Months to live: Trying to smile amid my family’s pain

Family is wonderful. Strange and unusual, maybe. Admittedly even downright weird, but undeniably wonderful.

This week my mother, my brother and my sister visited me.

My brother was here from Australia. I had brief brotherly conversations with him and he told my wife how painful it is to realise that he will probably never see his big brother again.

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We talked about the pain of his divorce and the difficulty of getting involved in a new relationship.

He told me more about the details of my disease and he was a complete gentleman, just as I have always known him.

My mother is devastated. Unlike my brother and sister, she isn’t leaving today. She is crying and can’t return to her beautiful lonely flat in Melkbosstrand in Cape Town.

I’ve seen her crying a lot. I’ve said it before, no mother deserves to bury a child – particularly not the symbol of motherly love such as my own.

She will stay when my house gets quieter. She will cry with the dear Snapdragon and will go for therapy with Snapdragon and the children.

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My sister, however, is the one that worries me. She clearly has her own demons to grapple with. She makes far fewer phone calls home.

She drinks far too much. She has long discussions into the night with my brother about the positive sides of divorce and she cries at night when she thinks no-one hears her.

She also goes home today and I will be extremely concerned about her.

Then, I will get an opportunity to work my unfortunate situation out for myself – possibly at night in my room, perhaps in a quiet corner.

I believe I won’t find answers to my questions. Some questions simply don’t have answers. I’m sure I’ll cry too.

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I’ll cry about my brother and my mother’s pain. And I’ll save some special tears for my sister.

I will cry about the people I wanted to know better and learn more from: Louis and my dear friend Sonja.

I’ll cry about my eight-year-old daughter, I’ll cry about my sons. I’ll cry about my beautiful, broken country and the death of fast, running rugby and short poems.

And I’ll cry about death which has cuddled up in my arm at night before I fall asleep. But somewhere I will find the time to smile.

Well played, death.