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Lawrence Kamwi Correspondent
IT is a day that completely changed my life. A decade later, I continue to view life in experimental and ever-changing shades.
Once upon a time, I believed that my “flight plan” was neatly drawn out.
Yes, I knew that I would encounter occasional headwinds, crosswinds and other inclement weather conditions.
Yet, I had also been through many clear skies, which promote good visibility and smooth flying. However, I never once prepared for an emergency or crash landing. Perhaps, I could say I overlooked the possibility of human error and its consequences as I immersed myself in my flight plan.
I am still trying to accept my errors and believe Martin Luther King Jr’s words that “only in the darkness can you see the stars.”
Two things, maybe three, tug at my heartstrings, every time the month of September comes around.
The first is that on the night of September 10, 2006, my wife remained in hospital, although she seemed to have recovered sufficiently to return home.
The second and most searing is that on the morning of the 11th, at about 9:30am, I was called to the hospital because efforts were being made to “artificially revive her” after she had collapsed.
Try as hard as I can, I have failed to understand the “overnight” change in my wife’s condition.
I have derived some strength from Pastor Rick Warren who counsels that it is not possible to get answers to all our questions in this life.
“Surrender it all to the Lord,” is his refrain. The third source of pain is the hint that I “hid” my wife’s illness.
Ten years ago, I lost my precious wife, Priscilla.
She was my best friend, adviser, confidant, a source of encouragement and proud mother to our three children. She left us in the wink of an eye.
Yes, the years preceding her death were equally baffling and enervating. I lost my dear mother-in-law in February 2003.
I tried to comfort my wife and to have her understand that “death” is a part of our lives.
As I took on the role of comforter, I kept fighting the overwhelming realisation that we cannot get used to death.
As I spoke to my wife, I observed that it is impossible to become inure to the Grim Reaper because of the numbers of deaths we have come across.
As we struggled to come to terms with the loss of Gogo Marufu, in May 2004, we had to say goodbye to Gogo Kamwi.
Then, I needed the comfort.
I “forgot” the advice, which I had shared, with my wife.
Her carefully chosen and loving words then did not make sense.
We soldiered on after the two tragedies, supported by the Almighty, Merciful and Ever-faithful Creator.
He knows our most intimate needs before we give expression to them.
In December 2005, I visited my father in Bulawayo, after concluding a business trip to Esigodini.
He was recovering from diabetes.
The process involved a change in his diet.
While generally receptive to the treatment regime, he joked about the size of teacup that served as a measure of how much sadza/isitshwala to take.
Besides that, he assured me that he felt some improvement in his health.
He walked me to the car.
It would be the last farewell.
In early 2006, my sisters phoned to advise that my dad had collapsed; they found him face down in the lounge where he read his newspapers and watched the early TV news bulletin without fail.
I was in Harare.
I asked my sisters to rush him to Mater Dei Hospital.
Later that day, I arrived at the hospital to see my father with all kinds of tubes attached to his body.
What hurt most was discovering that he could not recognise us and could not speak.
It was a strange and frightening sight.
I wept. Something said to me “this was the moment of separation.”
Thankfully, his neurosurgeon was frank with the family.
He explained that my father had suffered a massive stroke that affected more than half his brain.
My dad succumbed to the stroke on the same day that former Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon had one.
The neurosurgeon knew about “my relationship with the political world.”
He was thus quick to caution that I should not compare Sharon’s case with my father’s.
The doctor explained that, because of his position, Sharon would be “kept alive” for as long as possible.
In my father’s case, even with the best available care, the doctor was quick to underline the heavy odds they were battling.
True to the neurosurgeon’s observations, Sharon only died after an eight-year battle for his life.
My father left us after only a month — never having regained his cognitive abilities.
It was a strange world that I had to deal with, entering that hospital ward and knowing that we would not have any communication.
Our cold comfort was in taking turns to feed him, this being the only real and treasured connection that we felt.
I have written elsewhere about how my siblings and I were “insulated” from the experience and pain of death from an early age.
When my mother-in-law passed away in 2003, I was a ripe 38 years of age.
Now, when I look back, I ask myself whether losing all these special people in my life was “preparation” for the final blow still to come.
My father died in February 2006.
On September 6, 2006, while driving home from work, I received a call that my wife had collapsed at home.
My children made the distress call with their phone on “speaker mode” so that they would all speak at the same time, each giving me a version of what had happened.
It was hard to listen because the reports were drowned by constant sobs.
Once again, I was to experience an outlandish situation when I got home.
My wife had regained consciousness and was asking to be drenched in cold water.
It got worse because she then asked for ice cubes in the water we were “pouring over” her. With time, we rushed her to the Trauma Centre where the quick advice was that we should take her to the Avenues Clinic instead.
The doctor, who first examined her, pronounced almost without hesitation, that it was pulmonary embolism, the result of deep vein thrombosis.
I knew the words; I probably had read a story or two about the causes, especially, on long-haul flights.
Tests were quickly done and the doctor’s almost clairvoyant initial observation was confirmed.
My wife was admitted; difficult thing to accept but more frightening was how to tell the children.
She was put on heparin to dissolve the clots in her leg.
It was also hopefully that the blocked airways to her heart would be cleared.
It was my wife’s wish that only two of her best friends from her church’s Mothers Union should be told about her admission.
In addition, I would tell my in-laws in Harare (a brother and sister). I was lucky to have my young brother visiting.
However, I also broke the news to two workmates, one in the President’s Secretariat and the other in the First Lady’s Office since I headed both sections.
Our shortcoming, MY (?) shortcoming, was to assume that the worst was behind us.
She coughed, her voice was almost gone and she breathed with the aid of an oxygen mask.
She did not care much for the TV set that was a diversionary tactic. She still asked after the children.
“You must be strong for the children,” she would say to me.
And in almost banter-form, I would respond “you should be strong for the children because they need you back home.”
Speaking to my respected elder, Father Fidelis Mukonori, he sought to assure me by saying I had done well to listen to my wife’s wishes. Not that we were able to keep visitors to the minimum she requested. A thousand times, no. The Church stood firmly by our side in that hour of need.
We watched as she made promising progress. Regrettably, X-Rays could not be performed on her because she was in her first trimester of pregnancy. On Sunday, the 10th of September 2006, we thought she had made commendable progress, maybe, complete progress. She was effervescent, cracking jokes.
She was the Priscilla we all knew, the Priscilla I met in 1988.
Even as we drove home after the evening visit, my young brother asked why “maiguru” was still in hospital. The answer would come in cruel fashion on Monday the 11th of September 2006. Our hopes were dashed; we lost our bearings in life and up to this day, we ask, why?
The defibrillators and oxygen tanks that are part of many TV medical dramas were a nightmarish scene to watch.
For the 20 minutes, I stood helplessly, trying to sing R. Kelly’s “You Saved Me,” in my mind.
Not long after, I would start a journey for which I had not prepared, namely, that of being a single parent. Many things change in an instant, not least, one’s goals and aspirations.
And the great African-American writer, Frederick Douglass, summarises it well in, “it is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”
I believed that; it got me into trouble. I will explain.
Online Reporter