‘I’M HERE. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH’
In this extract from her memoir André P. Brink’s fifth wife Karina Szczurek recalls the trauma of the nightmare flight on which her husband lost his life to a blood clot in his leg
SHE can count on the fingers of one hand the number of nights they were apart in South Africa during their marriage. Local writing legend André P Brink was the love of Karina M Szczurek’s life. Their romance, which blossomed after they met in Vienna in 2004, set tongues wagging because of their 42-year age gap – at the time she was 27 and he was 69. They married less than two years later and lived in his house in Rosebank, Cape Town.
Polish-born Karina – a writer, editor and book reviewer – says André was her lover, confidant, critic, mentor and dearest friend. In February 2015, South Africans were shocked to hear the news of the much-loved literary icon’s death. André (then 79) had developed a blood clot in his leg while aboard a plane returning home to South Africa from Europe, where he’d been fêted for his work.
Right to the end his wife was at his side. In this moving extract from her new memoir Karina reveals the shock, panic and trauma she went through on that nightmare flight.
HE WAS terribly cold. I asked the stewardess for extra blankets and took off my own coat to put on top of him. His hand remained icy for a while but then gradually I could feel the warmth seeping back in as I held and stroked it while he slept.
We’d had to get up really early in Brussels [Belgium] that day to catch the connection to Amsterdam [the Netherlands] and then the flight home. [They’d travelled to Belgium so André could receive an honorary doctorate from the Catholic University of Louvain-la-Neuve. He’d been in a wheelchair.]
There was a meal – lunch I assume – and then our last proper conversation, which ended with André asking me to keep a chocolate for him when they came around with the box after dessert, as they do on board KLM. I helped him settle down to sleep and turned to the entertainment system. I watched a movie, This Is Where I Leave You. The title and the content – a family gathering for their father’s funeral – still unsettles me when I think about it in the context of what followed.
Even more uncanny was what I listened to next. I didn’t feel like another film and most of the music didn’t appeal to me, but a programme on Justin Timberlake caught my attention and I decided to give it a go although I’ve never been a fan. At that stage I wouldn’t even have been able to identify many titles by him but the second or third track stuck like an earworm in my head, and so I hit rewind and listened again. Cry Me A River. Rewind. Again. Cry Me A River. On repeat. For a long time.
André stirred and woke up. He asked me to help him get up and go to the bathroom. He still had most of his blankets on him and it took a while to untangle him. We made our way to the cubicle, which was much too small for the two of us, and André was in a lot of pain. I know I was hurting him. I know he was suffering. It was impossible to accomplish what we had to in that cramped space and avoid suffering. We were both tense and exhausted.
I think that whatever happened afterwards was set in motion during that excursion to the toilet. I helped André back to his seat, which was just across the aisle, and returned briefly to the bathroom to fetch our bags. As soon as I got back to the seat I realised something was wrong. André’s breathing was laboured. He was gulping for air, fear in his eyes. I immediately called the flight attendant for help. We all knew this was serious. The announcement for a doctor was made.
I remained hovering above André’s seat, holding his hand, stroking his face, trying to establish eye contact and assuring him help was on its way, that I was there and I wasn’t leaving him alone. The heaviness of his breathing intensified. There was panic in his face. Mine must’ve been full of it as well.
I’d never seen a person die before but somehow from somewhere deep inside an instinct kicks in and one knows. I knew. I knew we’d fight for his life but I also sensed we’d lose. I held his face. “I’m here,” I said. “I love you. I love you so much.” And I kissed him goodbye.
THE doctor arrived, a nurse with him. Only a few minutes had passed since we returned to our seats. Later I found out that Marina is a South African living in Holland, with years of experience in nursing, and was on her way to visit family.
Simon is a professor of medicine at Harvard and was travelling to see his father-in-law. We couldn’t have asked for a more qualified, and most importantly, kinder team of medical practitioners to help us in our most terrifying moment.
With the assistance of the staff, they swiftly went to work to try to save André’s life. A flight attendant from economy class arrived – Paul. Like my mother, he’d had experience as a physiotherapist and had dealt with people and the family members in tough situations.
While the others attended to André he sat with me, saying all the right things.
The captain came to assure me he’d take his cue from the doctor. If an emergency landing became necessary they’d land. Paul continued speaking to me, calm and gentle. At some stage he held my hand. I admire him for finding all those soothing words and asking all the right questions. He kept me talking through the shattering, through the tears. I’m not sure he heard everything I said. It seemed to me I was whispering the whole time.
I don’t remember who told me André had died. I think it was Simon but I’m not sure. Whoever it was only confirmed what I knew in my heart. I’d never seen a dead person before. But this was my André; there was no fear. I knelt next to him, hugged him, kissed him again. On the lips, on his eyelids. My cheek against his silent heart.
His body was moved to one of the side niches of the plane. Safety regulations required a body bag. A curtain was drawn. For a long time I sat close by, with Marina, Simon, Paul and Jo, the purser who assisted in the resuscitation and who held André in his last moments, comforting me with their kindness.
Simon and Marina told me they’d done everything they could to save André but in their experience no one anywhere could have saved him. They used terminology which meant very little to me. I remember the word “massive”. I remember their care.
There are moments when some people can stand up to their full potential, be the best they can be, and all these people did that for us. We, I, couldn’t have asked for anything more. They were there in ways that make me believe in the best of people.
We were flying over Brazzaville [the capital of the Republic of Congo] when it happened. I remember thinking how fitting, above Africa, above the only country in this area we’d visited together, between Europe and the place André thought of as his only true home, Cape Town.
I knew he’d never been ordinary. He did everything his own way. He also died on his own terms, quickly and without prolonged suffering – the way he wanted. He wasn’t alone; the person who loved him most in the world accompanied him during these last minutes of his life. I can only hope that when my time comes I’ll be as fortunate.
At some stage I glanced at my watch. It was 6 pm, a Friday. But I don’t know whether I’d already reset it to local time or whether it was still on Central European time. I know I drank many cups of camomile tea. Perhaps a whisky or brandy too. I know I was asked whether I wanted one. I just don’t know what I answered, if I had any.
The flight attendants offered their condolences. Other passengers came and touched me gently on the shoulder, spoke soft words. I know someone hugged me. Or perhaps I just wanted to be hugged? I don’t remember. Everyone was so kind, so respectful. I was allowed to make a satellite phone call from the cockpit. I sat between the captain and the co-pilot and dialled the number my heart knew was right. There was only one place I could imagine going that night. I had to dial twice but got through and had to speak a new language for the first time, a language which allowed the impossible to be contained in one sentence: the words “André” and “dead” to coexist between a capital letter and a full stop.
When I put down the phone I glanced up ahead. We were flying through a milky cloud. I saw nothing beyond. I remember looking at the flight map afterwards and seeing the cartoon plane heading towards Cape Town and I felt a surge of relief that we were going home, that when I returned to the ground in my worst hour it wouldn’t be on foreign soil. I felt in my bones like never before where my roots were, where my heart was buried. Where home was.
ANDRÉ never got his chocolate. Neither did I. Towards the end of the flight the flight attendants offered the traditional little gin-filled Dutch houses to the passengers in business class. André loved them and was proud of his collection. He usually travelled with the list of the ones he already had so he’d be able to add a new number to the Huisgracht [A street of houses along a canal] in our kitchen. I didn’t know where the list was. I looked at the houses. They kindly said I must take as many as I wish. The number 62 caught my eye. I took it home to join the others. 6, 2 – 6 February [the date André died].
For the landing I sat in André’s seat, Paul next to me. He continued talking to me. I packed our things strewn around the seats. Somewhere André’s glasses were left behind but I only realised that later. The moment we docked at the gate I notified Krystian [Karina’s brother] of what had happened. He wrote back, devastated.
Then we all waited. About four hours had passed since André died. A special convoy came to the plane on the opposite side to the gate. It all took time but the passengers remained in their seats and waited patiently. The lights were dimmed. There was silence. I’m deeply grateful for the respect every single person on our flight showed. Medics came aboard and lifted André’s body on a stretcher and we exited the plane. An ambulance came to collect us.
There’s a small clinic at the airport in the long passageway between the main hall and the international arrivals. We were taken there. [Long-time friends] Erika and Kobus were already waiting for us. I’ve never seen them look so distressed.
They embraced me and – for the next critical 24 hours – became the sole safety net which stopped me from crashing. With their help and the assistance of the airport medical staff we began making arrangements for the night.
The stretcher was wheeled into a side room where, between phone calls, I could go and sit next to André. They wrapped him in a thick, soft, white cotton cloth, which was comforting to my touch. I held his cocooned body, touched and kissed him repeatedly. I knew people from the funeral home would come to take him away and found it impossible to let go.
Meanwhile I was asked to make one decision after the other. Someone explained that if we didn’t find a doctor who’d be prepared to sign the death certificate in South Africa there would have to be an investigation, and an autopsy would have to be performed to establish the cause of death. I gave the person our favourite doctor’s emergency phone number. He assured all concerned he’d do whatever was necessary.
Erika charged my phone with airtime and I began making the most painful calls of my life, informing André’s children that their father had passed away on our flight home. Mercifully, by the time the news began spreading officially across the world, we’d managed to speak to those closest to the family.
Around midnight two men from the funeral home arrived to take André away. They asked me to remove all his valuables from his body. His wedding band, watch. I had to sign documents and was given a business card to phone about further arrangements in the morning. I cried through the ordeal.
Most of the pictures in my head from the airport are hazy. I can reconstruct the chronology of the events with great difficulty. It was Kobus who’d brought us to the airport when we embarked on our trip. In Belgium we recalled him speaking about the “whoosh” sounds flight attendants’ stockings make when they walk by in groups.
The remark amused us and we referred to it several times on the trip. I thought about it again, sitting on the rear seat of their Land Rover, with Erika and Kobus in front, our luggage and André’s wheelchair in the back. It was way past midnight when we drove out to their home at the time near Stellenbosch. Erika made tea, ran me a bath, prepared a bed. Lying in shock and crying quietly in their big bathtub, I suddenly felt I wasn’t alone in the room. I became aware of such a strong presence next to the bathtub – invisible but palpable; intense. It unnerved me. I dried myself and got out.
I hardly slept that night, if at all. My eyes never dried. In those moments I could still count the nights André and I had been apart in South Africa on the fingers of one hand. I was overcome by restlessness but the mere thought of moving was too much to contemplate.
I began sending out more messages in the early morning to inform as many family members and friends as I could reach before the news appeared in the media.
I suspected, rightly as it turned out, that it would be a matter of only a few hours. I typed, unable to speak the words. Within minutes, condolences and kindness began pouring back to my phone. I knew I wouldn’t mourn alone.
‘He also died on his own terms, quickly and without prolonged suffering'