Blade Runner by Oscar Pistorius Page B

wedding he had come round
to the idea and understood her decision. In fact, he took my
mother's new husband – a pilot by profession – to his heart
and to this day they remain close friends.
    The summer after their wedding, and again without
warning, my mother fell ill and was hospitalised. Her illness
was virulent and complicated by an initial misdiagnosis. Her
health deteriorated extremely rapidly and she passed away
just one month later. The doctors initially diagnosed her with
hepatitis. Carl had been ill with it not long before, and she
was showing similar symptoms. When the treatment brought
her no relief it became clear that they had to do further tests;
however, by the time the correct diagnosis was made it was
too late.
    During her stay at the hospital we would often be
summoned by friends and relatives telling us that she had
taken a turn for the worse and that we should come to the
hospital, but each time this happened she seemed to pull
through and begin to recover. These false alarms happened
so often that we eventually became inured to them; it never
occurred to us that she might not get better.
    I remember the day my mother died very clearly. It was 6
March 2002. I have since had this date tattooed alongside
her birth date on my arm, my only tattoos. That day I was
at school in a history lesson when the school principal
interrupted the class to tell me I had ten minutes to collect
my things; my father would be waiting for me at the school
gate. Carl and I arrived at the gate just in time to witness
my father driving his enormous Mercedes towards us at
breakneck speed. It was clear that something was not right:
he was shouting at us to hurry up and get in, and seemed to
be on the verge of tears. Although my parents had been
divorced for years they still felt great affection for one
another. All of our closest friends and family were at the
hospital, and it became increasingly obvious that this day
was different and that my mother was very close to death.
We were rushed into her room to be by her side, and ten
minutes later she left us.
    It was a very distressing moment. She could no longer
recognise us as she had slipped into a coma, and she was
heavily intubated as her organs were failing. It broke my
heart to see her this way. She no longer looked like herself.
    Initially I thought I handled her death pretty well. I was
the only one who was not crying and I helped to comfort my
brother and sister. After the funeral I decided to return to
school. I told everyone I was fine, but what I did not realise
was that I was desperate to get back into my routine and to
a world where my days were structured. Only a few of my
classmates knew about my loss; this suited me, as it kept the
questions to a minimum. Everything seemed under control,
but then I woke up the next morning in floods of tears. I had
completely lost my bearings. I went to stay with a friend for
a couple of days as I had lost all interest in my school
environment. I would then recover my composure and return
to school, only to be stricken by my grief once again and
have to go and stay with someone else. It was awful.
    Sport was my salvation, as it helped me to get through this
difficult time. My mother had been a strong woman, the
centre of my world. Sporting activity was the only thing
which could distract me from such a loss.
    After our mother's death we spent weekends at our Aunt
Diane's house. Diane is my mother's sister, and Aimée lived
with her while she finished school in Johannesburg. For a
couple of years, Carl and I were rather like rudderless boats
– effectively homeless, floating between boarding school,
Diane's house and the houses of our closest friends.
    Carl and I used to run together. He was faster than me,
but he would encourage me endlessly and spur me on. Carl
has always had a soft spot for extreme sports. Even when we
were boys he used to make fun of my playing cricket, asking
me what on earth was keeping me on a sports pitch