An Impasse At The Crossroads

Honestly, where I’m going with this story is anyone’s guess. The fact that I’m running away from writing this blog is a testament to my current state of mind. Or is it that I might, unintentionally, open the proverbial can of worms? Let’s see.

But let me start at the very beginning. Forty-one years and six months ago, in a similar emotional state, on 2nd January 1981, I drove into Worcester to create a new “grown-up” life, and I was going to live my life’s dream— as a Mama.

The sun was setting behind the Brandwacht mountains. It was mid-summer, unbearably hot, humid, and windy. In her squeaky voice, an aunt had warned, “the registration isn’t CW for nothing; it’s for Constant Wind. Mark my words, constant wind.” she’d said prophetically.

Swaddled in a new light blue and yellow receiving blanket, my sweet week-old baby boy slept soundly on the back seat, watched over by my other “baby” Cherie, our miniature Maltese poodle. Who’s ranking in the family had gone from Top Dog to Underdog.

My husband, who’d just knocked off work, stood with a cigarette tightly gripped between two fingers, was waiting to show us our new accommodation at the Eben Dönges Hospital, where he had started working.

A depressing, face brick and dull white institutional 1960s building squatted before me; these were the Doctor’s quarters and would be our new home for a year. Shaded by an umbrella-shaped Ficus tree on one side and protected by a mesh fence on the other end. The camouflaged, mottled dull green of the lawn was the only smattering of colour. The face-brick hospital and outbuildings, pooled by tarred roads and gravel, loomed around us.

We were young hopefuls, my husband animated by all the prospects available and awaiting him. I had maternity blues; anything, happy or sad, could turn on the taps.

In love and awe of my baby, I settled down and got on with the Job. With the encouragement of my helpful neighbour, I created a home. We owned a pink velvet Queen Anne suite and three sticks of furniture my mom had be’ed on at an auction, a washing machine without a drum, also bought on auction, a few boxes of vintage (second hand) crockery and cutlery from Mrs Sibble’s in Somerset West or the job lots purchased from Kitty’s Memory Lane. We unpacked our wedding gifts and the baby’s layette.

My status went from someone with a career to being a Mum and housekeeper. We were dirt poor with a large student loan, a new family car and an overdraft. We settled, and I put down roots to regain my stability. I got to know my surroundings, made a few friends and by December that year, knew or recognised a handful of faces when we attended the Worcester Agricultural Show. By the end of the following year, we even joined a table at the Show Dance, an annual event!

Life ticked on; our second child was born, we built a lovely home, my Father-in-law, recently widowed, moved into the Granny Flat, and my children were privileged to know their grandfather, a gentleman and one of my best friends. While I gardened, Oupa made copious pots of tea and gave advice liberally. Eight years later, my daughter and our fourth child was born—a sister to her three brothers. I sighed with contentment.

The neighbourhood was safe, and on every street, children thrived and played. My boys could make up teams for cricket, touch rugby or soccer games. They built soap box carts, raced, tumbled and scraped their knees, bruised their shins and got stitched up. During hot summer afternoons, a dozen or more children would come over for a swim and play Marco Polo. I prepared huge pots of spaghetti bolognaise, made hotdogs and hamburgers to fill hungry tummies, scooped ice cream cones and poured cool Oros drinks on hot days.

All around me, my neighbourhood girlfriends helped and contributed to their well-being. It takes a village to raise a child, and I’ve seen how it works.

The children attended the local schools and were well-liked, intelligent, and sporty. They did well academically with our encouragement and support; all were prefects, played for the first team and even achieved Provincial colours. They fitted the small-town mould.

We attended parent-teacher meetings, I baked hundreds of pancakes for fêtes, sold hot dogs and baked carrot cakes (my forte) while their dad juggled a very busy private practice, chaired committee meetings and served on the Church council.

Life had a purpose; we served our community, the kids went to Sunday school grudgingly, and my husband went on annual hunting and fishing trips with his friends. His golf handicap improved dramatically. Later he went on to complete his Master’s degree in General Medicine. I joined the Book Club, Gardening Club, and Herb Club.

I started playing Bridge, much to my Grandmama’s delight. She often said, “Maricha, with Bridge, you can go anywhere in the world.”  Little did she know my prospects for going anywhere anytime soon were zero.

Around the bridge table, I forged strong friendships with women much older and wiser than me. At times we were loud and animated, yet, when someone sighed or quietly got on with the bidding, we’d follow suit, never judging or giving unsolicited advice, always assured we had each other’s backs.

My best friend and I started a small, successful maternity boutique. Later we would work for my husband in his private practice as his nurse and receptionist, and I did the accounts. Those were fulfilling fun days.

I attended cooking, and sewing classes, learned how to make gift boxes and cards, and even tried my hand at decorative painting! It was a thing. My children wore matching tracksuits and pyjamas until they stopped me in my tracks. My eldest went from my sewing to the Salvation army’s “previously loved” store for his wardrobe.

We kept up appearances, became complacent, arrogant, and entitled; we led separate lives. Much like today and social media, what we portrayed wasn’t always an accurate reflection of who and what we’d become. Dark storm clouds were gathering, and we weren’t equipped to deal with or even recognise the cracks. We filled the chasms of loneliness, neglect, and lovelessness until we were overwhelmed. We dug a crater the size of the Kimberley hole and buried ourselves.

Exhausted, crushed and heartbroken, we called it a day. After a prolonged exhausting divorce, we divided the accumulated sticks of furniture, set up two homes and recreated life as single parents. The loss of material possessions was challenging but cathartic. A liberation to clean up, throw out, share precious items and be left with the bare minimum. Years later, I’d miss the books I sent to the Church Bazaar. That was too punishing.

I dealt with my anguish in the only way I could. I wrote, diarised, made lists of people I needed to forgive, and burnt the reams of paper in a ritual bonfire. I cried buckets of tears, prayed fervently and chastised myself until I could exonerate myself.

Although many friends supported and carried me, a few, on a moral high ground,  had an axe to grind, were disappointed, felt betrayed, judged us and thought they “had to choose sides.”  The ripple effect of an acrimonious divorce spreads far and wide and, affects so many friendships, family, acquaintances and dominates dinner party debates! At thirty-eight, being the constant topic of conversation affected me greatly, and the loss of self-esteem was profound and overpowering at times.

Juggling a busy household and a catering business kept me occupied and filled an emotional chasm. A semblance of normalcy returned to our lives until my ex-husband emigrated to Canada. Once again, my four children had to adapt to circumstances beyond their control or desire. By now, they had become au fait, disguising their anguish and the insecurity change brings. Heartbroken, they accepted the status quo and seemingly, forged ahead and completed their high school education before emigrating to colleges and universities.

Writing this exposes my vulnerable underbelly and is excruciating. The unbearable knot in my belly and searing heartache is my constant companion. The scab on this welt is continually picked, and it will, in all probability, never heal, but, like millions of South African parents with children living abroad, I accept it and have learned to live with my lesions.

Picking myself up by my bootstraps is the only way I see fit. Fortunately, I could do so with the support of my family, Butch and my unflinchingly loyal friends.

At forty-six, I reluctantly started dating. Eventually, after much coaxing, Butch and I decided to live together. This time I didn’t have to pack boxes. He moved in with us with armloads of clothes on wire hangers, and we set up a house together. My daughter benefitted from this arrangement and having a father figure around grounded her while setting her free to enjoy her carefree teenage years.

Butch put my lilting life raft back on course; sharing responsibilities gave me peace of mind, and having a sounding board enabled me to let go when I became anxious or overwhelmed.

It would be unfair to say that every day has been one of bliss or moonshine and roses. We all had to adapt, make allowances, recreate our lives, and become accustomed to losing our hard-fought independence. Sometimes we had to remind ourselves that we knew what we were letting ourselves in for. Forewarned is forearmed.

Our children, once again, had to accept the state of affairs. We are proud to say they unconditionally accepted an interloper who wasn’t blood and adapted as the rules of engagement changed.

We went from sharing seven children to twelve (including spouses) and seven grandchildren whose ages range from seventeen to eleven months. Neither of us can deny that our hearts overflow with gratitude and love for each other! One of the littlies has just repeatedly shouted, “bye, Oumaricha!”  and another shows us her beautiful front teeth and a million-dollar smile every time she sees us. That’s what we live for.

On 1st April 2012, on a whim, I wrote a short announcement on Face Book stating that we were selling all our earthly possessions, after which we would buy a truck and set off into the wilds. The positive reaction was overwhelming and set the wheels in motion. After much investigation, we purchased our Isuzu truck. We had the conversion done by AC Motorhomes after a disastrous first attempt at doing it ourselves in collaboration with an engineer who’d volunteered to manage the project.

Butch and I became keen photogrphers, joined photogrphic clubs and participated regularly in an effort to hone our skills and learn. With Butch’s suggestion and my son’s encouragement, I started my blog. Primarily to tell our stories to our children and grandchildren. I would write about our adventures and misadventures; I’d tell stories, like this one, express my thoughts and experiences to remind them of their early lives in Africa and tell the little ones about us, their grandparents, and great grandparents. Thanks to social media and their reassurance, I have a small group of readers who inspire me to keep going when my courage fails me. 

In January 2017, Butch announced that he would retire when he turned 70. He was ready to let the reigns go and let a younger, brighter, enthusiastic team of attorneys take over the practice; it was time.

In December 2019, he celebrated his 70th birthday with seventy of his favourite people. Family, friends and colleagues gathered to push the boat out for a milestone in years and labour.

I resigned from the Book club after 38 years to show my enthusiasm and prepare for retirement. I was effectively saying goodbye to my friendship with eleven stalwart women. We hosted our last Drinks Club, and I informed my Bridge school of our imminent departure. Fortunately, the lack of Bridge players in Worcester enabled me to continue at the table. Unbeknownst to us, a virus was brewing in a Petrie dish in China.

On 5th March 2020, our Minister of Health, Zweli Mkhikze, announced the Corona virus’s spread to South Africa. The first known patient was a male citizen who tested positive upon his return from Italy. On 15th March 2020, our President, Cyril Ramaphosa, declared a national state of disaster, and we went into total lockdown.

With that Butch’s dream of retiring went up in smoke for the foreseeable future. Time marched on while we were all left in limbo, and all discussions and negotiations went onto the back burner. As time dragged on, we’d occasionally discuss our future or answer friends’ questions, but their guess was as good as ours.

My neighbour suggested I take up crocheting which I learned using YouTube, and I proceeded to crochet blankets for every knee, bed and settee until I mastered the art of the Granny Square.

Covid 19 took its toll on us. We lost friends to the disease and others from various other terminal illnesses. We have become immune to death and mourning as we privately deal with our loss and sorrow. I pull from my memory bank conversations, laughter, tears, good times and sad when I miss my friends or need their wisdom.

In February this year, retirement negotiations resumed, and sometime in March, Butch marched into the kitchen for lunch, as usual, and announced he’d been given the green light. He was leaving work at the end of April. “This year?” I inquired, taken aback. He rolled his eyes and mumbled, “of course.”

Although delighted his plans were falling into place, I went into a tailspin as the reality of those words sank in. I experienced the same despair when Covid struck and thought I knew what to expect this time.

Immediately we set about getting our ducks in a row. Every afternoon Butch would arrive with cardboard boxes under his arm, and I collected newspapers for wrapping and began packing our lives again.

We gave up our Worcester lock up and go, put our house on the market. Butch sold his beloved Land Cruiser to his son. We started the tedious task of sorting our belongings. Some would go into storage, the garage, filled with camping gear, would be cleared and what could be salvage divided amongst the campers. Bakkie loads of clothes, furniture, books and Tupperware went to charity. My collectables; sticks and stones, feathers and bones had to stay behind this time.

There are boxes marked Onrus, Honey Badger and storage. I’ve selected suitable garments for our African adventure, a few warm things to get me through winter, and a dozen or so favourites pieces I know moths will devour are in storage.

This time it didn’t feel cathartic. Instead, I felt bereft. Those sticks of furniture are precious now. I have kept two of the Dralon chairs and all the vintage crockery! (The chairs have been reupholstered many times!)

Exhausted, bone-weary in a car packed to the rafters with buckets, brooms and borax, I left Worcester at the same time I arrived all those years ago, as the sun set pink over the Brandwacht. Twenty-four years ago, my boy left Worcester on a bright red Vespa to pursue his dreams in the Tech world. Last week his post showed a 42-year-old with a salt and pepper beard. Today my plait is streaked in grey, and a map of my life etches my lined face, yet, laughter lines surround my eyes.

Never would I be classified as a shrinking violet. However, now I suffer sleeplessness, hot flushes, anxiety and a profound sense of loneliness and despair. It takes a good talking and self-motivation to get me out of bed in the morning. I miss my girlfriends, who I cycled and walked with most mornings. Their excitement and enthusiasm made my day, and I would be buoyed up after our early morning hangouts. But as Job said, “you only need three friends!” I sit here and remind myself:  to take life just one day at a time. That’s all the grace we have.

Uncertainty about the future gnarls at me as I over-think scenarios and play out catastrophic scenes in my mind at two in the morning. I worry about my ageing parents, our finances, and our longevity. I doubt one can foster the attachments one does so easily when young. Hopefully,  my friends  will know they meant the world to me. 

Although I love this season of my life, being closer to 70 than 60 shocks me! As a very good friend often said, “I only have seventeen good years left” I realise we might only have seventeen good years left. Time flies, as you know. (Ironically, my friend passed away earlier this year, precisely 17 years after uttering those words.)

Our future will be determined on 1st September this year when our next journey starts as Overlanders and adventurers. How long will we travel? “As long as we have good health, wealth (or rather “money honey”) and the balls for it!” Butch says. 

The struggle’s real and being a Retiree’s spouse is not for sissy’s. Why did no one warn me?