her full, busy and beautiful life, who Jenna was before PH, according to her lioness of a mom.
You will find here on these pages also the courage and the wisdom Jenna found between the fear, anxiety and the pain, while knowing and understanding all the while that she might not make it.
Death, be not proud.
Marianne Thamm
Cape Town, May 2019
Prologue
It’s been three long excruciating years since you died, Jen. I know I have to tell your story, but it is overwhelming. I am immobilised by the enormity of it and cannot seem to start.
Help me, Jen. How can I ever do you justice? How can I find the courage to relive it? But how can I not? I have such a deep sense that your story needs to be told – to help me make sense of the suffering, to help integrate your loss into our lives, to honour your incredible legacy and celebrate the depth of the human spirit.
I’m on the beach, the sun is setting like a large red orb and my heart is aching. Warm air gently caresses my skin. I’m dizzy with the smell of salty air and my face is streaked with tears of grief.
I sway gently back and forth, hugging my body as I bury my toes deeper into the sand. I search the horizon, hoping to feel you, to hear you, when a single white feather floats to the sand.
“I am right here,” you whisper. “I am all around you. Simply tell the story.”
Here it is, the brutal truth, in all its terrible beauty.
The call – Wednesday, 10th December 2014
Keurboomstrand
I am in a restless, dream-filled sleep when my befuddled brain hears the distant sound of my cellphone ringing. It’s unusual for me to sleep this late. Sleep-induced fog turns to high alert, nerve endings flash hot and my heart starts thumping. I grab for the phone before I’ve even remembered where I am.
For seven months I’ve been hot-wired to this phone, every cell in my body straining and waiting for it to ring. I take it with me to the toilet, to the kitchen, to do the grocery shopping … or simply to walk down the passage to check in on Jenna, my 20-year-old daughter. I listen for it constantly, awake or asleep, and I jump involuntarily every time it rings, my heart in my throat.
And while waiting, I barely leave Jenna’s side. I barely leave our suburb. I have certainly not left Cape Town. But now, today, I am not at home. I am not there to sit on the edge of Jenna’s bed, to check her pump, to mix fresh medication for the day; to stroke her hair, make her tea and calm her. I’m not there to check the colour of her lips and the nuances of her energy levels.
I am not there.
I am not at home when the call finally comes.
Instead I am six hours away up the east coast in Keurboomstrand, a tiny village just outside Plettenberg Bay, with my younger daughter, Kristi. Yesterday I found my first-ever pansy shell in the shallow waters of Keurbooms beach and proclaimed with a hopeful heart that this might just be a sign. Last night I did something totally out of character: I ate half a weed brownie. Why? What was I thinking? There seemed to be such good reasons at the time and yet the minute I’d done it I couldn’t remember any of them. I became paranoid and fearful. I’d had a strong feeling I should pack my bags. But I dismissed the idea. I was just being paranoid, right? Had I lost my mind? What on earth was I doing? Such a damn stupid thing to have eaten that cookie at such a vulnerable time. Feeling highly anxious, I had gone straight to bed so I could sleep it off.
Now half-awake, groggy, my head aching and wracked with nausea from the stupid brownie, I answer the phone.
“Hello? Gabs? Gabs, are you awake?” It’s Stuart, but he sounds different, apprehensive, excited and afraid. A pause … a deep breath. “Gabs, we’ve got lungs. Angela just phoned. It’s happened, Gabs. We’ve got lungs for Jen.”
Thick, hot, sticky adrenaline floods my body, my knees are weak, my heart squeezes, and my stomach turns to water. For 200 days we’ve planned, waited for and imagined this moment, right down to the last detail, but right now I can’t think straight. My brain is exploding.
Stuart’s voice cuts through my shock. “Gabs!” Then more gently and soothingly, “Gabs, get Kristi, pack and get on a plane to Johannesburg, now. We’ll meet you there in about four hours. I must get off the phone to make the other calls we planned, but get on a plane … fast. I’ll stay in touch. I love you.”
This is not how I imagined I’d feel, an all-consuming flood of elation and terrible dread at the same time. It’s an unimaginable feeling. The realisation that this is it. Jenna’s only hope, her chance at life has arrived. But it’s not supposed to be like this. I am supposed to be with her, and with Stuart. We should all be at home together. I am supposed to be calm. But, no matter where I am, this is it. Operation O2 has kicked into action.
I throw open the bedroom door and run down the passage, cold tiles braising the soles of my feet, shouting breathlessly, “Kristi, Kristi! We got the call, we got the call … Kristi, we’ve got lungs!”
Hungover teenagers emerge from their bedrooms, staring at me wide-eyed. Kristi, my 17-year-old daughter, runs from her bedroom as pale as a ghost, eyes wide with shock. My inner lioness kicks into action. “Kristi, pack your stuff. We’re leaving for the airport in 10 minutes; 10 minutes, that’s all we’ve got, okay, my love? Go!”
I run back to my bedroom and call my lifelong friend Jillie. No two people are better equipped to get us on a flight to Johannesburg immediately than Ian and Jillie. They live in Plett, they know everyone, they have influence, they love us. More importantly, they love Jenna. Ian and Jillie are Jen’s godparents. They will get us on a flight. My hands are shaking so much I can barely tap the numbers on my phone. I feel as if I’m hovering above my own body. I force myself to breathe large lungfuls of air. All signs of brain fog are gone.
“Jillie?” I can barely recognise my own voice. “Jillie, we got the call. We have lungs. I need your help. We have a donor for Jenna. Kristi and I have to get to Johannesburg, now.”
Silence. And then, “I’ll call you back.”
I’m barefoot in my pyjamas, cupboard door wide open, scooping handfuls of clothing into my bag with one hand, my cellphone in the other. I stare at it in disbelief. Did Jillie really just put the phone down? Instantly it rings.
“Okay, I can breathe now. Gabs, we will get you on a plane. Don’t worry, we will get you on a plane. I’m calling Ian. You and Kristi just pack. Ian will sort the flights and I will fetch you now. It will take me 10 minutes to get to you. Be ready, okay? Breathe, my friend, breathe.”
Twelve minutes later Jillie’s car crunches up the dirt road outside. I throw my car keys and the house keys at Kristi’s stunned group of teenage friends. “Kids, I need you to pack up, clean up the house and lock up. And you’re going to have to drive my car and the trailer back to Cape Town. I’m sorry. But we have to leave now. Be careful and be safe.” Reggie, Kristi’s boyfriend, and Dean have literally only just got their driver’s licences. And all of them have just spent 10 days partying hard at Matric Rage. I’m concerned about whether they are up to the task, but there is no choice; they are going to have to step up and take charge.
Fifteen
