Kristi and I leave her waiting for our bags and tumble, wheezing (the altitude in Johannesburg is punishing when you first land), into the taxi. “Milpark Hospital,” I say. “Take us to Milpark Hospital, fast!” I explain breathlessly that my eldest daughter is being prepped for a lung transplant and I have to get there, fast! The driver looks horrified.
It is 4:30 pm and the road from the airport is thick with bumper-to-bumper traffic. This is normal in Johannesburg for this time of day but made worse because of the large storm and dark moody skies overhead. The driver radios into his office. “Central, central, come in. Switch off the tracking system,” he says. “I have an emergency.” And just like that our taxi driver switches on his hazard lights, pulls across into the yellow emergency lane on the far left of the four-lane highway, puts his hand on the hooter and floors it.
I phone Stuart. He speaks gently and quietly. I can hear he is near Jenna and trying to keep the mood calm and low-key. “She is nearly ready, Gabs,” he says, “but there is a minor delay with the delivery of organs. So that is good for you. Just get here safely. I think you’ll make it.”
Eight hours after the first phone call from Stuart, at about 5 pm, we skid to a stop in the drop-off zone right outside the Milpark Hospital entrance. Kristi and I scramble out of the taxi and run down the long passage that leads from the entrance hall towards the Surgical ICU. Down the stairs, to the left, through the double doors and down another passage right to the end and through the double no-entry glass doors at the back that read ISOLATION WARD. We push them open, there are nurses everywhere. Kristi reaches for my arm, we look each other straight in the eyes, stop for a moment, and take deep, deep breaths. In unspoken agreement we leave our frantic despair and fear in the passage and walk into Jen’s room calm and steady.
We all fall into each other’s arms. Relief at seeing Jen floods through me. I just want to hold her. Kristi and I perch on the edge of her hospital bed as she tells us in her gentle breathless voice all about the adventures of the day. But in true Jen fashion she wants to hear Kristi’s Plett Rage stories too, not just talk about “the call”. I am so grateful that James has been there for her. He makes her happy and he has taken a lot of the angst out of the day. Now he respectfully steps aside and allows Kristi and me our time with Jen. It is the first time I’ve heard Kristi talk for just about the entire day. I let the two sisters chat and giggle quietly, while I check in with Stuart and Lizzie on the side. They are ready, the medical team is ready. Her new lungs haven’t arrived yet, but they are on a plane (from where we don’t know) and on their way.
It is time. Time to get our Jen into surgery.
Everything we have been working so hard towards and waiting so hopefully for culminates in this moment. It is emotionally unfathomable, a moment in time so poignant and massive that you can’t possibly know how to deal with it, so you just do.
Now it’s time to say a pre-surgery goodbye. Stuart, Kristi, James, Lizzie and I walk next to Jen in her hospital bed, all holding her hands, as she is wheeled into the pre-surgery area. My heart is racing but my face is calm and encouraging, my voice gentle and considered. There is so much fear that can’t be shown. We all have our brave faces on.
We kiss and hug one last time. Jenna is looking straight up at me, smiling, a smile full of courage and hope. I stroke her soft velvet cheek and kiss it one last time before the nurses pull her bed away from me towards the double doors that read THEATRE. The bed bumps the doors open.
I call out, “See you on the other side, my love.”
Jenna calls back over her shoulder, “I’m not going to the other side, Mom.” She is smiling encouragingly as the doors close behind her.
Part 1
CHAPTER 1
Profound joy
Nothing could have prepared me for the profound joy of becoming a mother.
I come from a long line of formidable women, who moulded my life in ways that I wasn’t cognisant of until I became a mother myself. As a young girl, I remember visiting my great-grandmother and being grotesquely fascinated that anyone could live to be so old they literally looked like a walnut. She died of old age at 102, just one of many of the strong women in our lineage. Oma, my father’s mother, was saintly, strong and fearless. She cooked large pots of nutritious soup to deliver to the South African townships during the riots in the mid-’80s, and allowed me to eat large spoonfuls of raw cake mixture out of the bowl when we baked. I loved her nurturing energy. Granny, my mother’s mom, was a colourful character, in complete contrast to Oma. She ran a ballroom dancing studio and, in the 1950s, hosted a nightclub for “the ducktails” twice a week – to the horror of many at a time when most women didn’t work. She was glamorous, bold and feisty, and undoubtedly a better grandmother to me than mother to my mom. I found her entertaining and interesting.
My mother had a significant impact on my life, but it was only when I became a mother myself that I started to understand and acknowledge just how significant the roles were that she and those other women played. Strong, bright, striking and outspoken, my mother Ann was a real go-getter, an independent working mother, well known as a consultant in her field of public relations and deeply admired by many. She had high standards and high expectations and she loved us fiercely.
I grew up, a much-loved child, in the leafy suburbs of Cape Town with my parents and my protective older brother Craig. My parents were gregarious and progressive in their thinking. My dad, Rein, was a social being who loved people and was loved in return. In his eyes I was “flawless”. After school, I did a Bachelor of Arts at the University of Cape Town. At 20 years old I had a degree and I was ready and eager to explore the world.
In 1984 I travelled outside South Africa for the first time, an experience during which I gained a much-needed broader perspective of the world. It helped me become more aware of my privilege and the protected upbringing I had had. Growing up during the apartheid era meant I’d had little contact with anyone who was not similar to me. It was humbling and important to be exposed to international commentary for the first time. Two years later, when I went back to visit my beloved home town, I took nothing for granted. I noticed the beauty of Cape Town with a heightened appreciation.
I also noticed Stuart Lowe. We’d known each for years, but now I looked at this young man with new eyes. At 25 he was intelligent, charming and attractive, comfortable in his own skin and yet humble. He had a sense of humour and an energy that was inspiring. He was great to be around, a self-assured combination of rule-breaker meets good guy. I thought he was damn gorgeous actually, and it wasn’t long before we fell in love. I cancelled my plans to travel back overseas. Instead, I settled down in Cape Town and started working at FairLady magazine. Stuart was working in his dad’s stationery and office equipment business at the time. Together we developed a vibrant circle of friends and forged ahead with our careers and our relationship. Nearly three years down the line everything was going well, but we weren’t ready for marriage just yet.
I moved to Johannesburg, the City of Gold, to take up a promotion. The energy of Johannesburg was exhilarating, and I was committed to my work. It was hard to be away from Stu, but I felt I’d made the right decision. I needed to establish myself. However, whenever I returned to Cape Town on business, I saw him. The chemistry between us was still undeniable. I had a sense that this was unfinished business …
But at that time we were both preoccupied with work and family. Stuart’s family, like mine, was close and tight. He had two sisters: