterioration and decided to extend my visit so I could be with my parents when my Dad went into hospital to have a blood transfusion and for an appointment with his oncologist, Dr Du Toit. Prior to this we met my Aunt for tea at Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, my Dad not long after we arrived, asking my Mom to take him home as he was not feeling great and my Aunt used the opportunity to encourage me to ask Dr Du Toit what the prognosis was for my Dad. I had to do this for the family - I wanted to wail and have a temper tantrum failing my fists screaming "I don't wannna" but of course I knew I had to delve down deep and find an ounce of courage. Without trying to be obvious but of course it was, I asked Dr Du Toit for a private chat and he knew what I was going to ask so answered the gigantic unspoken question which hung in the air; and which I simply could not force out of my throat and mouth. Succinctly and swiftly he said "About 6 months". It was now early October and his prognosis proved so accurate. Having this time frame did help as it meant we could plan celebrations for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary on 8 December 2006 and what would be our last Christmas with our Dad and grandparents. My brothers who then lived in the UK and Hawaii were informed and everything was done (most of the time) to ensure my Dad's last months were as positive, painfree and pleasant as possible.
My parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary surrounded by their 3 children, my Aunt, cousin and her family and friends. Christmas 2007 was spent in Cape Town with Nicholas, my eldest brother, Morgan, Tristan, my second husband (who soon afterwards became an ex) and me. My Dad was in good spirits and doing well; though he did tire and at time was tetchy but overall in was a really lovely memorable time. 2008 commenced and my Dad seemed to have renewed vigour and a zest for life - had Dr Du Toit's prognosis been incorrect? I will always remember phoning my parents on Valentines Day 2007 - my Mom was out so I spoke to my Dad who told me that he was preparing his radio show for Fine Music Radio for the following week as he was going into hospital the next day for a blood transfusion and my Dad was always super professional and organised about the show he presented at Fine Music Radio (classical music being his huge love). He was preparing for a show he sadly never was able to present himself.
The blood transfusion went well but Dr Du Toit did not want to discharge my Dad as he was not very happy with his condition. He would have good days and bad days; seemingly overnight Dr Du Toit's prediction was coming true. I had started a new job so was in regular e-mail contact with Dr Du Toit's practice asking them to let me know when I needed to be in Cape Town and to summons my brothers. He assured me that he would give me fair warning. That warning came sooner than I anticipated - our friend, Terence was visiting us from KwaZulu Natal and we were out to dinner with him at Franco's in Parkview before going to a Pieter Dirk-Uys performance at the Market Theatre or Jo'burg Civic Centre (I honestly cannot remember). My cellphone rang and it was William, my cousin Janine's husband. Seeing his name come up on my phone I knew it was Bad News. He told me calmly and matter-of-factly that it was time to make arrangements to come to Cape Town. The remainder of my meal felt like ashes in my mouth and Pieter Dirk-Uys's performance was stellar and hilarious as always but I was forcing myself to laugh when I just want to curl up into a foetal position and weep until there were no more tears.
I flew to Cape Town on the Saturday morning, my Mom had told me not to come before then. She knew I was in a new job and was wanting to handle the situation very delicately. I was gobsmacked when Dr Du Toit's receptionist called me on the Friday stating "I hope you are the airport already" - my Mom was furious for that interference and another busybody, whom we had considered a good family friend (her late husband having been very friendly with my Dad and they often played music together) and who was a retired doctor, thought it was her right to call me and tell me that it was a "waste of money" for my Dad to be given another blood transfusion. I had no idea this was happening but it was also no business of hers whatsoever and thank goodness for that blood transfusion because it helped in prolonging my Dad's life so his three children to see him and spend with him before he passed away. The Doctor Busybody was at my Dad's memorial service; I refused to acknowledge her - giving herself Judge and Jury status over my Dad and his family was an over-reach of epic proportions and something I could never forgive.
It was desperately hard seeing my Dad bed-ridden, with red eyes (I think the cancer had reached his eyes) and with all his dignity stripped away. Again the urge to curl up into the foetal position and just sob was so strong but I had to hold it all together and not let him see me upset (that was the nurses advice to us). The tears rapidly fell when I was not at his bedside. He had had enough - he had always barely spoken about the cancer, only once telling me "this thing is going to get me in the end" - and when he told my Mom and I that he had had enough and just wanted it over, his desperation shattered my heart. We implored him to hang on until Nick and Chris had arrived which he did - I returned to Jo'burg on the Monday as it was Morgan's 18th birthday and I had not been granted leave so had to return to work; promising my Dad I would be back as soon as possible. That brief farewell, half hug and squeezing of his hands was sadly the last time I would touch and feel him; I phoned on the Wednesday morning and a nurse put the phone to his ear so he could hear my voice - by then he was not speaking and the following day Nick phoned me in the early Thursday afternoon telling me that he was gone.
I had left Cape Town so grateful to have the precious time with my Dad and with perspective - he was nearly 77 years old; he had seen his children and grandchildren become teenagers and young adults. There were youngsters, men and women in the haematology ward at Constantiaberg fighting various forms of blood cancers - youngsters who had not really lived life yet, men and women who had small children who they could not see and/or were far away from them . That perspective has not changed for me. I have regrets and I always encourage Morgan and Tristan to never have regrets.
I regret not being at my Dad's beside when he passed away; only my Mom was there when in his morphine induced coma state he peacefully surrendered giving up on life. I regret not asking to see his body once I returned to Cape Town - nobody offered that option to me either. I have been told by my spiritual guide that my Dad did not want me to see him that way. I still regret not having the opportunity to thank him for everything, begging forgiveness for the bratty years of my life, for the times I know I disappointed him and let him down and for those times when I felt I could not communicate with him at all. He was an emotional cripple and a difficult Dad but he was a superb Grandpa to Morgan and Tristan and he had an amazing relationship with them which will always mean the world to my sons and me.
Adjusting to life without my Dad was and is hard but we cope with and I would tell my Mom that there is no timeline to grieve, no "Dummy's Guide to Mourning" and if she got through a quarter of the day that was a win and tomorrow might be half a day and so on. My Dad left this world 15 years ago, most times I can talk about him without crying, the tears fall swiftly when I hear some of his favourite classical music pieces and I know (and am blessed) that he is always with us spiritually looking out for Morgan, Tristan and me.
My Dad and Mom on their 50th wedding anniversary - 8 December 2006; my Dad passed away on 8 March 2007
I have suffered other losses of close friends - out of one friend group I am the sole survivor - and I am not going to recount chapter and verse on each loss.
In May 2008, after having had to put a lot of distance between myself and my friend, Howard, I was nevertheless devastated to hear that he had suddenly passed away. I got the news late on a Tuesday afternoon and he had died the day before and been buried that Tuesday morning as per Jewish tradition. There was also a post on Facebook and a message from his page telling people of his death and instructing people not to contact Howard's parents - that was weird and strange. The posting had been from his ex-boyfriend. I had installed the distance between us as he was becoming increasingly abusive to me - emotionally and mentally; and after I had been exceptionally supportive of him when he tried to end his life, he told me after receiving his 6 week chip for being clean and sober that he had actually relapsed but told nobody, I could not cope or tolerate his behaviour anymore. And having now walked away from two abusive marriages where verbal and emotional abuse was the popular weapon of abuse by my exes, I could not let myself be abused by someone I had considered to be my surrogate brother and friend. A week before his death he had phoned me but Morgan answered the call as I was driving to the airport collect my brother, Christopher, and he then took us out to dinner in Sandton Square so we got home late. I did not call him the next day and when I received an e-mail from him in my inbox I could not open it - I felt paralysed to open it . Was it going to be a written lambasting of me? I was too scared and too fragile to open the e-mail to see so it was still sitting unread in my inbox when I got the news that Howard had died.
Those who knew the real cause of Howard's death were not speaking so there were rumours that he had died in a car crash on Sylvia's Pass; but then I was told that the paramedics had been at his home in Hyde Park. So much mystery surrounded his death and it was only many years later that my spirit guide told me that he had died of an accidental overdose. Full disclaimer and confession - I never did open that last e-mail from him, I deleted it and was comforted when my spirit guide told me that I did the right thing in deleting the e-mail. Howard was sadly his own worst enemy; a very sad and confused complex character; so intelligent, so witty, so good-looking and so privileged - at one stage he was buying a Louis Vutton gym bag monthly always engraved (I often went with him to buy these buys) and I remember saying to him; all these bags will not keep you company or warm in your old age. Poor tragic Howard - he could not save himself from himself. I will never regret not knowing him and how much he taught me about life and his generosity - he was the benefactor of my airtickets to Cape Town to see my Dad in October 2006 and gave me the money for us to fly to Cape Town for my Dad's last Christmas; his generosity knew no bounds.
Howard's death also reminded me how short life is, we have a very slippery tenacious hold on the fragility of life. When he died Johan was wanting to pursue a relationship with me and Howard's death propelled me into taking a chance of love and happiness, as Johan made me laugh, made me smile, made me feel so special and I thought I would just take a gamble as life is so short (13 years on and in April 2023 married for 10 years it was a gamble with astonishing and continuous benefits and dividends in the happiness and love sphere).
I am not afraid of death and dying. This does not mean that I don't mourn and grieve those who I love and who die no matter the circumstances.
In early 2015, a day after I had had new year text message conversations with my good friend, Alex, I was devastated when another friend, Kerryn, phoned me to tell me that Alex was dead. Was this an April Fool's joke on 2 January? Alex was younger than both Kerryn and I with a child about to start Grade 8 an a younger son - they were on holiday at the coast and she had a massive heart attack. Alex, larger than life with this genuine heartfelt laugh, generous, gorgeous, caring, loving the type of friend who dropped everything when she heard my Dad had died (as did Kerryn) to come to me bringing love, hugs, strength, tissues and wine - how dare her life be snatched away from her; her children robbed of their wonderful Mom and her husband robbed of his loving wife. Her death and the loss in my life affected me dreadfully - to this day I try to avoid driving past her house as the memories still hurt so much. The evening after hearing of her death we decided to have an early dinner at Ocean Basket in Bryanston - it had been a very rainy and wet afternoon, Tristan had been in a mood and fighting with us all and I could not be in the house any longer. We had barely sat down in the restaurant and Kerryn and her family arrived - of course we clung to each other and just sobbed; not the type of entertainment other diners were looking for. Was it divine intervention that led us both to that restaurant so we could see each other and comfort each other? While I may not think of Alex daily, she is often in my thoughts and I am so grateful for all her love, friendship, support and sister kinship she showered me with.
In my recent years I have had friends lose their parent or parents, a very very dear friend lose his gorgeous fiancé in a car accident, a friend who was barely married 18 months losing her husband in a fatal motorcycle accident ( thanks to a taxi driver) and friends losing their children due to cancer, Covid-19, car accident or mysterious health conditions. Their strength, their resilience, their bravery in facing each new day adjusting to life without their husband, child, sibling, cousin astounds me and reminds me that if they can cope with grief and the challenge of life then so can I. How they deal with life on life's terms inspires me in a way they will never know or understand.
The sad reality of life is that it comes along hand-in-hand with death. It will eventually happen to all of us. Some of us may encounter a lot of losses - babies, children, friends, colleagues, parents - and some not so many losses. Its not a competition. The death of a loved one whether friend, parent, spouse or child is profound. We need to acknowledge that. Not shy away from it or flippantly say "It was their time". Not in my opinion. You need to acknowledge the passing away of the loved one, respecting them, acknowledging them, mourn them while letting happy memories of them warm your heart and dry your tears. Facing up to our own mortality is distressing, it can be scary especially the thought that you may not have a say or choice in your final moments. You can try to have a say - I want a living will, I am already an organ donor, I have written instructions for how my life is to be celebrated, where my ashes are to be scattered, the music to be played (my late Dad's influence ever present), all my important paper work is in a safe and easy access place - all examples of how I not only am trying to have some director control in my passing but also endeavouring to make aspects of my end of life easier for those who are left behind.
And as George Bernard Shaw said "“I want to be all used up when I die"
Henry Scot Holland
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