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ANNIE & CHILD NEGLECT
Once again Annie caught me deep in thought. She woke me from my reverie, saying ‘Where’s Samuel?’
‘Hi, Annie . . . hiking, you know the friend he is always with? They set out early.’
‘Rowan has also gone hiking, or trekking, as the Europeans prefer to call it. I have a couple of emails to attend to, so I thought I’d work at the cafe. I see you are also doing some work.’
‘Well, not really,’ I replied. ‘I have been keeping a journal for several years now, so just catching up.’
Annie looked surprised but soon connected it to my comments from the day before. She pushed back her chair. ‘I’m in a bit of a fix, Daniel. We are supposed to run a story about an orphanage based in Sudan. One of the feature writers has a cousin, Kate, whose husband is on contract there. Kate doesn’t have much to do and has started visiting one of the orphanages. There is such a taboo placed on kids born out of wedlock that they get dumped. The nurses there are culturally primed to believe these kids are cursed and they can’t bring themselves to pick them up or touch them. The babies are fed, clothed, and kept warm, but without any form of physical affection, and they just don’t last.’
‘What do you mean, they don’t last?
‘They die,’ said Annie. ‘We have a rather haunting account of how these infants die from touch deprivation, a condition known as Marasmus. Kate tries to go to the orphanage as often as she can to spend time holding them, cuddling them, singing to them, and generally showing affection. She’s amazed by how well they respond, how they almost instantly spring to life from a little affection. Still, it’s rather disturbing because there’s only so much she can do.’
I tuned in as Annie continued. ‘It’s our feature story and Kate’s a bit anxious. Her husband was involved with high-level government projects, so she doesn’t want to offend anyone. We’ve done our due diligence, thorough research, and have included commentary from child psychologists which we believe will be of interest such as children who enjoy physical touch and tactile stimulation grow into well-adjusted, capable, and loving adults. Touch deprivation in infancy creates a tendency for aggressiveness and violent behaviour. Children with this background can also lack self-esteem and emotional problems.’
I looked at my coffee and asked, ‘Do you have to include the name of the orphanage or even the country? And can’t you use a pseudonym for Kate?’
‘Well, we have pictures we’d like to run with the story and they’re easily identifiable.’
I enjoyed this insight into Annie’s world but also felt weirdly responsible for the synchronicity of Annie’s topic and my engrossing thoughts about my own birth.
‘Yesterday we spoke about child abuse and today the subject comes up again in the form of babies.’ Annie continued, ‘Don’t you think we should pick a more uplifting topic for this morning’s coffee?’
‘Sorry Annie, I started it yesterday, but today it’s on you.’ I wanted to correct myself because I knew better. Recently it was always me initiating discussions of that nature, often inappropriately and at the wrong time.
With a feeling of unsolicited panic, usually reserved for when I wake up, my thoughts returned to my mother’s damaged childhood and her inability to give or receive affection. My mother was pretty much allergic to being touched. As a teenager, I believed that I could fix her, so I’d attempt to hug her whenever the opportunity presented itself. She’d tense up so badly it felt like I was holding a solid piece of granite. But I’d hold on just a bit longer, believing she’d feel my love in those extra few seconds. Most often, she’d instantly push away and leave the room as quickly as she could saying ‘You know I don’t like that, Daniel.’ But at times, I felt certain I’d extracted half a smile from her. I’d tease her with, ‘I know you felt that. I think you might even have enjoyed that one.’
Returning to my conversation with Annie, I said ‘Sorry I was thinking of something else. At least in Thailand touch is highly celebrated, you can get a massage on practically every street corner and the beach.’ I’d effectively changed the topic to the Thai massage experience, and I made a mental note to check if Samuel might want to try one.
With Annie’s prompting, I ordered some kuih-muih: sticky rice with coconut, egg, and jam, wrapped in banana leaves. She could easily transition from dieting tips and social issues to motorbikes and muscle cars. Ordinarily, Annie wouldn’t order this dish for herself, but she was more than happy to share mine. We spent the rest of the morning swapping stories.
ALL BOY HOUSEHOLD
Annie enjoyed my recall of my family’s feeble attempts to introduce any form of female energy into our all-boy household. For a while, our male-dominated home consisted only of the boys, me, and a male cat who essentially belonged to Jeremy but whose name had been chosen by Samuel – Figaro, after Pinocchio’s cat. Then, when the time was right for Samuel to take responsibility for his own pet, we acquired a puppy. Initially, Samuel named him TK after a Japanese series he’d been following. TK underwent several name changes, including Buddha pup – derived from the peculiar way he’d sit quietly upright as if meditating with his stomach protruding. We all finally settled on naming him Puglee, our made-up derivative from his breed, the Japanese pug. So began our procession of pets, which despite our best intentions, all turned out to be male right down to the smallest: a dwarf hamster.
We’d decided on getting a larger dog for protection after Jeremy had been kidnapped while walking a friend home. Jeremy and his friend had been bundled into a car at knifepoint only a few meters from our home. Robbed and forced to empty their bank accounts, they were driven around and terrorized for hours before fortunately being let go in the middle of an unknown township. But not before the perpetrators threatened to return and murder everyone at home if we didn’t keep replenishing the accounts. When a friend uploaded some pictures of boxer-bullmastiff mix pups, we decided to pay them a visit. From the moment we arrived, one of the male pups connected with Samuel and wouldn’t leave him alone. We laughed about it and earmarked one of the females. Still, Max, the soon-to-be newest member of our household, had his own idea and repeatedly attached himself to Samuel during every subsequent visit. Samuel finally relented ‘Okay buddy,’ while Max chewed playfully at his ears and hair.
Annie tentatively inquired about the boys’ mothers. A question that I didn’t know how to answer. Neither of my children’s mothers was delinquent or incapable. They’re both outwardly beautiful, intelligent, successful, and even dynamic. Obviously, I knew how I had obtained full custody and I’d kept all the legal correspondence, court orders, rulings, and emails pertaining to our custody battle neatly filed away. In addition, I also had my journal to
reference, which showed what I was thinking and feeling throughout the process. I still felt it was a miracle for the kids to be with me.
CLIFTON 1984
I’d recently returned from a few months of backpacking around Europe, a type of coming-of-age ritual for many young South Africans. On my return I moved to Clifton, an exclusive residential suburb where the mountain meets the ocean. Clifton is best known for its four white sandy beaches and their distinctive vibes. I rented a house in a cul-de-sac within steep but easy walking distance to the beach. It was a somewhat more challenging walk back up the many flights of stairs. The house had floor to ceiling windows offering an uninterrupted view of the bay. Neighbouring Camps Bay had a lively bar and restaurant scene, and I was only ten minutes away from the vibrant nightlife of Cape Town’s city centre.
My friends and I surfed before sunrise, often finishing a bottle of Old Brown sherry en route to find the best wave. One of my surfing buddies would often bound into my room at some ungodly hour, as early as four or five in the morning. We’d fix our boards on the roof racks and head out to find the best waves. The cold ocean water would sober us up before getting ready for work. We’d surf weekdays, and ride dirt-bikes on weekends – something I was not particularly good at.
Rita’s, in the centre of town, was the all-night club-of-the-day. It boasted a rather large chill area with couches that one could disappear into. I hung out with a group of friends, most of whom were either young up-and-coming entrepreneurs or children from well-established and influential families. They were charismatic, athletic, good-looking, and pretty much the crowd most people wanted to be a part of. I never quite understood how or why they’d taken to me. Usually, we’d go out together, but if we didn’t, or we got separated, we’d meet up again at two or three in the morning at Rita’s. In the early hours, if you were chilling with someone you’d recently met, our friend Stan would waltz in and throw a somewhat theatrical tantrum. His theatrics could easily include a slap to the face, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was for real. One time, pretending to be gay and posing as a teapot, he said ‘You little bitch’, as if I was a lover he’d caught cheating. But it signalled that it was time for a Cadillac burger at the Hard Rock Café, or to grab a bottle, head to the beach, and watch the sunrise. Once Stan achieved the desired reaction, he’d drop the act, flop onto the couch, introduce himself and invite everyone to join us. This was all before the outbreak of the aids epidemic, and we were carefree and somewhat reckless at times. But, during the day we worked hard, then partied the night away.
VALERIA AND GARETH
I met Valeria when she applied for a position at my place of work. Half British and half Spanish, she breezed through the office like a stunning palomino mare. With her long flowing brunette hair, engaging big brown eyes, and bubbly personality, she instantly made everyone sit up and pay attention. Almost without question, she got the job. While just about everyone else was smitten by her, for some inexplicable reason I wasn’t. I probably wasn’t interested because she was married. Or quite possibly, because outside of the office I was constantly surrounded by beautiful people. Then, one afternoon, she needed a lift to visit her eight-month-old son who’d been admitted to the Red Cross Children’s Hospital.
We parked and I accompanied her inside where I briefly got to see her son, Gareth. Then I waited to give her a lift home. I got a bit of her story on the way to her apartment. She’d become pregnant while still in school to escape a controlling and rather critical father, only to end up being married to a husband who was more interested in his music. He was currently on tour, but when at home, it turned out he was more abusive than the father she’d escaped. After dropping Valeria off, I’d chosen the freeway as it was the fastest route home. But for some unknown reason, I felt compelled to return to the Children’s Hospital where I pulled up a chair next to Gareth. His arms were strapped to prevent him from dislodging the tubes assisting him to breathe. But when I put my
head next to him, he wound his tiny fingers around my hair and went to sleep. So, I stayed for as long as the nursing staff allowed.
When I saw Gareth, something in me changed, as if someone had flipped a switch and I inexplicably had to be there for him. He was, after all, in an intensive care unit with such a severe case of croup that he could stop breathing at any moment. Scary stuff. I began regularly driving Valeria to the hospital for visiting hours, taking her home after, and then returning to the hospital myself. Inevitably, it wasn’t long before we got involved. She was married and what we did was wrong. But she had an infectious personality, and it didn’t help that she was drop-dead gorgeous. Nor did it help that we connected physically in a way that I’d never experienced before.
JEREMY’S BIRTH 1987
Gareth was eight months old when I first met Valeria, and four years later in April of 1987, I witnessed the miracle of the birth of my son Jeremy. The experience was off the charts for me, as it is for most others. But somehow, looking back now, I can’t help but remember how recklessly I’d behaved before AIDS came along. Of course, I always knew that someone could potentially get pregnant, but like so many others I never thought it would happen to me. In the heat of a moment, Valeria had once suggested we make a baby and nine months later, here he was, ten fingers and ten toes, a living, breathing, beautiful, perfectly formed miniature human being.
Shortly after we married, we moved to a suburb well suited for young families and closer to her parents. We purchased a cottage-style home in a cul-de-sac, built of dark burnt bricks with white Georgian windows for contrast. For the interior, we chose warm, English autumn colours, and began sourcing pieces of furniture from markets and hidden antique stores. A rocker or dresser, when stripped of its layers of paint, would delightfully turn out to be old oak or beech. A wing-back chair could be reupholstered to complement gingham wallpaper and matching lampshades. Dressers displayed our collection of mismatched china sourced during weekend excursions.
I had roped Gareth into helping me finish our cottage bathroom’s cabinetry during Valeria’s pregnancy. He had been amazing throughout the pregnancy; magnificently thoughtful, helpful, and caring, constantly holding and hugging his mother’s baby belly, and talking to his much-anticipated baby brother.
Valeria was in labour for hours. It’s sometimes hard to tell if the mother’s water has broken. The amniotic sac provides a soft cushion for the baby’s head and umbilical cord before birth. If Valeria had been lying down when her membrane broke, she would have experienced the rupture as a gush of liquid. I can only guess that it possibly happened when we were walking the corridors of the maternity ward and Jeremy’s head pushed down and acted like a cork against her cervix.
The last three centimetres of dilation is an extraordinarily painful stage, so doctors regularly insert a device – it looked to me like a long crochet hook – to induce or speed up the process by puncturing the amniotic sac. Because of the risk of the umbilical cord slipping down around the baby’s head, which could potentially impede the flow of blood, the membrane can’t be ruptured too early. Well, not until the baby’s head has firmly descended into the pelvis. So as instructed, Valeria had taken a long warm bath and we’d paced the corridors for several hours.
The doctor decided he needed to break her waters, and with his first attempt to gently prod at the amniotic sac I instantly reacted, saying ‘You hurt our child.’ He stopped to patiently explain that with the latest technology, he couldn’t possibly hurt the child. Feeling a touch foolish, I decided that I needed to trust him as he was an experienced gynaecologist and he’d been kind enough to explain the procedure. However, with his second and third attempts, I nearly lost it, and Jeremy entered our lives with three rather nasty lacerations across the top of his head in between some endearing curls of chestnut hair.
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