Authors: Oscar Pistorius
It was an awful time in our lives but doubly hard for
me. For a long time afterwards I was racked with guilt, I
have relived time and time again our long conversations
with me sitting at her bedside and her telling me how
unwell she was feeling, and my comforting her that it
had been exactly the same for me during my illness with
hepatitis. On one occasion she even asked me if I was
certain that our symptoms were identical but I simply
reassured her.
To this day I believe that my brush with hepatitis gave
her a false sense of security and meant that she was not
nearly attentive enough to her symptoms or to
pressuring her doctors into finding both the necessary
answers and a more appropriate treatment plan more
quickly. Deep down I know that if I had not been ill
with hepatitis her illness would have seen a different
outcome. Having said that, I have come to accept that
such is life, her illness is no one's fault only part of her
and our tragic destiny. But it has been very hard for me
and the fact that I have never really spoken about my
feelings compounded it for me. I suppose I had to make
peace with myself first.
I think now that the weight of responsibility on my
shoulders and the role that I had carved out for myself
as the eldest child after our parents' divorce greatly
contributed to my behaviour. My first year in boarding
school had been the first in which I had truly let my hair
down and I had partied and drunk and smoked as much
as possible without giving half a thought to the possible
consequences. My wild excess was how I developed
hepatitis and in retrospect I can't help but think if I had
behaved differently things would have gone differently. I
suppose when you are young, and I was still very young,
you desperately need a reason to explain why things
happen as they do. I was so close to our mother and her
loss was an enormous blow and loss to me.
The sensation that I had somehow sacrificed my life
and myself in vain when our mother died tore me
apart.
You and I dealt with that period of our lives very
differently. I mutated from being a polite, responsible,
well-organised, studious and sporting young man into a
wild rebel. I was out of control; I drank at school,
regularly got into fist fights and partied all the time.
Nothing held any sway over me. Nothing seemed to
matter to me. Although I did not see things quite as
clearly at the time, it was my way of coping with my
grief and remains a period of my life in which I did a lot
of growing up and learnt a lot. Your reaction was almost
the opposite; you became incredibly focused and driven
within your chosen sports and your training programme
picked up in intensity.
After Mum passed away I did not want to return to
boarding school, I wanted nothing to do with that
world nor did I want to see anyone, whereas your
initial reaction was to return to school and seek refuge
among your friends. I remember how astounded and
affronted I was that you wanted to return to boarding
school on the evening of her funeral. I don't think I
ever told you that your behaviour was beyond my
comprehension.
Over the years our grandmother has played a vital
role in keeping us close. She is an incredible woman and
I love her with all my heart almost as much as I loved
our mother. Throughout our lives she has been constant,
she has stood by us and been the person capable of
convincing each of us to listen to the other one and so
have a greater understanding of opinions and
approaches different from our own, and this time was
no different. I think of her as the matriarch at the head
of our family.
We struggled to see eye to eye during that time but
fortunately our grandmother brought us back together.
There was resentment and misunderstanding between
us. I was consumed by my distress and sorting myself
was more difficult than I could have imagined, and it
seemed to me that you had deserted me in my moment
of need. I felt that you were confiding in and being
supported by your friends and had moved away from
me. I know that you, Aimée and I are rather reserved
personalities and that each of us is very cautious when it
comes to emotions and the people to whom we entrust
those emotions and, of course, that there is a big
difference between friends and acquaintances, but the
bottom line was that I felt alone and so it was that with
time our mother's death became a taboo subject about
which we talked little and infrequently.
Aimée's life was very different from our own and
required different adjustments from her. While we were
in boarding school she was living with our Aunt Diane
but we spoke to each other often and spent weekends
together.
I believe that our personalities and our lives have been
shaped by this experience. Part and parcel of our family's
approach to life is the lesson that if you lose your way
in life, no one can find it for you, you have to do it
yourself. Only you can help yourself. You must rely on
yourself to find your way and to stay true to that way. To
be honest it took me quite a while to find my way again.
After our mother's death I was very caught up in
myself, on the one hand I wanted and needed my
brother and yet on the other I rejected everything,
nothing touched me, nothing interested me. Our mother
was no longer with us and as a result my life had lost its
meaning, yet you seemed at peace with yourself and
happy in boarding school surrounded by your friends.
Sport, and your training, had taken over from your
previous hobbies like passing the afternoon on the back
of your motorbike.
After a while, once I had exhausted my alternatives, I
too returned to boarding school. It was a good
compromise; I decided if boarding school worked for
you, it could work for me.
At least Pretoria Boys' High had your presence going
for it and although I was not wild about your friends,
and I had even managed to incur the wrath of the school
principal, I eventually carved a place out for myself.
I can't say that I was much support to you over that
time. Of course when I was at a low ebb, or you were,
we would come and confide in the other one but that
apart, we fought bitterly. We were both floundering our
way through a hellish time of our lives.
Thank God that things are different today. Although
we rarely speak of the loss of our mother and how much
we miss her, we are very close again. It is difficult to
know where to begin, we have such respect for one
another and we are both discreet individuals.
Fortunately for each of us, Aimée has been an incredible
support to both of us. She handled our mother's passing
better than we did and is a good listener. Our situation
was different; you and I are so similar and it is
terrifically difficult to see someone you love suffer
terribly for the same reason that is causing you to suffer,
it was so frustrating and left me feeling disempowered,
there was nothing I could do, no way I could make it
better. I felt so hopeless and struggled to simply let go
and let time do what was necessary.
Even today we tend to share the good things in your
life: your adventures, the wonderful and new discoveries
you make on your travels around the globe, your new
house, your dogs, women . . . The internet is more
forthcoming than you are with information regarding
your career. I know that we are joined by a bond that is
far deeper than these novelties in your or my life and
that if something important happened to you, you
would share it with me and likewise. On a couple of
occasions I have found myself sitting at home watching
television while you are abroad and I have watched you
on television. It is incredible; I get so excited that I am
moved to tears, tears of joy of course. The last time I
started shouting to all that would listen to me that you
are my brother! I am so proud of you.
There have been other occasions where I have seen
you just back from a trip and absolutely exhausted but
unable to pull back, sit still and simply rest yourself.
Although I respect your choices, I worry about you
because you are my brother and I care about you.
Other people see you as Oscar Pistorius, the star
athlete who has achieved the impossible, whereas I see
you as a great athlete, but first and foremost as my
brother.
People tend to think your life is all glory and celebrity
but I know how hard you train and how much you
sacrifice to make your achievements reality. Do you
remember the last time, it was 11.15 in the evening and I
had just landed after a flight back from Cape Town
(there are only two cell phone numbers whose calls I
will always pick up – you and Aimée) when you called in
a state of anxiety to let off steam as the stress of the
training programme, not to mention the awful wait for
the court to pronounce its judgement, was taking its toll.
I came straight to see you and I will always be there for
you in the same way as I know you will be for me.
A couple of days ago I was chatting with a friend. He
asked me about you and I told him in no uncertain
terms, 'I would give my left nut for my brother.' He
laughed and told me that although I probably would it
was unlikely that you would do the same for me. Well, I
know he was wrong, I know that you would go the
extra mile for me, and frankly even if I did not have this
certainty it would not alter anything for me. This is not
about a quid pro quo. Some relationships in life are
based on unconditional love, and ours is one of them.
Carl
Dear Oscar,
My dear boy, recently I have been watching you on
the television. You have made me so happy and proud
that I can only wish that you too will experience similar
joy when the time comes for you to become a father.
As you tell your story in this biography, I am
honoured and delighted to be able to participate by
sharing my memories, in fact it gives me the opportunity
to relive parts of my life.
Before Carl was even born, your mother and I had
decided that we would have three children. I had wanted
a large family similar to my own, but your mother had
laughed me out the room, nervous at the prospect of
having to birth and raise a rugby team. Three seemed
like a pretty good compromise to us both. If there had
been only two of you there would have been no one to
break the cycle of bickering, whereas when there are
three siblings you can't argue with both simultaneously
so you always have an ally and a healthy equilibrium in
the family. Had I been able to choose I would have
asked for our first child to be a boy and so I was elated
when Carl was born. When our turn came to have our
second child, Sheila asked the person performing her
prenatal ultrasound to tell her the sex of her child so she
knew you were on your way. I wanted it to be a surprise
and so she kept the information close to her heart. When
the time finally came and Sheila went into labour, her
obstetrician asked me which sex I would prefer. I replied
that the child's sex was unimportant to me; all I wanted
was a healthy baby with ten fingers and ten toes. That
would be more than enough. How ironic destiny can
seem.
When you were born neither the obstetrician nor the
midwife noticed that your feet were different. I noticed
immediately, as soon as I saw you. I was cradling you in
my arms while the obstetrician cut the umbilical cord
and I remember clearly telling him that there was
something different about your feet. I never said there
was something wrong, or abnormal, I clearly remember
using the word different. We opened the blanket that
you were swaddled in and one of your feet was very
narrow, too narrow.
My initial thoughts in those long minutes after your
birth are exactly the same as my thoughts today. When
something happens, something that differs from your
expectation of a situation or an event – I am loath to say
something normal or something abnormal as I do not
think these are constructive expressions – it is important
that you remember that there is always an upside,
identify the positive aspects and then concentrate on
them.
As you grew, we spent our time going from one
specialist to the next, in all we saw eleven doctors. And
you forget, there was no internet back then to use as a
research tool. We would hear of a doctor in America by
word of mouth and then attempt to fax or telephone
him, but it was never straightforward as often the
numbers were incorrect and then of course the doctors
were busy so they did not necessarily get back to us
immediately. We were often caught between faxing for a
second time at the risk of harassing the doctor or
waiting and dealing with our own anxiety and stress
levels. When it is your child, you need to get to the
bottom of the situation as soon as possible, find out as
much as you can, work out what the best options are
and what decisions you have to take.
In the end we narrowed down the list to three experts
and then engineered a time and a place convenient to all
of them so that they could meet up and finally discuss
your situation face to face. I am sure each doctor
remembers that meeting to this day. As you know, one
of the three was Gerry Versveld. Their conclusions were
as follows: amputation of your right leg was absolutely
necessary as you were missing the necessary bones, the
situation for your left leg was more complex and it was
probable that reconstructive surgery would be
successful. Gerry then told me about a biannual medical
convention focusing purely on the science behind
bilateral amputations that was about to take place. I
phoned the convention organisers and explained to them
that I wanted to send our specialist, Gerry Versveld (he
was very well known and had previously been invited to
that same convention), with all of the relevant
photographic and X-ray documentation regarding my
son's condition so that his case could be examined by
the convention. Fortunately for all of us, they agreed
and so it was that Gerry came and delivered his paper
on your condition before over three hundred of the
world's top specialists and solicited their input. The
consensus was unanimous: they recommended a
bilateral amputation below the knee. Although it was
never easy for us, we were relieved as we felt we had
done everything possible to receive the best advice.
Of course, the hardest part was still to come.
Gerry advised us to amputate as soon as possible, but
crucially before you learnt to walk. He explained to us
that if you never learnt to walk on your own feet you
would never experience the trauma of no longer having
feet to walk on and so you would also learn to walk
with the prosthetic limbs with ease. Gerry explained to
us that he would amputate at the ankle joint and then
transplant the skin from your heels onto the end of your
stumps so as to make them stronger and more resistant
and capable of bearing your body weight as well as the
friction that would occur with future prostheses. We had
pressed Gerry to explain the operation in detail to us,
but let me tell you my boy, it did not make for easy
listening. The reality of the operation was terrible for us.
As a baby your feet were so delicate and ticklish, we
spent a lot of time with you lying next to us as we
cuddled you and tickled your feet while you giggled
adorably. The thought of the doctors cutting off your
feet and throwing them in the rubbish bin was almost
too much to bear. Something I would not even wish on
my worst enemy.
Thank God, the operation went well and your
recovery was exceptional. Your first prosthetic limbs
were without moulded feet on the end: you looked like a
little pirate with them on and once you got the hang of it
there was no holding you back, you were incapable of
sitting still, and the house echoed with the clippety clap
tapping noise that your prostheses made as you raced
around.
You were a confident, strong and happy child. Sheila –
like any other mother – instinctively tried to help you
and be there for you whenever you found yourself in
difficulty. I tried to discourage this because I felt that by
helping you she would be doing you more harm than
good. I was much harder on you (sometimes even cruel)
because I knew that you needed to be self-sufficient
always. I was more exacting of you than I have been
with Carl but it was because I knew that you would
encounter more obstacles in your life: children are not
always nice to one another and far more often than we
like to admit bully those that are different from them.
That is just how life is and I wanted to make sure that if
you were ever in difficulty and I was not there to help
you, you would be capable of sorting it out for yourself.
When you were small, I made a point of not
interfering, I just watched over you from the sidelines.
You always knew that at home you would be able to
discuss whatever had taken place. Often we talked
about people's reactions to you and explained that they
did not understand, that they were ignorant and that it
was your responsibility to explain things to them. I think
these experiences are at the heart of you being such a
good communicator and a people person.
Your mother became pregnant again not long after
your operation and I remember you and Carl buzzing
around her like two little bees always eager to put your
hands on her stomach to feel the baby move.
Then when Aimée was born, I will never forget your
amazement as you said: 'Look, she has feet!' We never
paid much attention to your behaviour but whenever
you could, once your mother had placed Aimée back in
her cradle, fast asleep, you would come along, greet her
with the nickname you invented for her, Gugu, and then
remove her blanket and kiss her little feet. You drove
your mother nuts as you inevitably woke Aimée and
then she had to start the laborious process of getting her
back to sleep all over again. You have always been a
spontaneous person, as soon as you feel something in
your heart you act on it and there is a lot that is
endearing in your behaviour. We knew also that your
curiosity was natural and so we left you to your
discovery. We often discussed your behaviour; we called
it the 'Oscar Pistorius Model'. You were meant to be
just as you were and are and we were determined to
accept you without trying to hide you or change you and
I think this made all the difference for each of us.
There were support groups for children and parents
who had also experienced similar amputations but
quickly Sheila and I realised that although we would be
able to help many of the parents present, few if any there
were going to be of help to us. The issue is all about
attitude and most often it is the parent's attitude to the
child, and not the child him or herself, that causes
problems.
I remember one particular meeting of the support
group in Johannesburg. A woman with her daughter
was walking just in front of me. The daughter was a
beautiful blonde child with a lovely smile but without
any arms. I knew of course that we were headed
towards the same meeting, when suddenly the woman
told her child to come this way as on that side there were
too many people that were sure to stare at her. I was
horrified: how can a mother say such a thing to her
child? It is the mother who is the problem, not the child.
I was profoundly upset by what I heard and so when the
meeting began I stood up and told everyone present that
this was my last meeting because I was convinced that
the majority of the adults in the room, there supposedly
to learn and give support to amputees, were actually
part of the problem. It was their attitudes that created
such difficulty in the lives of their children.
Thank God you have never had this problem. You
have always been at ease with yourself and proud of
who you are. Everything has come naturally to you.
Even when you first wore your prosthetic limbs, they
were brand new but within a day they looked like you
had had them for months. They were scratched and
chipped because you were always running around,
climbing and colliding with objects, you were fearless,
then you would come back to me with that mischievous
smile of yours and say, 'Look, Dad, I have a bruise!'
Your smile is unchanged, my dear son, as is your
strength of character and happy-go-lucky approach to
life. My wish for your future is that your smile remains
as light and pure as it is today and that you continue to
see new challenges after each marvellous achievement.
Your Dad