The easy way out

It's hard for me to fathom the reasoning behind suicide. I understand certain situations, the ones in which abuse and terror can weigh on a soul so heavily that the only way out, the only way free, is to choose death. I have never been in that situation, so I can't begin to try and understand.

But suicide as a method of fleeing one's problems, leaving behind people whose lives will be devastated - that's something different. I've thought about it at the darkest times of my life, yes; a glib statement, I'm sure, to those who have been deep in the thrall of that compulsion, but true nonetheless. Anecdotal evidence is so passé, after all.

MadCat has tried, twice, and the only reason he failed was because the pills he took just didn't have the effect he thought they would, the effect for which they were designed. I've never been a TLE, I've suffered depression but not the deep, black pools of self-doubt with which he and Ferret have wrestled, the urge to end it all and remove themselves as obstacles from the paths of those they love, the conviction that doing so will suddenly make everyone else's lives better.

We went to a colleague's husband's funeral yesterday. They had been together for 30 years; he killed himself - shot himself - on the eve of her birthday. My initial reaction was - and to some extent, still is - that it was an incredibly selfish thing to have done. He left behind a 20-year-old son who hero-worshipped his father and a wife who loved and supported him through the trials and tribulations of the past few years, from being retrenched to breaking a hip to watching his new business suffer through the economic crisis.

I can understand the worry, the concern, the embarrassment of failure for not being the breadwinner as men are supposed to be, especially in our super-macho South African society. I can see MadCat's concern as he worries about the past six months of retrenchment, the past 18 months of being in and out of work, slowly depleting his savings and financial backups until here we sit, relying on one salary and struggling almost beyond our capabilities.

But I can't understand what he hoped to gain from killing himself, I can't understand what it is he thought would make life better for his wife and son. Suicide - automatically no life insurance payout, especially something as final as shooting oneself, no accidental overdoses here. So there she sits, without her helpmate, without the one she thought she could lean on, soon to be struggling even more as she tries to keep a roof over their heads on a salary lower than mine, struggling with the guilt and the grief and the anger and loss. The betrayal.

MadCat has often turned to me over the past two years, and told me that I've been the only thing that's kept him here, kept him alive. Now that he's back on his meds, it's becoming less likely that he'll feel the urge, or that he'll ever get to that point again. I have been depressed, but not to the extent of being medicated for it, so I'm not fully cognisant of his reasoning, or lack thereof, for as he often tells me, his logic is not the same as everyone else's. I try to understand, but I don't fully grasp the despair.

All I know is that, no matter how much I try to understand, no matter how much I support him, if he were to leave me in such a fashion, his memory would forever be tainted in my mind with the shadow of coward. I know it's a harsh indictment, I know I'm generalising, but in so many cases, especially the running away from one's problems - I feel it's cowardly. It's selfish. It's the easy way out.

It's so much harder facing up to the things that make one want to cower in the corner, hide away from the world, be taken care of. You know the clichés; you know it's a tough life, for all its beauty. This life is not for sissies. So yes, to me, it's a weakness to have done what C did.

I talked to Candlewick last night, I found out the horrors of her childhood, of what was done to her for so many years and how she reacted by turning to the wild side in a desperate bid to prove that she was worthless and thus deserved what she'd been put through. She went through things that would have made strong men weep. And yet she lived; she tested herself with a razor, considered the possibility, and decided to live instead. I told her I was proud to be her friend, I was amazed at the person she is, that she has become, in the face of the terror with which she lived for 25 years. I couldn't find the words to say it properly, to tell her how much she means to me, how wonderful she is with her lightheartedness and gaiety, her love and warmth and strength and encouraging nature (and the way she's such a competitive, sore loser).

I say to MadCat, too, how proud I am of him for pushing through, for being optimistic in the face of his crushing despair, for trying and trying even when things go wrong, putting on the best face he can and just being the odd, offbeat, kind and loving and crazy person that he is. The preacher said yesterday that South African men don't talk about their problems, they keep things to themselves and let them fester. I'm so glad that MadCat and I have a non-traditional relationship, that we do and say things to each other that would make a "normal" run screaming for the hills, that we can tell each other anything, no matter how disturbing. It's the only way I've been able to keep track of what he's going through, of when the danger is near, of when I need to be firm and let him know that any suicide attempt would be grearded with anger and grief, yes, but also with a measure of contempt, because damn it all, I've made it this far, I've struggled and fought, and I want someone who is worthy of my struggles, who is worthy of my time, who is a man and not a coward, who faces up to his problems with me right there.

I grieve for my friend and her loss, I grieve for her son, I am sorry that her husband is gone, but he's fine wherever he is now, he took the easy way out and for that, I don't feel an ounce of sympathy.

Close call

MadCat's memories are returning. Today he told me what really happened when he was burned.

Seems he wasn't wearing the gloves at the time. What he'd done was put them on, picked up the pot, realised it was going to explode so put it down and turned to grab the fire extinguisher. As he approached the pot, about to spray - the vapour ignited. And, coming at it from an angle, left hand wrapped around the stem of the fire extinguisher, naturally the tops of his fingers took the brunt of the blast. The extinguisher was in the way, so it shielded his face; and his right hand was on the depressor at the back, thumb on top, which is how that got a rather nasty little burn. Barefoot, of course, right foot leading, so a few large splatter drops over the toes.

He says he dropped the extinguisher and hopped around the kitchen in agony before turning and seeing that the pot was really burning. That's when he snatched back the extinguisher and put out the flames.

I was very quiet after he told me the story. He didn't seem to realise that that's because I was imagining the horror of the pot exploding in his face instead of up at his hand.

Burning down the house

My sister arrived in JHB yesterday on one of her quarterly trips up here for Childline. I left my course early to fetch her, ended up sitting in traffic for two hours to get to the airport (typically, I hit rush-hour traffic on the way, although at least I saw some new sights since I went via the Edenvale / Kempton Park route for part of the way). Anyway. Sis was delayed by two more hours because her original flight had been cancelled;in the end, she got to me at 19:00 instead of 17:00, as expected. Loaded her into the car and headed home to a delicious meal cooked by MadCat (his roast chicken and veg makes the most satisfying meal ever).

Traffic was fairly light, it was late, we were both tired and hungry, so I made Midnight shake her tailfeathers up the N3. Round about Marlboro - so about 30 minutes later - I got a call from Moosquared: MadCat had burnt his hand and could I get home ASAP. My inital thought was, "Well, if he's burned his hand, why doesn't he just rinse it off and put on some Germolene?"

Then she mentioned the hot chip oil. And suddenly "burned his hand" took on a whole new meaning. I told her to tell him to run cool water over his hand and hold it in a basin of tepid water until we got there. Then Sis phoned him and I told him the same thing. Then Nic phoned again and I told her we were in Rivonia Road.

Yes, it took me less than 10 minutes to get from Marlboro Drive offramp to my house. I didn't know a double-cab could go that fast without overturning around corners.

I didn't wait for anything when we got home. I walked in that bathroom and saw MadCat holding his hand in teh water, and when I looked down, I thought it was just the pressure he was using to hold it down that was making his fingers look so white. Until he moved his hand, and the skin swirled around in the water.

Not pressure. Melted skin.

Thank goodness for three first-aid kits, and my sister. I didn't panic, but I know I was nowhere near as calm as she was. She put on the surgical gloves, she applied the Burnshield dressings, she was the schoolteacher while I handed her things.

MadCat was trying his damndest to be brave and ignore the pain, but I've been burned, badly burned, before, and I can tell you - the minute, the very second you take your hand out of that cool liquid, the second air hits the burn, it is like liquid fire crawling under your skin. It is an agony more intense than anything you have ever experienced. He tried to smile, but all he could manage was a grimace. He was scarily calm, and kept insisting that he wasn't in shock.

Too bad for him we're the daughters of a nurse; a nurse who worked in trauma units more often than not.

We stopped in the kitchen to lock up on the way to the clinic, and that's where I saw the burned linoleum and the fire extinguisher. It wasn't just hot oil; the liquid had exploded. He's lucky to be alive, and we're lucky he wasn't so badly burned that he couldn't put it out.

We loaded him into the car and Sis phoned NHC; no answer. Randburg Medicross no longer has a 24-hour casualty. Olivedale it was. We found out while on Republic, and that's where I started putting Midnight through her paces.I put on my hazards, and then I pretended I was driving a BMW; I crossed intersections at red lights where I could, weaved in and out of traffic, and tried to drive as quickly but as safely as possible to Olivedale. I didn't flash anyone or hoot; but I made it to Olivedale in five minutes down Malibongwe, and that's saying something.

MadCat had a bit of a hissy fit at the very nice male receptionist when he was told he'd have to go through triage; but it's important, and that's when I was able to tell the nurse that he's an epileptic and had had a seizure. And that's where the story came out; that he'd been cooking supper for us, and decided that he wanted potato skins while waiting for us to get home. He'd started the oil. then must have had a seizure and wandered off to the computer room. He came to when he smelled smoke, and went into the kitchen, where he saw the pot smoking. So he put on the gloves and started taking the pot outside and then it ignited.

Thank goodness he has fast reflexes - he closed his eyes in time and his eyelashes (and hair) got singed but no damage to the eye.

That was the scariest thing, for me; looking at those beautiful eyes, those eyes I see last thing before I go to sleep every night, and seeing that the eyelashes have been burned off one side, makes me realise just how big a deal this was. He could have lost an eye. He could have been disfigured. His eyelashes burned, dammit!

We waited what seemed like hours, but was really only 15 minutes, before he was called through. Then I was called through about half an hour later, where a very nice male nurse called Thabo showed me how to keep the bandages moist and told me I'd have to do so for 24 hours until he came back to have his wounds checked. They did up both his arms and his right foot, where the oil had splattered. The doc even wanted to do his face, but fortunately the splatter burns there were very minor and just required some ointment. Then they gave him liquid Tramacet to make him fly, and sent him home.

And Sis finally got her roast chicken.

We've got to do something about these seizures.

A memory

Back when my brother broke his leg - I think he was about 9 or 10, so I'd have been 19 or 20 - we went to fetch him from the hospital and bring him home. I must have been back in Cape Town for a short while between my in-service training and completing my studies, so I wasn't entirely clear on what had happened - I just went along for the ride.

When we got to the Red Cross Children's Hospital, we went through some pretty gardens round the side to get to my brother. While we were waiting for him to be discharged, I wandered into the rest of the children's wards. One little tot, who couldn't have been more than a year and a half, started screaming and holding out her tiny arms to me. The nurse said I looked like her mother, who hadn't been to see her yet. The baby had pulled a TV down on herself and was one big mass of bruises.

I lifted her out of her cot - carefully, as she was connected to so many wires and cables and tubes it was scary - and sat with her in my lap for 20 minutes, stroking her soft black hair and feeling her little body cuddling itself to me. It was one of the hardest things ever, putting her back in that crib, listening to her scream and feeling her try to hang on to me.

I hope her mother finally came to visit. I hope someone else brought her the love she needed.

A red-filled glare

I've been having rage-induced moments lately. Well, I've had them several times, but of late - say the past year - they've become more frequent. Once or twice a week, in fact, instead of every couple of months.

I remember the attack, and I think about what I could have done. I am triggered by stories about crime, about home invasion, about dignity stripped from helpless victims as they are subjected to torture, abuse and death by callous monsters. And I see myself on the attack, using my body as a weapon, biting flesh from those monsters, gouging out their eyes, breaking their ribs, filled with inhuman strength and throwing them through windows. I think about the ubiquitous home invasion happening to Moosquared and I about go insane. A red film covers my eyes, a roaring fills my ears, my jaw clenches and I go rigid. My foot presses down on the accelerator.

I have to physically pull myself back from the brink. I have to think about something else, slow down, turn on the aircon, open the window, put on calmer music. I have to stop.

I told MadCat yesterday. I know I've mentioned this to him before, in passing. This time I gave him details. And he says these sound like TLE seizures to him.

I think he's right.

I go into a fugue state, I think. I blank out, and only my subconscious is pulling me back and warning me to snap out of it. My aggression knows know bounds. I take pleasure in the thought of using my teeth to rip out the throat or bite off the cheek of someone who dares threaten me and mine.

I've been there, I've been in that life-threatening situation, and I didn't react this way. I made a decision to sit back and wait out the situation until the time came when I could make a difference, or die. I chose to live, but even as I fought for my life I didn't go to extremes; I was afraid to damage too much.

This time - next time - some time ... it will be different. My aggression has heightened over the years; I am far less tolerant, less patient, less willing to abide by society's norms. At the same time, I have become physically weaker.

But I will fight. And maybe that attitude is not the safest to have when my life and the lives of those I love are being threatened.

I don't know if that's a good thing. I don't know if I should be at their side. I don't know how they would look at me afterward.

Courage under fire

Let's see ... taking the punishment on behalf of my four-years-younger cousin, who was being bullied by some boys in my class at primary school, letting them punch and kick and "mousey" me, without showing any sign of pain - and then breaking one boy's jaw and ending all the bullying. Standing up to my gym teacher for humiliating my best friend in high school. Getting in front of a steriod-junkie musclehead and stopping him from barging up the stairs and punching the head off my Ally McBeal-sized (female) friend, who was moving out of his psycho slut girlfriend's apartment.

I guess most of my friends and family think my true moment of bravery was the time Deafboy and I were attacked in my house, stabbed, tied up, tortured and terrorised. I let myself be raped because I knew it would keep Deafboy alive beside me, and when the moment came, I was able to get free and fight, and then I beat the everloving snot out of my attacker despite the deep stab wound in my back. Well, that's why my friends think I'm brave, anyway. Actually, I think I did what had to be done in order to survive. Personally I think I was brave because I didn't let it get to me and change me into someone fearful of the world, but propel me further along my path of optimism. We were scared shitless the whole way through, but I guess that's what courage is all about.

Just recently, being so open and honest with MadCat about my life, when before I have laughed and smiled and covered up the things I thought would make people uncomfortable - like the attack. It's the kind of bravery that scares me a whole lot more than being hurt physically. I'm not that strong, that big or that swift, so it's a given that I'll come off second best in most altercations. But opening up and being as vulnerable as I have been recently, telling MadCat all my deepest, darkest secrets, admitting things that I've hidden even from myself for 30 years ... yeah, that's the height of bravery to me.

Going to pot

Flickr! What the hell, Flickr? Why are you not uploading my pics? Why are you not showing me the latest from my contacts?

Man, is everything conspiring against me? First my hard-drive crashes, all 250GB of her, then my phone goes on the blink, my cat cuts pad off her foot and has to have it reattached at great expense, and now you, Flickr, turn on me?

It's just not my week. Especially one in which I've stopped smoking.