An Impasse At The Crossroads

Honestly, where I’m going with this story is anyone’s guess, but I want to share my reflections to connect and inspire.

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 build a new “grown-up” life, and I was going to live my dream—as a Mama.

The sun was setting behind the Brandwacht mountains. It was midsummer, 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 in the back seat, watched over by my other “baby”, Cherie, our miniature Maltese poodle, who’d gone from Top Dog to Underdog in the family.

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

A depressing, face-brick, dull-white institutional 1960s building squatted before me; these were the Doctor’s quarters and would be our new home for a year. Despite the bleak surroundings, we settled in, a process that can inspire others facing tough beginnings.

We were young hopefuls, my husband animated by the prospects ahead. I had the maternity blues; anything, whether happy or sad, could turn the taps on.

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 mum had be’ed at an auction, a washing machine without a drum, also bought at 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 shifted from having 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 at 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 dispensed advice liberally. Eight years later, my daughter and our fourth child were 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 form teams for cricket, touch rugby or football. They built soapbox carts, raced, tumbled and scraped their knees, bruised their shins, and got stitched up. On hot summer afternoons, a dozen or more children would come over to swim and play Marco Polo. I prepared enormous pots of spaghetti bolognese, made hot dogs and burgers to fill hungry tummies, scooped ice cream cones, and poured cool Oros drinks on hot days.

All around me, neighbourhood friends helped and contributed, showing how a village raises a child and strengthens bonds.

The children attended the local schools and were well-liked, intelligent, and sporty. With our encouragement and support, they did well academically; all were prefects, played for the first team, and even earned 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 reluctantly, and my husband went on annual hunting and fishing trips with his friends. His golf handicap improved dramatically. Later, he completed his master’s degree in Medicine. I joined the Book Club, the Gardening Club, and the Herb Club.

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

Around the bridge table, I forged strong friendships with women much older and wiser than me. 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 worked for my husband in his private practice, with me as his nurse and receptionist, handling the accounts. Those were fulfilling, fun days.

I attended cooking and sewing classes, learned 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” shop for his wardrobe.

We kept up appearances, grew complacent, arrogant, and entitled; we led separate lives. Much like today’s 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 recognise or deal with 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, draining divorce, we divided the furniture, set up two homes, and rebuilt our lives as single parents. Losing 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’d sent to the Church Bazaar. That was too punishing.

I dealt with my anguish in the only way I could. I wrote, kept a diary, made lists of people I needed to forgive, and burned 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 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, affecting friendships, family, and acquaintances, and dominating 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.

Juggling a busy household and a catering business kept me occupied and filled an emotional chasm. A semblance of normality 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 then, they had become au fait, disguising their anguish and the insecurity change brings. Heartbroken, they accepted the status quo and, seemingly, forged ahead, completing 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 the searing heartache are my constant companions. The scab on this welt is continually picked at, 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, armloads of clothes on coat hangers, and we set up a home together. My daughter benefited from this arrangement, and having a father figure around grounded her while letting her 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 helped me let go when I felt 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, rebuild our lives, and come to terms with the loss of our hard-won independence. Sometimes we had to remind ourselves what we were letting ourselves in for. Forewarned is forearmed.

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

We went from sharing seven children to twelve (including spouses) and seven grandchildren, ranging in age 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 been repeatedly shouting, “bye, Oumaricha!” 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 brief Facebook announcement saying 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 extensive research, we purchased our Isuzu truck. We had the conversion done by AC Motorhomes after a disastrous first attempt to do it ourselves, in collaboration with an engineer who’d volunteered to manage the project.

Butch and I became keen photographers, joined photographic clubs, and took part regularly 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 write about our adventures and misadventures; I tell stories like this one, express my thoughts and experiences, 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 step down 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 mark the milestone of years and labour.

I resigned from the Book Club after 38 years to show my enthusiasm and to prepare for retirement. I was effectively saying goodbye to my friendship with eleven stalwart women. We hosted our last Drinks Club, and I told my Bridge school that we were leaving soon. Fortunately, the lack of Bridge players in Worcester meant I could keep playing. Unbeknownst to us, a virus was brewing in a Petri dish in China.

On 5th March 2020, our Minister of Health, Zweli Mkhize, announced that the coronavirus had spread to South Africa. The first known patient was a male citizen who tested positive after returning 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, leaving us all in limbo, and all discussions and negotiations were put on 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 learnt on YouTube, and I proceeded to crochet blankets for every knee, bed and settee until I mastered the Granny Square.

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

In February this year, retirement negotiations resumed. 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 asked, taken aback. He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Of course.”

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

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

We gave up our Worcester lock-up and went, putting 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 salvaged would be 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 items to get me through winter, and a dozen favourite pieces that I know moths will devour are in storage.

This time it didn’t feel cathartic. Instead, I felt bereft. Those pieces 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 and bone-weary, I left Worcester in a car packed to the rafters with buckets, brooms, and borax, at the same time I had 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 with 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. Yet now I suffer from sleeplessness, hot flushes, anxiety, and a profound sense of loneliness and despair. It takes a good talking-to and self-motivation to get me out of bed in the morning. I miss my girlfriends, with whom I cycled and walked most mornings. Their excitement and enthusiasm made my day, and I felt 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 gnaws at me as I overthink scenarios and replay catastrophic scenarios in my mind at two in the morning. I worry about my ageing parents, our finances, and our longevity. I doubt I can form the attachments I did so easily when I was 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, exactly 17 years after saying those words.)

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

The struggle’s real, and being a Retiree’s spouse is no walk in the park. Why did no one warn me?