A day to remember...

Twenty years ago today i had a rude awakening – literally and figuratively. My brother and i were lying in my mom’s bed and the telephone ran. We were about to get up to go and visit my dad in the hospital – he had caught some kind of virus. My mom answered the phone, turned around and without saying anything put it down again. I could see something was wrong – i asked her what it was and out of shock she just said: “Pappa is dood”... I was speechless...

Yes, today exactly twenty years ago at 7:20 my dad died. I was nine at the time and knew my life would never be the same again. The rest of the day seems a bit hazy to me. I remember my family coming over, getting a Whippy chocolate bar from my uncle, my mom hugging me and telling me everything is gonna be alright and watching The Jungle Book on video that night.

The next memory i have is sitting on my granny’s bed before the funeral. I was telling myself that i had to be strong and that i wasn’t going to cry at the funeral. I walked out, my great aunt was standing in front of me and said something like: “Ag, die arme kind”... I turned around and burst into tears...

It was only years later that i would realise the full extent of what his death meant in my life. He was my hero and i loved him so very much. I was his special person and he loved me more than anything. He was MY connection in life and i lost it at a very young age. Over the years i have been searching for a similar connection but to no avail.

Still i do believe in keeping his memory alive and sometimes i close my eyes and try to picture his face, remembering little facts about him that i knew or had heard about the past couple of years. Here are a few:

• He could play the piano, accordian and organ.
• He absolutely loved music
• His favourite artists were Neil Diamond and Elvis.
• He walked me down the isle (our living area) on classical music every Sunday, telling me he can’t wait to do this for real one day.
• He was a doctor, he worked in Komani Hospital in Queenstown and the nurses absolutely adored him (they were all black and called him some loving xhosa name i can’t remember).
• He could make a mean stew, but was not very good at small dinners. So when my mom went out and he had to feed us he mashed viennas and onions together and served it on toast.
• He had curly hair but became bald in his early thirties. This made him look a bit like crusty the clown and i loved it.

He died at the age of 38 at 7:20 am on the 26th of March. I would find out years later (at the age of 17) that he did not die of a heartattack, but of alcoholism. I try to tell myself that maybe the world was just not ready for his big heart and loving being. And that he loved me... oh yes, without a doubt – he loved me more than life itself.