2007 – 2010 | The Silent Exhaustion of Learning to Live Together as a Family

We used to enjoy relaxing and de-stressing on the weekends and we tried to involve the two new members of the family. Exhaustion and caregiver stress derailed our efforts to learn to live together as a family. I barely noticed how close I was to breaking point myself.

The children and I had to be up at five in the morning to shower and get dressed for work on weekdays. By six, we were already in traffic on our way to Johannesburg city centre, where we worked until four. Then we would trudge back 50 km in traffic to be home by six. In winter, we rarely saw the sun during the day.

Daniel and Samuel were busy all day in the garden, which they had really transformed into a paradise. Emmy and my mother kept themselves busy in the house. Emmy did cleaning and kept “grandma” company. This was her main job. My mother read, worked on handicrafts, listened to music and liked to watch TV. Both Samuel and Emmy’s working day stretched from eight to three. This meant that there were certain hours in the day that Daniel had to look after my mother’s safety. He also cooked the food.

Weekends were Daniel’s “time off”. I didn’t have an official break, but then again, after all those years of being a housewife, raising children and earning a living, I was used to this kind of life. Thousands of South African women were in the same position, and my only condition was that Daniel relax with the family on weekends. For him, there were no rugby matches and hangouts with barflies.

When we could squeeze in some time on Saturdays or Sundays, we would drive around the area. We liked visiting nurseries to look at plants or to spend time in nature. There was a nature reserve near us, and many a weekend we would go to see the animals that were kept free in the wild, or barbecue in the picnic area.

Just a short distance away was a bird park where we could walk around and feed the birds.

We were close to the farmers’ market where we bought vegetables and packets of sweet biscuits on Saturdays, attended reptile exhibitions, ate at the restaurant or fed the donkeys. Here, where Daniel was constantly under our eyes, we drank home-brewed beer together. There was still a ban on alcohol in our house.

Over time, we started to include my mom in these outings, knowing that the short driving distances would not exhaust her.

Our family also expanded a bit. In addition to Ollie, who was with us for many years, and Bazil, who became part of our family in 2007, Tina, an Alsatian cross of uncertain origin, Genis, a cross between a Jack Russell and a Maltese poodle, and Ponsie, the cat who was born in a storm drain, took up residence in our home. This was the furry part of our family. Then there were also a bunch of feathered creatures that made nests in our trees outside in the garden, and two pigeons that made themselves at home on the curtain rods inside the house. There were laughing doves, sparrows, finches, rock doves, woodpeckers, buzzards and a family of bats that expected us to help raise their young. My mother, in particular, enjoyed this wide variety of life around her.

But when I was at work during the week, things didn’t always go so smoothly, and Daniel was the one living soul in the house that my mother couldn’t keep the peace with. Virtually every afternoon, when we got home from work, there was a full-scale war in process. Imagine what it feels like to walk through the front door on a hot summer afternoon after a 50 km struggle through Johannesburg traffic, and to the left of the door is your mother, hissing like a puff adder: “He’s a rude bully! He shouted at me again!” On the right, your ex-husband lets loose with a counter-barrage of: “She picked the pomegranate flowers again. She knows I’m trying to break last year’s record. And I grow the fruit especially for you!”

Daniel grew the biggest, sweetest pomegranates, weighing a kilogram or more, and then he would break them open for me in a bowl so that I could just scoop out handfuls and stuff them into my mouth to enjoy. Why does she always pick the flowers of that particular tree? There were other red flowers too. But my mother is almost 90 years old now, and maybe she is growing forgetful. “Lord, give me mercy,” the heathen prays, but mercy is scarce, and all I want to do is throw my heavy handbag down on the couch and shuffle to the toilet, knees together, before my bladder explodes. But there I am in the middle, and now I have to play justice of the peace, because both insist on making their case.

“Mom, why are you picking the flowers of the pomegranate tree? You know that if you pick the flowers, there won’t be any pomegranates in the summer.”

“Yes, but I wanted to put the pretty red flowers on the dining room table for you to see how beautiful they look.” And then the tears flow.

“She’s just spiteful, that’s what!” And indignation emphasises every word.

When I refused to take sides, my mother would retreat into her bedroom, close the door and the curtains. No access. Daniel would sulk in front of the TV. Then I would open my computer and start working. It was one way of creating time for myself. I could never understand why they felt the need to compete for my time and attention. To be quite honest, I would have loved to have my house to myself and my children, which is what I intended when I bought it in the first place. I know, that sounds very selfish, but that is all I wanted.

At work, we were busy with another restructuring – for the umpteenth time. Then you have to apply for your own position again and explain why you are needed in that position. “If you don’t know by now how much my services are worth to you, you will never know!” That’s what you want to scream, but you stay silent, because you are the one whose salary keeps the household running, who buys the food, who puts petrol in the car. You stay silent and swallow the humble pie, because you are afraid you will lose your job, your income and your medical aid.

My medical aid. My lifeline. I finished my hormone treatment and did not feel any better. No one remembered that I had cancer anymore, and no one ever talked about it, except to encourage me to lose weight. As if it were that easy. Swallow the last pill and get thin. You are healthy now. Except for the migraines that are back and tormenting me. Except for my blood pressure, which is getting higher and higher, and my doctor's warnings against strokes and heart attacks. I weigh over 90 kg, and my feet swell up like balloons. At night, I can’t sleep, and I shuffle around the kitchen table trying to ease the cramps in my legs.

I sit in the garden by the back door at night after dark and listen to my teeth chattering as I try to ward off another panic attack. Dear God, I’m so tired.

One morning, I came across my mother in the hallway and stared as if frozen at the bloody bag hanging under one of her eyes. I called out to Karen. “Call the doctor, I think Grandma had a stroke.”

AI-stylised image of a pomegranate flower and fruit.