I was doing pre-sales solution architecture and working for an American outsource company. I travelled all over Europe for my job and spent about 80% of my time away from home. Married, no kids. Six wonderful cats and two dogs welcomed me home ecstatically after every business trip. My husband who worked in IT also travelled a lot – although mostly in Africa. We were doing OK financially and we decided to try for a baby. It didn’t go too well initially, and with my fortieth birthday coming up, we decided to consult a fertility specialist for help.
I had a long trip to Portugal coming up and we spent the week-end before my trip scuba diving in Mozambique. It was an idyllic few days – making love on the beach, eating fresh seafood every day, diving in the quiet clear and warm Indian Ocean waters surrounded by the most colourful array of marine animals you can wish for. I was looking forward to my trip as I had fallen in love with Portugal, made good friends there and was working on an exciting deal. My Portuguese was improving with every trip and I was feeling confident and secure in myself, in my relationship and in my job.
My husband dropped me off at the airport – a bit unusual for us, because I normally got a limousine to the airport. But this time he drove me, did not only drop me off but he parked the car and walked me in. He waited for me to pass through the gates and waved at me. I will never forget the picture he struck – suntanned, lean, strong and tall. He had a crooked little smile on his face, sort of “I had a really good time with you, come back soon” – and I felt a bit of a glow – it seemed as if the rough spot in our ten year old marriage was over now and I was looking forward to new beginnings – a baby, a closer relationship with my man and lots of diving in the warm waters off the coast of Africa.
As I settled back into the business class seat and ordered a seafood cocktail for starters, I really felt like I had the world at my feet.
My trip had gone well and I was spending the Friday afternoon clearing up a few loose ends at the office before going back to my hotel to get ready for dinner with friends in Cascais. I had confirmed my seat on a flight to Johannesburg the next evening and was looking forward to a bit of sight seeing the next day before going home . The Sunday was going to be Mother’s Day and I had just finished two calls to my Mom and my husband, making arrangements for a lunch at our house. I liked having my arrangements in place like this – made me feel very organised and good about myself. I made a mental note for myself to pick up a really good bottle of Port at duty free and started closing my laptop. One of my colleagues invited me for a coffee in the kitchen and I was chatting away idly when someone ran into the kitchen with my ringing cell phone in hand. It seems that it had been ringing a couple of times. When I answered a strange man’s voice on the other end told me that my husband had been shot in a carjacking and that he was lying in our driveway at home – wounded gravely.
They were waiting for a helicopter to airlift my husband to the nearest hospital, and EM Ts were attending to him. He had taken about seven AK47 rounds all over his body and shortly before losing consciousness my husband had asked a bystander to please call me. I remember listening to the voice as if it was the sound track in a movie playing in the background. At first I thought he had the wrong person, but he confirmed my husband’s name and address, so I was certain. I didn’t believe it could be serious – the man had said that my husband managed to call for help on his cell phone – so he can’t be injured too badly. I ignored the fact of the seven AK47 bullets in his neck, both legs, his stomach, his shoulder. I had earlier in the day told my colleagues about the car jackings in Johannesburg – and almost bragged about how tough we South Africans were to remain – carrying fire arms to protect ourselves and living behind high electric fences. I could remember thinking that these little Portuguese people must be really timid to be so scared of a few carjackers. They had all asked me why we stayed, and I said we were not going to give our country away to criminals – we would stay and fight for what is ours. They had shaken their heads in disbelief and I had considered them weak. Although I had been careful not to say anything, I was sure they could read my superior body language. My Portuguese had been improving, but I was unable to follow most of the excited conversation that broke out after I told my coffee-drinking companion in the kitchen what the call had been about. He ran out of the room to tell the country manager. A few moments later one of the older women in the office brought me a cup of sugared water and she lead me back to my desk.
My warm-hearted colleagues took over all the arrangements. They tried to get me a seat on a plane out that evening, but there were no empty seats last thing on a Friday afternoon. They notified my boss in London and he tried to get the company jet to fetch me, but the jet was in Dallas and it would take too long to get to Portugal. My Portuguese colleagues were calling airlines, trying to get me on a flight out of the country as soon as possible. At last they decided that the first flight out of Madrid the next morning at 5h10 was do-able, if someone drove me to Spain through the night. They calculated that I could catch a connecting flight to Belgium and then onward to Johannesburg which would get me into Johannesburg in about 24 hours.
I was in a daze but at the same time in strong denial about the severity of my husband’s injuries. My colleagues drove me to my hotel where I hastily packed and the long trip to Spain started in a red Alpha – borrowed from the country manager because it was the fastest car in the company. Getting to Madrid was a long drive – we could waste no time if I wanted to be on that first flight the next morning just after five. My colleague drove like a racing car driver, stopping only once for a comfort break and two long cups of espresso. We talked a bit from time to time, but mostly I was in my own private little purgatory. I made a few calls through the night to the hospital and learnt that my husband had been taken to theatre for surgery. About seven hours later I managed to get the surgeon on the phone – he was exhausted and told me that things did not look good. He said my husband would likely lose one leg, that he was unconscious from possible brain injury and that he had entered a stage of multiple organ shut – down. His one lung had collapsed, he had suffered liver and kidney failure. They were trying to pull him through, but his odds of survival were about one percent. I heard the news stoically, not crying. I just wanted to get home in time to see him one more time.
I made the flight, had a few more calls with the doctors – all of which pointed in the direction of my husband’s imminent demise. As I settled back into the seat after take-off from Brussels,c a sympathetic stewardess brought me a cup of tea and some tissues. By that time I had found my tears, and they would not stop. I had been moved to the back row of the business class seats and the other passengers respectfully gave me some privacy. I asked the pilot to contact the hospital for me, but he was unable to do so and I endured the nine and a half hour flight not knowing what news awaited me on the ground.
As soon as we touched down, I was whisked through customs and my brother in law anxiously awaited me at the side exit. He did not wait for my question but immediately said that my husband was still alive – barely. He would drive me to the hospital immediately. Another car journey with flashing lights and travelling at great speed got me to the hospital. The ICU in the basement was quiet, only the sound of life support equipment could be heard. When I saw my husband I did not recognise him. There were tubes coming out of him, he had bandages on his neck and every limb, he was on a respirator and heart monitor. His beard had been shaved off and he was bruised, full of wounds and he did not respond to my voice at all. I realised then that I this was probably going to be farewell.
OK folks, time for me to go. I will finish the lead – up to my diagnosis with cancer in the next blog. I hope this context tells you about me and my family, gives you context for where we came from.
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