Life at the beach turned out to be exactly what we were hoping for when we rushed headlong into our new way of life. Our apartment was just half a kilometre from the beautiful beach, with the lukewarm water of the Indian Ocean changing its vivid palette of turquoise, cyan and aquamarine to a deeper ultramarine, depending on the time of day.
The summer weather played along, and we spent our days walking along the long, long stretches of coarse, golden sand between the cluster of beaches situated between Ifafa and Mtwalume. We swam in the tide pools when the tide was high and hunted for seashells in the shallow pools at low tide. The children even tried their hand at fishing from the beach and the rocks.
Because the area was so remote, we encountered very few people on the beaches, and we only visited the larger towns when we wanted to do some shopping or visit the library. After the hustle and bustle of the city and corporate life, this was exactly what we needed. We could feel our bodies ridding themselves of stress. We became fit as fiddles, and my health improved by leaps and bounds. The less we saw of other people, the happier we were. I think we were born to lead this ascetic lifestyle.
Daniel was the exception: a party animal. Due to his back problems, he found it difficult to move around on the beach using crutches. He kept himself busy with walks in the garden, which had no boundaries to speak of, playing online games on his PC or watching TV. He was, by nature, a very social person, and our outings to the shops and beach restaurants, although welcome, did not satisfy his need for companionship.
Next door, they were busy renovating buildings that looked like a hotel or resort with self-catering units. One day, when I saw a car pull up and a lady start unloading groceries, I went over to introduce myself to Sheila, who turned out to be the new owner of the resort. Within a few minutes of meeting her, I realised that this woman, with her warm and hearty personality, would be an excellent friend for Daniel. I asked for permission to send him over.
I was right. Daniel was at home with Sheila and her family from the start, and now he had an even bigger area to explore with Genis, his lapdog. Sheila understood his need for companionship and allowed him to befriend the workers as well. He helped them to start a herb garden and dished out unsolicited advice about planting fruit trees. In the end, his own family saw very little of him, but we knew he was safe in Sheila’s establishment, which catered mostly for Muslims and was a halal establishment, with the usual restrictions on alcohol. This was the ideal situation for him and for us. I can never thank Sheila enough for her support during the time we were next-door neighbours.
Corné stayed for a few months but eventually had to go back to Johannesburg. Karen and I were also hard at work online, and soon enough we had a few new clients on the books, while still working with Gauteng clients as well. One of those clients planned a charity event and asked us to come to Centurion for a weekend. This was an ideal opportunity for me to visit my mother, and I let her know that we would be there for the weekend just after Mother’s Day in May 2015.
By all indications from my brother and his wife, my mom was doing well in the care facility. I had spoken to her a few times over the telephone, and she sounded quite chirpy and settled, but she was not getting any younger. I really needed this “time out” to let my body and mind rest and heal, and I was therefore grateful for the opportunity to spend some time with her. I promised to bring her the seashells and pebbles that I had collected on our beach, which she was very interested in, and we put together a collage of photos for her.
My brother mentioned during a phone call in the week before that my mom had told him she was waiting for Hannie to come and fetch her. The only Hannie I knew was her much older sister, who had died many decades ago. I scarcely remembered her. This tale worried me a little, but apparently she seemed okay, if perhaps a little muddled. At almost 97 years of age, that much confusion was permissible. My mom still believed in an afterlife and hoped to be reunited with her loved ones who had gone before.
When our plane landed late on the Friday afternoon, there was an SMS from my sister-in-law urging me to go straight to the care facility. I did. It appeared that my mom had started sinking into a coma unexpectedly during the afternoon and was no longer responsive. I tried to speak to her, pleading with her to open her eyes, but there was no response. Then I saw the big drops of sweat forming on her face and dripping down her neck. I unrolled the thick scarf and opened the buttons of the bed jacket her soaking body was dressed in. She immediately started shivering with cold, and I put her clothes back on. I felt so helpless, but what could I do?
The medical staff at the nearby nurse’s station confirmed my suspicion that she would not wake up again. Although they were convinced that she was fading away, they declined to predict how long she could remain in this same condition. I was in a predicament because I had to drive Karen to Pretoria for the event and book her into the hotel. I decided to take a chance and drop her off, then come back to the facility.
Upon arrival at the hotel, I received a call—my mother had passed away during that short half an hour that I was away from her bed.
I had looked after my mother for so many years that I was almost convinced she would live well past the 100-year mark. Yet, when I left her for a few months, she went into a coma and died. Worst of all, she died with strangers around her bed, with me less than half an hour’s drive away from her.
I wondered, for a fleeting moment, whether Hannie had indeed come to fetch her in the end, but I have always been a non-believer and shook off that thought immediately.
I didn’t cry then. I don’t think that I ever cried for my mother. But I also don’t think I ever stopped grieving for my mother. I was just getting used to this kind of shit in my life. Leaving her alone at her dying moment was just another one of those bad decisions I’ve made throughout my life, and one more thing to feel guilty about.
I read an article written by a hospice worker the other day. She mentioned that many patients appear to wait until loved ones step out of the room before passing away, as if consciously or instinctively waiting for solitude so their family is spared the distress of watching them take their final breath. Many individuals also talk about seeing or travelling with deceased relatives in their final moments.
Maybe one should not dwell too much on these situations, but it is an interesting observation, and I can’t help wondering if she was even aware that I was there that day.
At the end of 2015, Louis and his family joined us for a joyful family holiday. Daniel and I met our little granddaughter for the first time. It was also the first Christmas in a long time that we spent together as a whole family unit, with all three of our children and our only grandchild under one roof.
At the end of that year, we extended our rental contract for another year. There was still so much to see and do, and we thought we owed ourselves another year's holiday.
Featured photo: AI-stylised photo of seagulls on Umzumbe Beach, KZN Lower South Coast
Afrikaans: https://thebraidedecho.co.za/af/2026/09/07/lewe-by-die-see-het-ons-geheel/