2021–2022 | A New Normal, Until Death Changed Everything

A new normal, until death changed everything. Every time we thought we were living just a normal life, life made a U-turn and our normal changed.

Even after the operation in May 2021 to cauterise the bleeders in my nose and straighten my deviated septum, I still suffered from occasional nosebleeds, a blocked nose and chronic ear infections. I was still unable to breathe properly.

After my third replacement grommet, a vicious earache landed me in the trauma centre of the same private hospital where I had previously spent those few days in the freezing cold surgical wing, waiting for my COVID test results. It was just after eight o'clock on a busy Saturday night. All the pharmacies were closed, and I could not get hold of my GP or ENT.

The ER doctor was in a bad mood. So was I. He seemed to think I was just another junkie trying to con the staff into supplying free drugs. All I wanted was relief from the piercing pain in my ear. I played my ace card and called my medical aid's after-hours helpline to report him. I got my drugs, and on Monday morning, I received another grommet.

I insisted that they repeat all previous tests and scans. I knew my body. I knew my rights. Something was wrong, and I could feel the Wolf breathing down my neck. This time, my GP included a test for a lung infection. The results were negative. I was not happy.

After my GP and oncologist consulted, they referred me to a thoracic surgeon. Driving outside your normal residential area was still restricted due to COVID, so I had to apply for a permit and arrange for extra petrol to drive to a hospital in Umhlanga for an appointment.

I booked Karen into a hotel for two days while I underwent a lung tap and pleural fluid analysis. They drained two and a half litres of fluid from around my lungs, and at last, I could breathe freely. The test results were predictably negative.

Still, I could feel my health declining. I had no energy, and I wasn't about to give up looking for the cause of my loss of joie de vivre. Luckily for me, I had an oncologist who believed in her patient's sixth sense. This time, she arranged a PET scan, also at the hospital in Umhlanga.

This time, the results were not negative. They found the cancer that had quietly metastasised to my pelvic bone. Further targeted blood tests confirmed that my cancer marker was elevated. Stage 4 breast cancer.

I knew what this meant. No cure.

My oncologist now had to determine the most appropriate treatment for my particular type of cancer. She needed to be certain of what we were dealing with before deciding how best to control the disease and manage my care for the rest of my life.

At the outset, I decided to keep this information private. Outside my immediate family circle, I informed only my closest friends.

Writing down these words now is the first time I am openly admitting that the Wolf had bitten my arse. Again.

My reason was simple: I refused to let cancer rule my life.

I had had enough of cancer during the two decades since my first diagnosis. In 2021, I still did not want to talk about cancer, listen to stories of other people suffering and dying from cancer, or receive unsolicited advice about cancer.

And most boring of all, I did not want to spend my time trying to guess my dying date. My crystal ball was broken. So was my doctor's.

I am making this diagnosis known now because this is a life journal, and the information belongs in the timeline. I still do not want to talk about cancer.

I will say this much: I am not convinced that the cancer itself will be the direct cause of my death. A serious infection or illness, such as pneumonia or influenza, is also a concern because the cancer and its treatment can affect my immunity.

Whatever. I will die when the time comes, or when I decide that I have had enough. Until then, I intend to live the best life I can.

My oncologist prescribed hormonal treatment for my HR-positive, HER2-negative metastatic breast cancer. The treatment was intended to interfere with the oestrogen signals that encouraged the cancer cells to multiply. As soon as I started treatment at the end of July 2021, I began to feel better. Before long, we were able to return to our previous lifestyle.

Whenever anyone asked about my health over the following five years, we simply said that I was receiving hormonal treatment. Which happened to be the truth.

In the aftermath of the diagnosis, I decided to prepare my family for a life without me. I started by reviewing the whole family's last wills and testaments. I arranged the wills like a set of dominoes, effectively disinheriting myself and Daniel in the process. I wanted my children to have access to and control over the money they would need to look after their father when I was no longer around.

I know that many people will advise you not to place all your assets at your children's disposal before your death. I suppose that makes sense if you have a lot of money. And greedy children. I decided to trust my children.

Given my cancer history, I expected to die first. But that was not to be. Death had other plans

We had started having problems with leaks in the thatched roof of our unit, so I signed a lease for another unit with a solid thatched roof covered with Harvey tiles. Two weeks before we were due to move into the new unit, a heavy rainstorm hit.

The roof started leaking again. Daniel slipped on the wet bathroom tiles, fell and broke his hip. We called an ambulance, and within half an hour, he was admitted to the trauma centre of the provincial hospital. He was heavily sedated but in a good mood and full of jokes. We saw him twice during the day, and the doctor promised that he would be scheduled for a hip replacement the following day.

Just after five o'clock the next morning, Karen woke me up. As his next of kin according to the hospital records, she had received a call informing her that her father had passed away an hour earlier.

She demanded that I call the hospital and tell them they were mistaken. I did call, but only to make an appointment to view his body at eight o'clock the following morning. After so many decades together, your whole being knows.

It was two days before Louis's birthday and two weeks before Christmas. The children were devastated.

A sympathetic doctor who knew Daniel's medical history explained that even a successful operation might have meant many more years of pain and discomfort for him. We all agreed that Daniel would have preferred an early death to that prospect.

So started yet another "normal". Corné wanted us to move to Gauteng to live with him, but he was renting a tiny little apartment.

Karen and I decided to carry on with the plans we had already made. I had signed the lease on the new unit for another year, and we would move there in 2023 as planned. So, despite everything that had happened, nothing changed immediately. We remained in KZN.

We moved into our new unit in 2023 and stayed there for another year before eventually moving to Gauteng in 2024.

Life had once again taken an unexpected turn. I had spent much of 2021 preparing my family for a future without me. Instead, Daniel was gone, and Karen and I were the ones who had to figure out what came next.

For the moment, though, we had a home, a roof over our heads, and a plan.

Sometimes, that was enough.

Thus ended the year 2022.

Featured photo: AI-stylised photo of myself and Daniel circa 2020