African Vanielje on Mar 20 2009 at 3:16 pm | Filed under: my life
my gorgeous Tud at Greyton river in November 08
It’s difficult to tell exactly how you will react in a crisis unless you’ve been through one or a hundred. As a family we’ve been through our share and it’s becoming fairly easy to predict that my sister will be transformed into someone emminently sensible, my mother will cope with her usual equanimity, quiet strength and grace, I will shout at anyone I love who I feel is in danger, and my dad will take instant and calm control, drawing on a lifetime of experience, common sense, intuition and humour, to bring us all safely through.
That was before my dad, my Tud, was diagnosed 10 days ago with advanced leukaemia, and the bottom fell out of my world.
I have written often in this blog about my mother, Kassie, and how her gentle love permeates everything I do, spicing my kitchen and my home wherever I am in the world. I have written only once about my Tud, but don’t mistake that for a lesser love.
Like Africa, my love for my dad seeps deep into the bedrock of my soul. It is the dark, rich soil beneath my feet and the salt scented oxygen I breath. It is the passionate European blood pumping through my veins and the dusty African tears tracking down my cheeks. It is the childish laughter bubbling out of me and the solid comfort of his all forgiving hug. It is a constant, living, thrumming, immutable truth that will not waiver or fade, whatever the time or distance that separates us.
It is the poet in me that comes direct from him, which sees the beauty in a war torn world, or the quiet dignity of a decent man, regardless of circumstance. It is the warrior in me that also comes direct from him, that understands the unshakeable loyalty to family and the sacred bond of friendship as he taught me. And it is the child in me who all my life has had the utmost certainty of my place in his heart and the immensityof his love who cannot conceive of a life lived without him. And I am not the only one.
The day after he discovered what he was up against, he received 89 messages on his phone, and that was after he stopped answering his calls because he couldn’t keep up. Bush telegraph is an amazing thing once it gets going, transcending longitude, latitude and time zones, and it seems my dad has made an indelible impression on more than a few people around the globe.
His boys, Rory and Eduardo, who are his sons in all but blood, are travelling from Russia and England to see him. Distance never being a bar to their closeness. By a strange confluence of serendipity, lifelong childhood friends like Bing and Dereck will also see him shortly, from as far away as Aus and the UK.
He has been overwhelmed by the out pouring of love, cameraderie and friendship that has come his way, and the unswerving belief that he can fight this, that he will fight this.
Last Sunday he was the honoured guest at the most incredible lunch. Surrounded by kids and special friends, he was feted and fed, he had a sonnet written for him by the amazing Bar, and he reclined like caesar on a chaise lounge whilst Beezey read to him from the acid but oh-so-funny pen of AA Gill. He was presented with a beautiful painting with a message that touched him to the core. And Beezey, he wants you to know he’s certain he’s seen trout in the river…
His life is full of those he loves and those who love him, and whilst he is as unafraid of death as he has always been of life, we are not yet ready to say goodbye. Thankfully, he is not yet ready for farewells either. When his doctor informed him he could have ten years with chemo, or ten weeks without it, he said: ‘I’ll take the ten years thanks, I’m a bit busy right now!’
So on Tuesday, when he faces the biggest battle of his life, we will all be holding our breaths in collective hope and anticipation, that just this one more time, our hero, our mentor, our poet warrior, will refuse to accept what fate has dealt him, and will instead throw down the gauntlet, laugh in the face of the enemy, and ultimately, be carried victorious from the battlefield, back to the life, love and laughter which has always overflowed from him, and to his family, who will otherwise be lost without him.
Tuddy our Bud, we love you. You, who taught us that bravery is our birthright, are the bravest of us all. I believe that if anyone can win this one, you can. You are a most uncommon man.
All my love to you during this time. An uncommon man indeed.
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What a beautiful, moving tribute to your father. He sounds like a lovely man. I wish him, and you, all the best through his chemo.
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So beautifully written it brought tears to my eyes – you have certainly inherited the poetry of his soul. Thinking of you and your family and wishing you all well.
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That a woman can write so of a man and a father tells of a life lived deliberately, like Thoreau, Stef came to the woods, to live deliberately, to know that he lived and to suck deeply on life’s offerings. The results of a man’s life, the words above tell it beautifully. Perhaps I know this uncommon man more through the words spoken of him than by his own. What more exacting way is there to know a man.
haven’t been following your blog as much as i should lately (busy with exams), but have subscribed to your newsfeed now which should make things easier… finally, i am catching up with the technology!
i wish your dad all the best with his treatment – and the same to the supporting family… such an illness never just touches the patient, but everyone around them as well.
best to you all and i will keep my fingers crossed!
xx
Just stopped by your blog for the first time today. I was so sorry to see your post about your father. So please accept prayers from a stranger and know that strong men win battles. He’s going to be fine!
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And an uncommon daughter, who speaks with such eloquence of this uncommon man who has inspired such devotion. There is hope in your words and we will all be rooting for a positive result. Thank you for sharing your father and your life. My thoughts will be with you on this part of your journey. Godspeed.
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Oh Inge, how you make me cry so early in the morning! What a beautiful and uplifting tribute to your dad. I am glad that you can be there with him at this difficult time, not a continent away. I will keep you all in my thoughts and prayers and send positive vibes when he starts his treatment next week. Vasbyt.
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Sending best wishes and hugs your way.
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Oh Bella! Your words are a stunning, touching and poetic tribute to your father. He is obviously an amazing man. Surrounded by so much love and camraderie, there is no doubt that he can put up a good fight. My heart aches for what you and your family are going through.
Isn’t it fortunate that you are living there now, able to be close to him and those who need you during this difficult time? The universe works that way – I’ve seen it over and over.
Big hugs to you!
xo, Jeni
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Very touching Inge. I am so glad that you are there to add your strength to the unbelievable support your dad has received.
What a beautiful post! My heart, hope and prayers go out to you and your family….
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Thank you. Thank you all.
Update. Yesterday at 2.30pm my dad finally got the results of tests back. The reason for the tests: whether or not it was too late to treat him. I’m very relieved to say that they started chemo straight away, and he will be alternating this with treatment for a rare blood disorder , for the next six months. An uncommon man indeed.
We realise it is but the first step on a long journey, but yesterday he didn’t even know if he would be able to walk the path.
Acceptance is a wonderful thing, but then so is hope.
Thank you all for your love and positive energy. May it continue to flow for all of us, whatever the future brings. xxx Inge
Remarkable, beautifully written post Inge, your love and heritance pours out in every word. I read and sat for a while in silence, your words reverberating in my head.
Great news you had yesterday, continue with the love and small steps on the path that lies before you all. Hugs
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Baking Soda, thank you. Whenever I blog, I have a moment when I think: who am I talking to? Will anyone read this. Then I remind myself: ‘If you build it they will come.’ The process of putting thoughts down is the point, and the amazing love, acceptance and support that comes from far off places and essentially unknown people, is just the bonus. I struggled with this post about my dad, it was so personal, I felt as if I’d offered to much, and yet, as if I hadn’t said enough. Hadn’t adequately expressed his place in our world. I don’t know if I will ever have the words to match what is inside me for this remarkable man. But I tell you what I do know. He knows I love him, and for him, that is enough …and everything.
what a wonderful, gracious, man. i wish him peace, strength and hope.
bee
Lots of love!
K
P.S. I really need to get your mobiles… kinda silly to send everything via my mum all the time!
You and your family are in my thoughts. What a beautiful post about your father.
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Inge, so sorry to hear your Dad is ill. We’ll be wishing him all the strength he needs to get him through this. He’s a strong man, if anyone can do it – he can. Especially with such a loving family behind him. Please give my love to all the family.
xxx
Lis
Lis, how lovely to hear from you and thanks for all your good wishes for my dad. I will pass them on.